Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
She searches my face, then nods slowly. “Alright.”
“Good lass.”
I leave her standing in the main room, Caitlin already moving toward her with a bottle of wine and a reassuring smile. They'll keep her occupied. They'll keep her safe. That's what matters.
Tiernan's waiting by the car, his arm still bruised from his recovery. He's lost weight and looks older somehow. But he's better now, stronger. His expression is unreadable, but I know. He wouldn't miss this for anything.
“You look tense,” he says as I slide into the passenger seat.
“Always am before a fight, aren't I?”
“Bollocks. This is different.”
I don't answer.
“Do you think he'll come?” Tiernan asks after a moment.
“Aye.” I blow out a breath. “I do. I hope he fucking does.”
He drives in silence, the city lights flashing past the windows. I've fought here dozens of times. I know the space, the crowds, the rules, but my instincts are screaming tonight.
I don't like leaving her behind. I don't like this public spectacle at all.
When we pull up to the warehouse, cars are already packed in the lot—more than usual. I scan the crowd as we walk in, looking for faces I don't recognize, but nothing jumps out at first. It's just the usual suspects. Irish. McCarthy fans. Some independents, looking to place bets.
The warehouse is packed. They're already screaming my name.
“McCarthy! McCarthy!”
“The McCarthy Monster! Roar!”
It doesn’t amuse me tonight the way it normally does.
The ring's set up in the center, the lights harsh and bright, the crowd pressing close. Money's changing hands, people are shouting, and at the smell of the ring and the vibe in the air, a part of me comes alive. I live for this. Love it. For fuck's sake, I've missed it.
Maybe tonight will be uneventful.
Seamus is waiting near the ring, his arms crossed. Cavin's beside him. My brother leans against the wall, watching the crowd with the same wary expression I'm wearing.
“Ash,” Seamus says, nodding toward the ring. “Clinton Sheehan. Clean fight. First blood or knockout.”
Good. I was afraid they'd try to pit me against Cavin, but Seamus still won’t let a McCarthy fight another McCarthy.
Clinton's young and hungry. He’s been trying to make a name for himself in the Irish circuit.
“Aye.” I nod. “It'll be a fair fight.”
“We'll win,” Seamus says simply.
Tiernan takes my hands, his movements practiced and efficient. “Watch the right hook,” he mutters low. “Kid's got speed.” He pauses, meeting my eyes. “And Ash—everything feels off tonight, lad. Keep your head on straight. Do whatever the fuck I say. You got it? I'm the eyes on the back of your head tonight. You focus on the ring. Understood?”
“Aye, of course. Always do.”
“Good lad.”
I strip off my shirt, handing it to him, and the crowd's noise swells. They've been waiting for this, waiting to see if I still have it after time away from the ring. The younger men are filled with adrenaline, cheering and raising their fists in the air. And the women are here because they like a good fight too.
I climb through the ropes, bouncing on the balls of my feet and shaking out my arms. Clinton's already inside—younger, cockier than he should be.
He grins at me. “Heard you went soft, McCarthy. Heard you got yourself a pretty lass distracting you.”
I wink at him. “That right?”
His grin widens. “Gonna be embarrassing when I put you down in front of all these people, innit?”
Seamus shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Cavin's chuckling, throwing back a drink.
When the ref approaches us, he runs through the rules. “Simple, lads. You know them, but I'll go over them just the same, won't I? No weapons. No killing. First blood or knockout wins. Understood?”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
We both nod, and the ref drops his hand.
Clinton comes at me too fast. He's overconfident, throwing wild hooks, trying to end it quick. I block, slip, and counter with a jab to his ribs. He grunts and staggers back.
The crowd roars.
We circle each other, and he begins to slow, learning, watching my footwork. Smart kid, but not smart enough.
I let him think he's got an opening, then catch him with an uppercut that snaps his head back. Blood sprays from his nose, and the crowd cheers.
But I don't hear them anymore.
Something's wrong. The energy in the room has shifted. Too many eyes on me. Too much tension in the corners. A hush falls over the crowd, and the lights dim.
I glance at Seamus. He's standing rigid, already looking at me, his jaw tight. His hand moves to his waist, where his gun is. He feels it too. We all do.
Fuck.
I turn back to Clinton, but he's backing off, his hands raised, blood streaming down his face.
“Tiernan—” I start.
“Stay in the ring,” he says behind me, his voice hard. “Stay in the ring, lad. I've got you. Wait.”
Tiernan's beside me in seconds, his knife in his hand.