Pride (Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood Book 3) (5 page)

“How old are you? Like twenty-five?”

“I’ll be twenty-three next month.”

“You’re not too old to fight, Bronny. I’m afraid—you may be too mature.”

“Don’t go saying crap like that in front of the boys in Murrawallen, Camila,” he warned.

“You’re not a kid looking to prove himself anymore, probably. You’re, what, a lawyer now?”

“Yeah. I just got word—don’t tell anybody this, okay?”

“Okay. Yeah. What is it?” She leaned forward.

“This paper I wrote about tenants’ rights? It’s getting published in the Law Society Review.”

“That’s amazing. Why am I not to tell?”

“There’s things a man does worth mentioning, things to make his father proud.” He shrugged, his bright bravado back in place.

“Right. Because no one’s dad would want his son to be a successful attorney protecting tenants,” she said.

“Perhaps not when he has something better to brag about. You’ve not seen me in the ring, Camila.”

“No, nor do I plan to.”

“You said you’d allow the tournament. I assumed it was for the thrill of seeing me in action.”

“No offense, but it’s profit-motivated. I have no intention of ever seeing you bloodied in battle.”

“Ah, I’m better at it than all that! You might see a black eye or a busted lip, but nothing desperate. I’m a winner.”

“I’m sure you are. Not to mention your unmentionable law degree, but how illegal is the fight club at the Cheek, exactly?”

“You’ll not be charging admission to the fights, will you?”

“I had thought a cover charge would be good for the tournament to bring in money.”

“I would not advise it. So long as it’s a diversion, not billed as a sporting event but more like---live entertainment, and you don’t charge a ticket to enter, you’re protected by an ambiguity in the code. Otherwise, you’re doing something objectively wrong: charging to watch two men beat one another to a pulp.”

“Then I won’t charge a cover. Thanks for the free advice. I owe you a beer.”

“I never drink on fight night. I need a clear head.”

“So you don’t just win with one hand tied behind your back?”

“I could, of course, only it’s not good showmanship.” He grinned.

*****

On the ride back to the pub, Camila had the oddest urge to lean her head on his shoulder. Maybe it was because the car was so small or because his shoulders were broad and strong, and seemed like they could hold her up with no effort. Or maybe she was just that tired. She propped her head against the window instead and folded her arms across her stomach, suddenly cold.

“Thanks for dinner,” she said when he parked in front of the pub.

“It was shit; you said so.”

“It’s the thought that counts, not the shit, Bronny. You get credit for the thought.”

“I’m more an action man,” he said, reaching for her.

He framed her face with his big, calloused hands and rubbed his lips against hers. Every part of her wanted to melt into him, to open her mouth, to pull him in closer and just flow together, but he was the very definition of a bad idea. He was a fighter, when she hated violence. He was Irish, when she longed for New Jersey. He was solid as a rock, when she felt a light breeze could blow her away. She felt insubstantial, in danger of being consumed—and at the same time she longed for it, to be burned up in all his fire. Camila pulled back and opened the door.

“Good night. I’d better go check on the hot water.” She hurried away.

That Wednesday, Callie Dolan, Camila’s half-hearted real estate agent, called with promising news. She’d found a potential buyer for the Cheek.

“He’s seen the photos, and thinks it quite charming. He’s a foreigner, and he’s looking to invest in an authentic Irish pub. Nothing grotty of course; no fighting or bloodsport.”

“Right. But authentic,” Camila snarked.

“Yes, well, he likes the idea of a nice clean, traditional pub.”

“And he’s seen the pictures?”

“Yes. He was especially keen on the dartboard.”

“We have a dartboard?”

“It’s behind a cupboard door on the west wall,” she said patiently.

“So is he waiting to make an offer until he sees it?”

“No, he’s waiting until I can assure him the fighting ring has been removed and the area cleaned of all traces of a fight club.”

“So the Monday after the tournament.”

“I’m not entirely certain he will wait that long. He may find another pub with fewer complications.”
“Are there other potential buyers?’

“No. He’s the most serious inquiry we’ve had. If you had the water heater replaced and the building scrubbed clean tomorrow, I think he’d buy it. In three weeks, I’m not to judge.”

“I—do you think he’d pay asking price?” Camila asked, chewing her lip.

“Could not say for certain. He seemed quite smitten with the dartboard, and I’ve seen many a buyer choose a place for a stupider reason.”

