War Poppy (War #1) Read online

  “You gotta give the crowd a fight!” he says, pulling up a chair and sitting backwards, resting his thick arms along the back.

  “I fought didn’t I?” I take off my shorts and pull on a pair of jeans.

  “That ain’t no fight." His glass eye has gone a little crooked and it's making it hard for me to take him seriously. "It's a fuckin’ massacre. A beautiful fuckin’ massacre.” He laughs.

  I yank a hoody over my head and stuff my fight gear back inside my bag. “I'm not here for a show, Larry. I'm here for the money," I say, tossing my bag over my shoulder. I guess you could say Larry takes in people like him: veterans, tormented by their own memories. He takes them in, then puts them in that ring. Lines their pockets and his own. It's a win-win, and no one fights like a man wrapped up in his own personal war.

  “Get your panties out of a wad, you miserable fuck," he says.

  Shrugging, I turn my back to him and head out of the room.

  "You should go drinkin'," Larry calls after me. "Go on out there and grab yourself a lady friend. Something. Every winner has to celebrate. And you won, boy."

  No, I lost, a long time ago.

  Chapter Three

  Poppy

  “Breathe (2AM)” – Anna Nalick

  The midday sun hides behind the thick gray clouds. A seagull flies overhead, gliding on the breeze that’s coming off the Channel. I lean against the metal railing of the ferry, clutching my steaming coffee in my hands as my gaze drops to the water. I fall into a daze as I watch the frothy foam ripple around the sides of the boat. It's been years since I've been on this ferry heading to England. The last time I was in London, I was with both Connor and Brandon...

  A man bumps into me, mumbling in a foreign language as he smiles, tipping his hat at me. I can just make out the rocky, grey Port of Holyhead. Five hours or so and I’ll be in London, looking for Brandon. My phone rings and I pull it from my purse. Hope's name flashes on the screen, but I send the call to voicemail. Before I manage to slip the phone back in my purse, she's texting me.

  Where are you?

  Poppy!

  I just went by your house and there's an eviction notice.

  Call me back or I'll have the MI5 after your arse!

  I should answer her calls or text her back, but I can't exactly explain the place I'm in right now. Had I told Hope, she would have found some way to stop me. Long ago. But sometimes in life, we all just need to run away.

  And that is exactly what Brandon did.

  Ten months. It's taken ten months for me to find him. Not a week after Connor's death, I received a phone call from the military. "Any contact with Mr. O'Kieffe?" "Do you know where he may be?" "You'll call us immediately if there is any communication?"

  AWOL. A deserter. Brandon left Connor in that desert. In that crumpled Foxhound. He ran. I spent weeks bouncing between anger at the situation and relief that he was still alive. I worried about where he was. How he was.

  The thing is, throughout my life, as I have lost every bit of family I've had, Connor and Brandon were my constants. They were the first friends I made when my father moved us to Ireland from America. They are all I've ever known about love. And what price can you really put on love?

  A hundred thousand pounds—all of Connor's life insurance—that was the price. A foreclosed house. A repossessed car. All I have left to my name is what's in this suitcase and a thousand pounds in the bank. But I was determined to find him.

  I've only known since yesterday where he is. When the PI called me with the information, I immediately packed my bags and left. I'm not sure what I'll say to him. Or what I'll do.

  All I know, is that I need him. And he must—he must need me. After all, we are all each other has now.

  The barkeep slides my ale across the counter. I grab it, immediately taking a swig. My palms are slicked with sweat, my stomach in knots. He's here somewhere. I'm on edge glancing around at all the empty faces, hoping to spot Brandon's familiar face within this drunken crowd.

  "My money's on Breaker," some old pikey slurs as he slaps a very plump man on the back.

  "Ah, of course it is." He whistles at one of the women behind the bar. "Boy ain't lost a fight yet."

