He has a point.
Kai gets to his feet. His hands are already wrapped and ready.
As River and I follow him out to the dancefloor, cutting through the crowd to get to the large room on the other side, River nudges me. “I’m going to see that warehouse tomorrow.”
Nodding, I let my mind slip back into work mode. “It’s a big expense, River.”
But this building wasn’t built to house a fighting ringanda nightclub. The crowds are growing every day, and while we might nudge the boundaries of what the clipboard warriors callhealth and safety, I’m also not enough of a bastard to risk hundreds of people getting hurt on my watch. We’re too limited here, even if the idea of adding more feels like a weight across my shoulders that I can’t shake off. “Want me to come?”
“I’ve got it. I’m meeting Vanessa at two.” River claps my shoulder before he heads off to spot Kai, who’s already bouncing on his feet. Their heads lean together as River speaks rapidly, Kai nodding before he yanks off his shirt.
Murmurs ring out around me as they always do. Horrified, enraptured mutters as men watch him with envy and women with blatant desire.
Kai was right. Every fucker here wants him in some way – but only as a damn trophy. None of them give a fuck enough to look any closer.
The savage scarring builds in layers against the skin of his chest, broken only by the celtic tattoos that cover his left side, shoulder, throat and neck. They flex with his movements as he darts forward. I watch as his opponent realizes exactly what’s about to happen and visibly shrinks, the smirk creasing my cheeks as Kai’s fist lands directly in his face.
His chin. The ribs. Lower.
At least Kai’s trying to put on a show for the people who paid to watch him.
It takes less than thirty seconds for the guy to collapse to the mat, face down. Kai doesn’t even crack a smile as the crowd erupts. It’s not a competition for him. He doesn’t need to get in the ring every night, but he enjoys it. And it’s a way of blowing off steam so he doesn’t erupt.
And he said I needed to get laid.
Briar
“Briar?”
I glance back at my father. He’s leaning out of the car, the weather thankfully dry today. We’ve barely spoken since our argument – if you could even call it that – yesterday morning. He picked me up from work with silent disapproval that he kept up throughout dinner, until I excused myself for an early night whilst he went back to the office.
It’s becoming a habit.
There’s a hesitant smile on his face – a pacifying, small smile. “I don’t like being at odds with you.”
Then listen to me.
But I don’t like it either. My father is all I have. And I’m all thathehas – a fact I have to keep reminding myself of when it feels like the walls are closing in on me.
He lost my mother. He doesn’t want to lose me too.
Papa glances past me, to the doorway. He sighs. “Everything will work out for the best.”
It’s the closest to an olive branch that he’ll get. Nodding, I step back, away from the open door. “Have a good day.”
He raises his hand. “I have court today. I might be late home. Henri will come for you at four.”
Henri will come when I call him. We’ve worked out our own arrangement over the years for when my father isn’t around. Not responding to my father’s words, I turn, hearing the Jag pull away as I search my pocket for the shop keys.
As soon as I’m inside, I canbreathe.
The familiar scent of fabric fills my lungs, offering its own form of oxygen as I move around, flicking on the lights. The deep green walls are a far cry from the perfect white glitz of our townhouse. Mannequins line the wall to my right, each wearing one of my own designs.
I nod at some of them. “Hey, Flo. Merri.”
You really need to stop talking to the inanimate objects, Briar. It’s weird.
I also need to stop talking to myself, but I think I’d lose my mind in the silence. After hanging up my coat, I flick on the radio and the coffee machine in the corner – my one true love after my father gifted it to me as a not-so-obvious bribe to go to dinner with Philip – and get to work clearing out my tables. Scraps of fabric are collected and stored, needles carefully placed back in the cushions I keep for that purpose, a variety of shears, chalk and cutters all moved into their correct places.