“So what you’re saying is if I break my word to the customers and shut down the fight ring now, I might get the mortgage value out of this place and break even?”

“Could do, yes.”

“I—” Camila looked round and sighed. “That feels wrong somehow. Wrong for the people here.”

“You’ve taken a shine to them, have you?”

“Maybe a little. I’ve hustled drinks and pasta and no one has smacked my ass or shouted at me when they needed a refill, or even been rude in the slightest. I can’t—I can’t break my word to people like that. It’s unworthy. They’re—they remind me of my aunt, how patient she was, how kind.” She sniffed. “God, what’s got into me? Must be this air. It smells like animals all the time.”

“What’s air meant to smell of then?”

“Diesel and hairspray,” Camila said without hesitation.

“I’ll give him a timeline and see if he expresses interest,” Callie said dubiously.

“Thank you. I really do want to sell. I just—”

“On your own terms though, I see.”

“I don’t want someone tearing up the Cheeky Bowman. There are people who like it here, good ones who deserve a place they feel at home.” She faltered.

“And you’re not wanting to keep it yourself?”

“No. No way. Not a chance,” Camila said quickly.

“All right,” Callie said with a bit of a giggle.

*****

Friday night came, and Camila was glad she’d made four double batches of lasagna. The huge crowd that turned out for the fight was starving and in high spirits. The baker had to run to his shop for more bread when the garlic bread ran out and Bronny pitched in pulling pints when Rabbie and Camila couldn’t keep up with demand.

True to his word, Bronny drank only water. When the crowd went downstairs, Camila stayed in the kitchen and cleaned up. She didn’t want to see it. It was fine for the Murrawallen drinking crowd to enjoy a side of brutality with their pasta, but she wasn’t part of that crew.

“Sure and I can’t wait to see a Dolan victory, miss,” Eva the barmaid said, tugging at her arm, “And you’re to see it too. You’ve not been properly initiated until you’ve seen a Dolan win a fight, and to my mind, Bronny Dolan is perfect.”

“No thank you, Eva. You go on ahead.”

“I couldn’t let you miss such a sight as this one! Please!”

“You make it sound like I’m hiding from the Beatles debut on Ed Sullivan, Eva.” She laughed nervously, hanging back, wondering if she should grip the doorframe to keep from being dragged off.

“You’ll regret it if you miss this. It’s your own tournament and all!”

“Fine. I’ll come but the sight of blood makes me nauseous,” she protested.

Soon, Camila found herself crammed in with a crowd of noisy men and women smashed in shoulder to shoulder, craning their necks for a view. Eva pulled her expertly through the throng toward the ring. It was weirdly vivid and immediate. The ferocious struggle between two shirtless men, feinting and striking only a few feet from her. She wanted to avert her eyes, hide her face, run back up the stairs and slam the door safely behind her, locking this away. But something drew her gaze back. It was Bronny Dolan, his smooth bare skin, the corded muscles in his powerful back as he moved, the tracery of a Celtic cross on his thick bicep.

Bronny jabbed and struck his opponent on the jaw. Camila saw the man’s head snap back with the force of the blow and she winced, gripping Eva’s hand too tightly. His hair was damp with sweat, curling at the ends in a way that made heat rush across her skin. Bronny easily cornered the man against the ropes, crowding him and beating him with a measured series of body blows, as calculated as they were powerful.

Watching him fight was heady and confusing. Her palms itched to stroke his arms and back and chest, to taste the salty sweat on his neck. Her nipples hardened, rubbing uncomfortably against the scratchy lace of her cheap bra as she imagined his hands on her. She bit her lip and surged closer to the ropes.

Bronny’s opponent raised his hands to protect his face. Just as the referee stepped in to declare him the victor, Bronny looked up and his eyes caught hers. Surprise registered on his face, and he grinned, just as the other man’s fist connected with his jaw. He staggered at the unexpected blow, dropping to his knees. The crowd gasped and fell silent. She screamed, but he pushed himself back up dizzily to his feet, staggering as the ref held his arm up in triumph.

The crowd went wild. She thought they were all cheering, but soon their cries crystalized into something derisive…they were booing him for nearly getting knocked out. Appalled, she pushed her way up to him to see if he was okay.

