Fighter's Kiss: An enemies-to-lovers MMA romance (Irish Kiss Book 3) Read online

“A minute or two is the difference between decay and rebirth.” My red face was mere inches from hers as I ranted on, “Between ruin and fame, fortune, pride, between death and life itself.”

  My chest was rising and falling painfully as I gasped for breath. The whole time the girl just stared up at me with those eyes I couldn’t stand to see and couldn’t stand to look away from.

  Then she asked a question I never expected in a million years, “A what champion?”

  Her question caught me so off-guard that I stumbled back a step. “What?” I asked.

  “You said something about a champion,” she said. “An M something?”

  Anger flared in my chest. “Are you fucking with me?”

  The look of confusion on the girl’s face only grew. “What, no, I just, is that some sort of Irish thing?’

  I laughed. “MMA?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Mixed martial arts?”

  “Oh, so like a hobby then?” She glanced around the expansive gym. “A very important hobby apparently.”

  My nails dug into my palms to keep myself from grabbing onto her neck. “No, not like a fucking hobby,” I gritted out through clenched teeth. “Like the international sport watched by half the fucking globe.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  She said it so casually, so uninterestedly that I nearly bristled in irritation. Then the thought hit me. If she didn’t know what MMA was, then… “You don’t know who I am,” I said slowly. It was not a question.

  The girl shook her head.

  “You’ve never heard of me before?”

  “Sorry.”

  I was dumbfounded. “You didn’t see me fight Manny Ortiz five years ago?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t see me knock out the then champion, Killian Horne, within nine-tenths of a second?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t see me beat sixty-three guys in a row?”

  The girl shrugged. “To be honest, the only thing I’ve seen you beat is those blueberry pancakes back there.” She thumbed over her shoulder.

  I stared down at her in shock.

  “So you hit people?” she asked as if she didn’t buy any of it.

  “I’m a fighter,” I said. “I fight. I beat other men till they’re bloody and unconscious on the floor.” I waited as patiently as I could as the girl pondered this over. Who was she that she’d never heard of the great Declan Gallagher, hell, never heard of MM-fucking-A?

  I wished it wasn’t true, but this only intrigued me more. She was driving me out of my mind, and all I wanted to do was know more about her. What was wrong with me?

  Finally, the girl looked back up at me and asked one single question with one single word. “Why?”

  It was the wrong question to ask.

  Roughly and without mercy, I grabbed her wrist and dragged her after me. The binder fell from her thin arms as I pulled her toward the small study at the back of the gym. She stumbled behind me to catch up as I flung open the door and pointed to the chair inside.

  “Sit,” I ordered.

  As she stepped inside I went back, snatched up the binder, and walked back to find her looking small and out of place in the desk chair. I slammed the binder on the table. “You have your Job Manual here.” I pounded my fist on the cover. “If you have any questions, don’t ask me.”

  The door rattled on its hinges as I hurled it closed behind me and finally stopped wasting my time.

  I had work to do.

  River

  At the end of my long first day, the manor’s kitchen was again empty as I wandered inside with a grumbling stomach. I was expecting to open the fridge and try to scrounge up something tasty from the hordes of kale and chard and lemongrass. But instead, I found a silver cover over a large plate with a bright pink sticky on it that read in looping, dramatic cursive: Enjoy dinner, my little voodoo queen.

  I lifted the cover and the mouthwatering aroma of a chargrilled steak with the creamiest garlic mashed potatoes I’ve ever seen and gorgeous honey-glazed carrots wafted up to my nose as I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. Licking my lips, I quickly found a fork and knife in a nearby drawer and scooped up the plate that was so loaded up with food, it almost made my knees buckle.

  I made my way down the hall to the cosy dining room with a roaring fire at one end, large windows with green velvet drapes drawn tight. At a large wooden table set with gold plates, shining wine glasses and polished silverware, a brooding and slumped over Declan sat, aimlessly pushing his uneaten food about his plate.