  Brandon "The Breaker" Blaine. He took Connor's last name. I’m not surprised by any of this really. It’s home to him. He was raised a gypsy, and bare knuckle fighting is like a rite of passage for them. He’s right back down to the bottom of the barrel Connor dragged him out of. And I want to sink right along with him…I lift my beer and take a heavy gulp, watching the two men as they round the corner of the bar. There's a crazy looking man behind the counter, gray ponytail, tattoos all up and down his arm. I strain to hear the three men's conversation.

  "Here for the fight, Larry," they say, as they hand him some cash.

  The man, Larry, nods, smiling as he lifts the rope blocking an inconspicuous walkway between the bar and the hallway. He opens a door and the two men disappear behind it.

  I down the rest of my drink, place the glass on the bar top, and make my way to the side of the counter where Larry is drying a few mugs.

  Clearing my throat, I slide a crisp twenty pound note across the bar top. "I'm here for the fight."

  The old man chuckles as he lifts his eyes to mine. "Don't know what you're on about, darlin'." His thick American accent seems so out of place here. He smiles. He must take me for an idiot because I can hear the shouting from the top of the stairwell. He passes the money back across the counter. "Go on now and drink your beer, would you?"

  "I said"—I shove the money back toward him. "I'm here for the fight." I arch a brow, and he grins as he picks the money up and shoves it in his pocket.

  "A little thing like you don't need to be down there with all them sweaty men." He leans against the counter, studying me. "Awful bloody." He grimaces and shakes his head.

  "I don't care."

  Shrugging, he walks to the end of the bar and lifts the rope, motioning me through. "Don't complain if you get blood on your pretty dress there."

  I ignore him and open the door to the basement. The stale scent of cigarettes, beer, sweat and piss nearly knocks my feet out from underneath me by the time I get to the third step. Shouting and clapping echoes up the narrow stairwell, followed by the dull smacking noise of skin hitting skin. I cringe and pause on the last step. The doorway is to my left. It's dark enough that I can't see anything past the group of men loitering at the bottom of the stairs. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and step down, grabbing the door frame as I make my way into the dingy underbelly of the pub.

  This stuffy room is filled with men. Mostly in dirty undershirts, cigarettes hanging limply from their thin lips. Pints of ale are raised in the air, beer sloshing over the rims. The shouting is a continuous roar. Men yelling: "Knock 'is teeth down, 'is throat, champ." "Kick 'em in the nuts."

  A spotlight is aimed at the back of the room, and over the crowd, I can barely see two heads bobbing up and down, circling what I assume is some makeshift ring. After shoving my way through the mass of people, I stop and stand on my tiptoes. Someone behind me stumbles and knocks me into the man in front of me.

  He turns around with his fist raised, ready to fight, until his eyes drop to me, then a gross smile spreads across his thin lips. "Ain't you a pretty one?"

  I swallow and lift back on my toes as I attempt to see around him.

  "Wanna see, sweet’art?" he asks as he moves to the side and motions me in front of him.

  "Oh, uh..." I glance at him as I shuffle ahead of him, praying he doesn't grab my ass. "Thank you."

  "Anytime, sweet’art. Anytime."

  I turn to face the ring and my heart holds back several beats before going into a full-on sprint. Because that is Brandon circling the ring. His brown hair is a sweaty mess and he's covered in blood, his fists raised in front of his face, ready to strike at any moment. Even from here, I can see those green eyes of his as he stares his opponent down. My vision blurs behind tears, my ches
t growing tight, and then, just like that, a jolt of anger fires through me like an electrical shock. A quick smile flinches over his lips and he throws a punch, leaving the other guy dazed for a moment before he falls flat on his face. The men in the room go crazy, shouting and yelling. Women whistle. The man behind me spills his beer on me. I hear him apologize, but I don't respond because I'm staring at Brandon. The longer I watch him, the stronger the anger simmering inside of me grows. He glances over the crowd, a cocky smirk set on his lips and his eyes lock with mine for a fleeting moment and he freezes. He sees me. I know he does. And then...he turns his back to me and walks off, like I don't even exist.