Camila stepped in toward him, every inch of her skin alive with awareness of him, of his raw masculinity. He was joking about the hit, taking a drink of Guinness and smiling, cocky and brittle, all bravado. She put out a hand, touching the darkening mark on his jaw near his chin. Winking, he hooked an arm around her waist and ground his mouth against hers. Shoving him back, she slapped him with her open hand. Her fingers went to her lips, and she wanted to cry. She wasn’t sure if it was because he had been hit right in front of her or if it was because this brash, brutal guy had winkingly groped her in front of his fans. She felt cheap and tearful and really wanted to be alone immediately and forever.

Pushing her way back up the stairs, her palm still stinging from the blow she’d delivered, she leaned against the bar, trembling. She had never, not once, hit another person in anger. She had fought back that night when Patrick was killed, but that was fear, not rage or embarrassment. She choked on a sob and, casting her eyes left and right, she ran upstairs and barred the door behind her. As if he would follow her. The flat-eyed showman who’d just made a pass at her had no feelings for her at all, that was certain.

She was there to sell a bar and clear the debt if she could. She wasn’t there to get tangled up with some Irish boxer. That was the dumbest thing she could possibly do. Camila Saunders was a lot of things—resourceful and determined and a great cook and stubborn as hell. The one thing she’d never been was stupid.

“You were ogling that sleazy Italian tart when O’Reilly popped you in the jaw. It was a humiliation. Never has a Dolan behaved so, losing focus on his fight because of some cheap little piece of ass,” his dad boomed.

Bronny had expected a backlash over his near-knockout. It made him queasy just to think about how close he’d come to losing, to shaming his whole family in the ring because he’d caught Camila watching him and he’d fallen into her eyes—that was how he explained it to himself. He was drawn in, drowning, helpless to look away. It took a pretty good blow to the face to snap him out of it. He’d been abashed, had grabbed her and kissed her, more to prove to himself that he could than to show off. Either way, she’d slapped him. Making her the first woman in three counties to resist the advances of a Dolan at the height of his powers.

She seemed to be able to resist him just fine, which he couldn’t understand at all. The mere sight of her carrying a platter of lasagna and that open, warm smile had made his trousers uncomfortably tight. Bronny hadn’t thought she was warm or welcoming that first night, but her reserve, her prickliness had melted away. Now he found everything about her so inviting that he spent a fair amount of his workday on the thought of bending her over the bar, her full hips in his hands. The thought of her hips, her laugh, helped him blot out the rest of his father’s lecture about his ignominious victory.

“You’d better pull your head out of your arse if you’re to win the tournament and do your family proud,” he finished up. Bronny nodded sourly.

He didn’t like his dad’s opinion of Camila, but he kept those thoughts to himself. He was used to keeping his counsel, since arguing just made his dad go on longer about how he was right and Bronny was a thickheaded wanker who didn’t have sense enough to listen to his own father. He begged off to go train, promising himself he’d stay away from the pub until the next fight. Lord knew he had a case brewing in Kilmuck that would keep him busy enough, as well as preparations for the second round of the tourney.

*****

Bronny kept late hours in his office, trained every morning early, and consigned himself to coffee instead of beer. He even kept the kooky girl at the coffee shop from putting butter in his mug. He took to jumping rope in his office, listening to audios of the depositions while he did speed drills to improve his footwork. Mainly, though, he looked forward to working over the heavy bag every night. He’d let himself in to the walk out basement. As soon as he peeled off his cold weather gear, he’d be pounding on the bag with a murderous force.

He never put it into so many words, but he imagined the bag was his father, specifically, his father talking about Camila like she was something cheap, something inferior. Something like his own mother—a foreigner with no loyalty. He did wonder where Camila’s loyalties lay, and the fact that he knew she was only out for herself. She’d told him time and again that you couldn’t depend on anyone else—that made him work the bag over even worse.

He broke open another knuckle in his rage and then swore when it bled, more out of annoyance than from the sting. But mostly because he was in the family basement hitting a bag full of sand instead of thrusting between Camila’s thighs. He adjusted the tape on his hands and went back to work, building power, sapping his energy, working off all that caffeine and frustration. He could make her want him back, just as badly, if he could get his hands on her. Even though her slap had barely left a mark, he remembered it, remembered the horror on her face and the way she’d run from him.