  Sitting down at the end of the table opposite him, I scooted up in the big chair with the plush leather armrests, comfy cushions, and wooden feet carved like lions’ paws. I grabbed the burgundy silk napkin and spread it out over my lap as the heat of the fire danced across my cheek. I reached for a wine bottle set on the table and poured myself a generous amount of deep red wine. Sighing contently, I was finally ready to dig in.

  I glanced over at Declan. “So how was your—?”

  “I eat alone.”

  His abrupt words and clipped tone caught me by surprise as I held my fork and knife suspended just above my juicy, oh so juicy steak. I don’t know why it surprised me, though. It wasn’t like Declan had been a rainbow-coloured box full of kittens so far. “What’s that?” I asked, though I was fairly certain I had heard correctly.

  “I eat alone,” Declan repeated without looking up at me.

  I watched him roll a carrot over and over again as my irritation grew. “I have to leave?”

  “I eat alone.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I eat alone.”

  Staring longingly at the roaring fire and cosy, warm room, I hesitated. “Well, I’m already here so is it alright if I—”

  “I eat alone.”

  I dropped my fork and knife in frustration. They clanged against the table as I shoved back my chair and grabbed my plate, the pool of butter wobbling in the middle of my mashed potatoes. I hadn’t meant to take my anger out on the food.

  Pausing in the doorway, I glanced back.

  Declan sat still as he stared morosely at his plate.

  “So, is this just ’cause you’re in a bad mood today or is it—”

  “I eat alone.”

  I turned to leave, but again leaned back into the dining room. “Like, every night?”

  “I—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled as I walked back toward the kitchen. “I get it already. You eat alone.”

  Back in the kitchen, I slammed my plate down on the marble island and sank into a metal bar stool that was cold, hard, and uncomfortable. There were no merry, twisting, twirling flames in here. No velvet or plush rugs or beautiful silk napkins. I grumbled incoherent obscenities under my breath to myself as I ate alone – cold and alone.

  “Food’s not good?”

  I looked up from aggressively stabbing my carrots with my knife to see Oisin walking across the kitchen toward the fridge. “What?” I said. “No, no, why would you say that?”

  He nodded toward my mutilated carrots.

  “Oh, no, the food is out of this world.” I brushed my hair out of my face and sighed. “Company’s not good.”

  Oisin pulled out a naked chocolate cake and brought it to the island next to me. “You tried to sit with Declan?”

  I nodded. “What is his problem?” I waved my fork around as my emotions started to take over. “I mean, there’s twelve chairs in there and I can’t sit in one of them? I know nothing about his life and I can’t ask a single question? I have to make him breakfast, but I can’t make pancakes or French toast or even a simple bread pudding?”

  Oisin paused as he loaded a heap of chocolate icing into a piping bag. He lifted a curious eyebrow. “Bread pudding for breakfast?”

  “He’s insufferable.” I ignored his inquiry in favour of more complaining. “He’s rude and antisocial and a jerk and arrogant and prideful and rude – had I said rude already?”

  Oisin chuckled as he began to cover the cake with dollops of icing. “It might have been mentioned, dear.”

  Chewing on the last bite of steak, I grumbled, “Like where does he get off treating people like that? Who does he think he is?”

  Oisin nodded along to my rant as he continued his work on the cake.

  “He’s an asshole!” I huffed in frustration and shook my head as my heart rate began to return to normal. I guess I could check off my workout for the week/month/year. I dragged my pinkie across my plate to pick up the last of the mashed potatoes. “That’s just it,” I said as I licked it off my finger. “Declan Gallagher is an asshole. Plain and simple.”

  Oisin finished piping the cake and cut a slice that he pushed across the kitchen island toward me followed by a fork. He sighed and said, “I know you may not want to hear this, my little voodoo queen, thus the cake, but consider that he may have a reason to be.”

  I forked a big piece into my mouth. “Doubt it,” I grumbled. I had to admit it was hard to maintain my current level of fury when I was tasting something so sweet and delicious.

