For a second, I just stand there, staring at the grain of the wood, trying to catch my breath. The ghost of that tiny kiss still burns my cheek, like it left a mark I can’t rub off.
I move to get away before Taylor can push any further. Cross to the drinks table. Find the bottle of grappa and pour more than I should.
The liquid flashes in the lamplight as I throw it back, let the burn chase off the ache.
Behind me, I can hear the faint rustle of her moving around – the whisper of her dress, the quiet click of something set down – and it’s too much.
It’salltoo much and yet, I won’t run. Not now, not ever…
Not until she tells me to.
And even then, I’ll stay close enough to protect but far enough not to ruin.
11
AXEL – ‘THE FIGHTER’
Twenty-Seven Years Ago…
The first punch lands before I even see it coming.
One minute, I’m trading knock-off merch by the cages; the next, some meathead twice my size is shoving me hard enough to send me to the gravel.
‘Stay off my turf,’ he spits, and that’s it: I see red.
No one pushes me around any more. Not since school. Not since Crusty O’Reilly, headmaster-turned-ballbuster dragged me and Dad into his shitty office to talk about ‘behavioural issues’ and ‘petty theft’, ‘expulsion’ and ‘the authorities’. Dad pretending to care, shaking the old man’s hand while his jaw ticked with fury because the ‘confiscated gear’ I’d been flogging round the yard washisgear.
I can still hear him in the car after:You think I work my arse off for you to piss it away, you little runt?
Well fuck dad, fuck Crusty, and fuck this guy.
I launch back at him with everything I’ve got. Fists, knees, teeth. Another kid appears, trying to pin me down, but I throwhim off. Now there’s a whole crowd gathering: shouting, jeering, egging us on.
He’s heavier, but I’m faster, angrier.
I get him to the floor. And I don’t stop until he’s still.
The noise cuts out. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
I glance up, ears ringing, breath ragged.
And that’s when I see him.
Dad.
Arms folded. Eyes gleaming.
For a second, my stomach flips, waiting for the usual: the snarl, the slap, thewhat the fuck have you done now?But instead, he laughs. A slow, mean sound that makes my balls shrivel up into my body. He walks over and everyone backs away.
‘’Bout time you grew a spine,’ he says, kicking my gear across the gravel. ‘Pick that up. You’re coming with me.’
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see.’
The lock-up stinks of oil and blood, sweat and beer. Bare bulbs hang low over the cracked concrete. Chains rattle in the draught. Men crowd around a makeshift ring, shouting, waving notes.
Dad pushes me through the circle. ‘My boy’ll fight!’