She’d been insulted, he knew. Any goodwill he’d built up by relighting the water heater had been burned up when he grabbed her after the match. He didn’t have the luxury of time to build up trust. She was leaving in a short time. He wished she was leaving tomorrow instead. It would be better for his focus.

The day of the fight, he was ready. He was practically pawing the ground like a wild animal for someone to punch. Bronny had spent all his time alone, shut up in his office with only his aged secretary to bring him the occasional cup of coffee, or in the gym where he’d timed it to avoid his cousins and his dad. He meant to leave his office early to get his head in the game, to be a hundred percent focused on dominating the ring, but his client had shown up in tears.

He was a man not much older than Bronny himself, a farmhand under threat of eviction, with a wife and two children depending on him. When Bronny saw him coming up the street, he stopped buttoning his coat and waited. He didn’t feel annoyance at the delay, he didn’t feel insulted that the man hadn’t called to make an appointment with him. He took one look at the man’s haggard face and felt nothing but compassion. His eyes were red rimmed, swollen. Not from drink; from crying.

“It’s sorry I am to turn up like this, Bronny,” the man said hoarsely.

“No, come have a seat.”

“I know you’ve a match tonight—”

“I’ll be there. What can I do for you?” he asked.

“She’s—she’s taking the boys and going to her dad’s house. My wife is. She wants me to come with them, to give up on keeping the place. We’ll never win, not when the Normans have all the money, all the power.” He broke down, put a hand to his face to try to conceal his distress.

“Now, tell me when you’ve seen me lose a fight, Paulie? Has it happened even once?” Bronny said brightly.

“This ain’t about punching someone out—not that I’d not like to knock him on his greedy arse,” Paul said bitterly.

“This is just another kind of fight, and you know Dolans were born and bred to win.”

“That’s why I come to you in the first place. I know your family don’t give up. It just looks awful bleak right now—”

“Are you looking at my speed rope?” Bronny asked, indicating the jump rope hanging on the coat hook. “Because I listened to the depositions from the Normans over and over again while I was doing speed drills, and it came to me. He’s tripped up, made an error. You see, he said first that he informed you in writing of the increase in rent, as the law dictates. He was quite puffed up about that and his law abiding self, and made that remark about you, saying maybe you just couldn’t read it. Then, later on, he says he told you, that you shook on it. So if he informed you in writing, according to the letter of the law, unless he’d stood awkwardly in the street and passed you a note and waited for you to peruse it, he’s lying. The letter he copied us on has to be a fake. I’ve a friend of mine, real computer whiz, going into the document he attached on the email, checking the creation date on it. That ought to do it. I’ll know by next week. You needn’t disturb yourself.”

“That’s good to hear, and it’s glad I am you’re fixing it so we can stay—but, what about Ronnie? I mean, she’s taking the boys—”

“Go with her. You’re not vacating the property but going to visit your wife’s family, taking the kids to see their granddad. No judge would have a problem with that, and it’d set you at ease that she ain’t leaving you.”

Paul stood up and shook his hand, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, Bronny. Now go win that fight.”

“I will. For us all. And then come Monday, I plan to have the Normans begging forgiveness and paying a hefty fine for the privilege of setting your rent back where it was.”

He walked Paul out and drove to the Cheeky Bowman. The wave of heat from the kitchen struck him almost forcibly. She must have been cooking all day, he thought. She hurried by, carrying heavy platters laden with food. Camila had stripped down to a thin tee shirt and a pair of cut-off shorts—the same woman who’d been complaining of the cold. The sight of her made him catch his breath. He purposely barreled through the crowd and down the basement without speaking to anyone, without looking at her again. His eyes were so full of her: the curve of her hips, her long smooth thighs, the way her white t-shirt clung damply between her shoulders as she delivered food. Even as he went down the stairs, he could have sworn he picked out her laugh, throaty and beautiful, from all that noise.

He was keyed up, bouncing on the balls of his feet, full to bursting with the energy that came from wanting to prove himself. The tension from resisting Camila and keeping away from her, the strange physical pull, made him want to take the stairs three at a time. He’d find her, pull her hard against him, and kiss her until she was tearing at what was left of his clothes. But he couldn’t do that, so he stretched and readied himself.