  Chapter Four

  Brandon

  “Sucker for Pain” – Lil’ Wayne and Wiz Khalifa

  His heavy fist collides with my jaw and I smile, relishing in the pain that explodes across my face. Spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor, I slowly lift my gaze to my opponent. Sweat trickles down his brow as he bounces on the balls of his feet. He grins at the cheering crowd before he comes at me again, and my temper rises with each clumsy step he takes. He lunges, but I'm all out of patience. I duck, then drive my fist into the side of his head. And he goes down hard, his head cracking against the bloodstained concrete. The crowd roars.

  I close my eyes, my chest heaving as I stand here attempting to chain the rage pulsing through every muscle. When I open my eyes, I turn towards the ropes, ready to climb out of the ring. And there, in the middle of all the burly men, stands a woman. Her dress is far too nice to be in The Pit, and she sticks out like a sore thumb. I hesitate as my gaze glides over her petite, curvy frame that must look phenomenal naked. Long, chocolate waves of hair spill over her shoulders, and when I finally meet her face, I freeze. Poppy. Poppy is here. Her face fades white, like she's just seen a ghost. And, in a sense, she has.

  My chest seizes and my heart sputters, the severed fragments of it pitifully attempting to pull themselves together. Those grey eyes of hers lock with mine and a thousand memories flash through my mind—every single one revolving around Connor.

  And that hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. She might as well have doused me in petrol and set me on fire because I don't want this. I don't want any of it.

  Someone moves in front of me, blocking my view of her, and I drag in a lungful of air as if rising from the depths of a very deep, very dark black hole. I throw myself between the ropes and shoulder through the packed room until I'm pushing open the door that leads to the hallway. The door closes, muting the roar of the crowd. The only sound now is the frantic pounding of my pulse against my eardrums. I brace my back against the wall and drag my hand through my hair. How the fuck did she find me?

  The metal door suddenly flies open and bangs against the concrete wall. I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, trying to avoid this inevitable train wreck.

  "Brandon Patrick O’Kieffe!" Her voice echoes down the corridor, and I hiss a breath through my teeth. I lean my head against the wall, close my eyes, and inhale. I can't do this with her.

  Her heels click over the concrete floor, stopping right in front of me. That familiar, sweet floral scent of her perfume almost brings me to my knees. I don't look at her. I pretend that if I stay just like this, maybe she'll go away. There's only so much I can handle. And that list is pretty much limited to fighting, fucking, and drinking.

  "Brandon!" She pokes me in the chest and I react instinctively, swiping her hand away from me. My eyes flash open and I meet her startled gaze.

  "You..." She takes a deep breath, and the next thing I know, her palm meets my cheek, the clap bouncing off the walls and leaving a sting. "I thought you were dead!"

  "Well, I'm not." I keep my voice low and fix my gaze on the wall behind her, just above her head.

  "Why wouldn't you have called me…let me know you were okay? Why, Brandon?"

  Why? It's such a simple question, and yet, it has no answer because I don't have a good reason, only that I didn't want this. I didn't want to see her. "You should go, Poppy," I say coldly, feigning the indifference I wish I felt, but the truth is: every second that I stand here with her feels like a sick form of torture.

  "I'm not leaving," she whispers.

  I don't say anything. Just keep my chin to my chest, rubbing my palm over my stinging cheek. Poppy grabs my face.

  "Look at me," she says, hatred oozing from her tone. "Fucking look at me."

  And I do. Dark circles, that look permanently etched into her skin, linger below her eyes. Her face has sunken with weight loss and her hair is dull. It's as though everything that made Poppy, Poppy, has withered and died, faded away. Connor would be rolling in his fucking grave. I promised him, should anything ever happen to him, that I would take care of her, but I can't even take care of myself. The guy that made that promise to him—well, he's long gone.

  Poppy’s eyes swell with tears. "Why would you hurt me like that?” she says. “I lost him. I lost him..." And she breaks down. Those tears spill down her porcelain skin. Her red lips tremble as she fights back a sob. "You left me when I had no one else. And I knew it..." She shakes her head. "I could feel you were alive, and had I not looked for you.” She takes a quick breath and her eyes suddenly flash with anger. “People die of a broken heart all the time, you know, Brandon? They do and my heart is fucking slaughtered."