  Oisin cut a piece for himself and smiled over at me. “Give him a chance, darling,” he said.

  “I don’t see why.”

  “You will.”

  I smiled at him as I ate my cake.

  “You know,” he started, “cake is a good pick-me-up, but do you know what works even better?”

  “Cookies?” I guessed.

  “Alcohol.” Oisin laughed. “Lots and lots of alcohol. Why don’t you come drinking with me and the staff this Friday night at the local pub?”

  I drummed my fingers against my chin in contemplation. “David will be there?”

  On one of my allocated fifteen minute “free time” breaks durin
g Declan’s minute-by-minute schedule, I wandered outside and found David trimming the hedges outside. He was a young Irish guy with an impressive knowledge of flowers.

  “If his mom lets him.” Oisin chuckled.

  “What about Joan?” I asked.

  I met her when she came into the gym during Declan’s lunch to clean the equipment. She was an old, kind-hearted woman who spent fifteen minutes showing me pictures of her grandchildren.

  “Joan’s the craziest drinker of us all,” Oisin answered. “I’m on my second appletini and she’s put down five fingers of Jameson and three pints of Guinness.”

  I laughed. “And Declan?”

  Sorrow shadowed Oisin’s face before he shook his head. “Never Declan.”

  I grinned. “Then count me in.”

  River

  The next morning, in my tiny, windowless prison—aka “small office at the back of the gym” if you were asking Declan—I opened YouTube and typed into the search bar: Declan Gallagher.

  Miley insisted I do it while talking to her on the phone the night before.

  “Bitch, it sounds like you’re living in fucking Cinderella’s castle,” Miley said after I described the manor, its sprawling green grounds, and fantastic, warm, accommodating staff.

  My feet waved back and forth in the air as I lay on my stomach across the bed. I frowned and said, “No, no, I think Cinderella lived in a dirty attic or something that looks more like our place in New York.”

  “Umm, excuse me,” Miley mocked offense. “Our place is shabby chic and you know it. And I meant after she met her prince and all that shit. Then she lived in a castle.”

  I rolled over onto my back and sighed as I stared up at the ceiling. “Oh, well, you tell me when my prince is coming along then.”

  Through the line, I could hear the blare of a siren’s horn and suddenly felt homesick for the bustle and noise and chaos of NYC. It was so quiet here. I could hear too many of my thoughts.

  “Your boss sucks?” Miley asked, probably after the drag of a cigarette out on the emergency staircase where we used to sit and talk over too many bottles of cheap Merlot.

  “He wanted to fire me the first day.”

  “What the fuck?” Miley shouted.

  “I know.” I laughed. “I may be back much sooner than I said.”

  Miley sighed. “We both know you didn’t say when you were coming back, River.”

  I was silent for a moment. She was right. It was just that I never quite figured out how to tell my best friend that I was never coming back. “He’s really fucking hot at least.” I tried to change the subject back to Declan. “Washboard abs, chiselled jaw, piercing blue eyes.”

  “Damn,” Miley said, a little less enthusiastic than before. “Is he a model? Is that why he needs a personal assistant?”

  Picking at my cuticles, I shook my head before realising Miley couldn’t see that. “No, no, he’s some sort of boxer or something,” I said, bored and entirely uninterested in the subject. “MMA? Have you ever heard of that?”

  Miley laughed. “Who hasn’t?”

  I was silent.

  “Jesus, River,” Miley groaned. “I knew I should have taken that camera away from you and made you watch more TV with me.”

  “You mean our neighbour’s TV that you watched from across the alley?” I grinned.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Miley was probably rolling her eyes, probably still covered in sparkly blue eye shadow from her last shift. “So who is he? Is he any good? Is he professional?”

  I sighed. “Umm, I don’t really know,” I admitted. “I guess he won a few fights here and there. Or at least that’s what Declan clai—”

  “Declan?” Miley interrupted.

  “Yeah, that’s my boss’ name.”

  “Declan Gallagher?”