His opponent was Joey Carney, whose name he’d seen in the papers when he first started fighting—a man two or three years older than himself who’d made a name, a sort of career out of prizefighting throughout Ireland. A while back, before uni, this was what Bronny had wanted to be. He had basked in the idea of his family’s approval that he could make a whole life out of winning fights—but he’d found he wanted to win other kinds of fights as well, the kind that protected an idea, or a person that mattered. It made Bronny want to knock him out even more. Because he knew bone deep that his father would rather have Joey Carney for a son than himself.

Bronny ripped the tape off his knuckle and stepped between the ropes. The crowd roared. He refused to look at them, looking just over their heads so he didn’t see his family, didn’t search for Camila’s face when he knew she’d be in the kitchen. She wouldn’t even want to look at him. Any other girl would’ve been climbing him like a tree if he’d grabbed her for a victory kiss. He shook his head to clear it and glared at Joey Carney, waiting for the bell.

As soon as it sounded, Bronny was on him. None of the slow predatory circling that usually opened a bareknuckle bout. He wanted to win, to destroy this guy as fast and as publicly as possible. To regain his pride and the Dolan name after his near knock-out, and to prove that he was still the best. Bronny ordinarily started with body blows, but this Carney had a pretty face. He slammed his fist right into the man’s mouth, taking him by surprise. Carney put his hand to his mouth and left his midsection unguarded so Bronny punched him in the stomach, the side, letting loose on him with a shower of blows. Steadily, Carney backed up, backed away, wiping the blood from his mouth, shaking his head. He spat blood onto the mat and came at Bronny with a surge of punches to his torso, but Bronny never backed up. The hush fell across the room as Bronny Dolan delivered a clip to Carney’s jaw that knocked him out cold.

He looked at the man on the ground with a mix of contempt and pity. It wasn’t Joey Carney’s fault that he was the kind of son a Dolan wished for. It was Bronny’s fault for never being good enough for his family.

Bronny bent down as the man blinked at him. He extended a hand to Carney, a gesture of brotherhood in a way. He didn’t expect the knife.

Bronny saw the flash of the blade and put his hand up to protect his face. He felt the blade go in and the cry he couldn’t stop.

His hand, his right hand—the pain was a flash behind his eyes, it was the roar of a crowd who had seen Carney fight dirty and pull a weapon when the match was over, it was Camila’s scream piercing the fog of pain and rage he felt. He knocked the blade from Carney’s hand, taking him by the throat with his uninjured left hand.

“That’s the only way you could beat a Dolan, eh, Carney?” He demanded, shoving the man away from him in disgust. “You goddammed coward.”

People had rushed the ring, got between the ropes to break them up, to help him if he needed it. His own dad was at his side, checking his hand and swearing.

“You’ll have to go to fucking hospital with that. Smarmy little son of a bitch could’ve ruined your hand if he’d had better aim.” His dad patted his shoulder awkwardly.

Bronny wrapped his bleeding hand in a towel someone passed him. The hand throbbed enough that he wanted something to bite down on but he settled for a pull of a whiskey bottle that his uncle handed him. He welcomed the sting and heat of the alcohol, giving him a more comfortable detachment.

He didn’t look for Camila. He didn’t have to. She was right there, tugging at his elbow, wanting to see his wound, demanding that someone call the police and emergency services. He wouldn’t talk to her. It took all he could do to stay standing with the blood soaking the towel he clutched in his injured fist, with the sharp blade of pain in his hand and the distant ache in his head.

Cold fear knotted in his belly. He wondered—he was afraid to even think it—that he might never fight again. This could be bad, as bad as it felt. By his dad’s grip on his shoulder, Bronny knew the older man feared the same conclusion. A Dolan with the fight gone out of him was shameful. A Dolan hurt so bad he’d never fight again—that was damnation itself.

Bronny could only see a future that was grey, dull, a stretch of smooth road with nothing to recommend it—no surge of adrenaline when he climbed through the ropes, no glow of warmth in his chest when his dad clapped him on the back after a good fight.

Who would he even be as a man without his fists to prove himself? Half a man, at best, he knew grimly. When his dad ushered him up the stairs and out to the car, he followed numbly, knowing he didn’t want to hear whatever the doctor had to say. He waited at triage for about five seconds and they rushed him in to be examined. That alone alarmed him. If it hadn’t looked serious, they would have made him sit out there in the waiting area with the vomiting children and the lady who said her neck hurt. This is bad, was all he could think, this is fucking terrible. He wished that he’d brought the bottle of whiskey with him.