  Guilt consumes me, but I can't hate myself any more than I already do. If I were a better person I would shoulder her grief, but the fact is, I lost him. And I can't see past my own grief. It's too big, too all consuming. I'm drowning in it, slowly crumbling under the weight of it, so I can't shoulder hers too.

  She grabs my chin and jerks it up, forcing me to look at her again. "Say,” her grip tightens, her eyes blazing, “something to me!"

  "You shouldn't have come," I say, as I step around her and open the door into the shitty storeroom to retrieve my clothes.

  "What? I shouldn't have..." Her heels stomp over the floor. She grabs onto my shoulder, but

  I don’t budge. I keep my back to her as I shove my shorts down my thighs. "Whatever it is you came here looking for,” I shrug, “you aren't going to find it."

  “Brandon, I need to know what happened."

  I stiffen and take a deep breath, holding it before I slowly release it. "He died. I didn't." And isn't that the shitty truth of my existence...summed up in four words?

  "Why did you leave him?" she breathes.

  "I..." The words stick in my throat, and I want to fucking shout. I want to punch something until my knuckles rip open and bleed, and then, I want to drown myself in whiskey in an attempt to turn my mind off for just one fucking second. "He was dead," I say on a strangled breath. "And I left him because there was nothing fucking left. Just bodies." I pull on my tracksuit bottoms and whirl around to face her. "I'm sorry about Connor."

  "Sorry?" Her voice cracks. "That's all I get? Sorry?" Her eyes fall to the floor and she fidgets with a loose string on her dress. "Then why did you leave me?"

  "I can't look back. Like I said, there's nothing left but bodies."

  Frowning, she takes my hand and rubs her thumb over my sore knuckles, and I notice the tattered friendship bracelet still tied around her wrist. "No, I'm still here."

  "Well, I'm not." I offer her a small smile and pull away. She needs to know I'm not her fucking salvation. This isn't the part where we help each other. No one can help me.

  I shoulder my bag and walk through the door without a backward glance.

  Running. Always running.

  Why the fuck did she have to turn up here? So, what? Now she knows I'm alive and she knows what a fucked-up son of a bitch I am. How does that help anyone, least of all her? If I'm honest with myself, I've thought about contacting her a thousand times, but I just couldn't do it. I couldn't bear to see my pain reflected in hers. I knew I wouldn't be able to look at her without seeing everything that we’ve lost. And, I know in doing so, I let Connor down in the worst way because he loved that girl more than life itself
. Smiling, I remember that first time we ever saw her. Even at the age of ten, Poppy was already Poppy. That girl you just couldn't ignore no matter how hard you tried.

  Conner and I are sitting on the playground playing pogs, and I'm kicking his arse. I flatten his stack and look up, a smug grin plastered all over my face, but he isn't even looking at me. He's staring across the playground at the jungle gym. I follow his gaze to a girl with brown hair sitting on her own.

  "She looks sad," he says.

  "So." I shrug. "I beat you." I turn back to him. He gets that frown on his face and I sigh, because I know he's going to go over there and talk to the girl. "Connor, we have ten minutes of playtime left," I groan, looking at my batman watch.

  He rolls his eyes, gets up, and walks past me. I scowl at his back as he goes over to the girl and sits down next to her. Gross. I don't want to play with girls.

  With a huff, I get up and follow him, scuffing my shoes on the tarmac as I do. Her hair falls out of her ponytail when she looks up at me.

  "I'm Poppy," she says in a weird accent, blowing a bubble with her gum.

  "You're not allowed gum in school," I say. I want gum.

  Connor punches me in the arm. "Leave her alone, Bran."

  She smiles at him and his cheeks turn bright pink. "You can have my gum,” she says shyly as she takes it out of her mouth. "You have to put it behind your ear for later." She tucks it behind his ear and he blushes even more, grinning at her as she jumps up and skips away.