  I raised my eyebrows in confusion at the phone screen. “Yeah, how’d you kn—”

  An excited screech cut me off and I dropped the phone at the unearthly volume.

  “Jesus Christ, Miley,” I complained as I held it back up to my ear.

  “You’re working for Declan Gallagher?” she continued to shout. “Wait, fuck, you’re living with Declan Gallagher?”

  My mind went to the memory of me getting kicked out of the dining room earlier that evening. “I wouldn’t say living necess—”

  “You slut, I’m so fucking jealous!” Miley screamed. “He had been the best for years. He’s a legend. You have to find a video of him fighting. You have to see this shit.”

  “Definitely not into that kind of thing,” I said firmly.

  “Trust me, River, you want to see this,” she insisted rather seriously. “The way Declan Gallagher fights…it’s just…listen, you want to be a photographer, an artist. Well, the way he fights is art.”

  I frowned hesitantly. “I don’t know, Miley.”

  She was quiet a moment and I thought I had lost the connection.

  Then she spoke again, “It’s beautiful. It is. It’s fucking art.”

  So there I was in the prison-office the next morning, clicking on the first video I could find for the search “Declan Gallagher.” It was for some championship, apparently.

  I kept the volume down low even though I could hear Declan’s fists pounding against the punching bag just outside. I leaned in close and winced at the first punch Declan delivered to his opponent.

  It was violence, pure violence.

  The muscles all along Declan’s back rippled as he drew back his arm before his fist collided with his opponent’s jaw, a splatter of blood erupting into the air dense with heat and sweat. Despite his opponent stumbling back at the bone-rattling strength of the blow, Declan showed no mercy. He launched himself onto his opponent like a wild, blood-thirsty animal about to sink in his fangs for the kill.

  I continued to watch, shocked and horrified at the two men circling around the ring. Declan was clearly playing with his prey, drawing the roars of the adoring crowd as he effortlessly toyed with his opponent. He was the ultimate showman. He allowed the other man to land a punch merely to be able to spit blood back into his face, grinning manically as he did so.

  Mesmerized and horrified, I forgot to listen for the sound of the punching bag as I was drawn into the spectacle.

  “What are you doing?”

  I looked up in surprise to find Declan at the doorway to the office, sweaty and glaring. No surprise there. His eyes fell to the video of him fighting on my computer screen. “This isn’t work,” he snapped rudely.

  No surprise there either.

  “Turn it off,” he demanded.

  The only surprise was when I ignored his command.

  “This is what you do?” I pointed to the screen, my finger almost shaking.

  He hesitated, glancing down at the screen before looking back up at me. “I already told you I fight,” was all he said.

  I watched the referee drag a kicking and screaming Declan off of his then unconscious opponent. The crowd was deafening as he thrashed, trying to get back for more.

  “You didn’t say that you liked it,” I said softly. “You didn’t say that you like hurting people.”

  Declan shook his head. “It’s physical chess,” he argued. “And I like winning it.”

  I stared up at him. “It’s not chess,” I said. “It’s an excuse.”

  Declan leaned across me suddenly and stopped the video. “Your one-week trial is off to great start,” he growled. “Get the fuck back to work.”

  I expected the door to slam behind him, but it didn’t. It simply closed. Well, weren’t we all just full of surprises? Even me.

  Because despite protesting the unabashed celebration of violence in that video, I couldn’t deny that it excited me. I couldn’t deny that I thought about it all the rest of the day. I couldn’t deny that I dreamed about Declan circling me in the ring that night, his muscles rippling, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat, his blue eyes trained on me, his prey.

  I couldn’t deny I wanted, just the tiniest bit, to feel the sting of his fangs along my neck.

  River

  That Saturday morning I was dealing with quite the dilemma. I wanted to groan because of the horrible pain of a thousand needles stabbing my brain, but the sound of my groaning would only multiply the number of said needles stabbing my brain.

  I was lying in bed, contemplating this dilemma in the dark of the drawn curtains in my bedroom, when a pounding erupted at my door.