The posse my manager Dez has insisted I have in my corner at every fight. Most of them are fair weather hangers-on that cheer when you’re victorious and ghost when you’re deemed a loser.
“Killian! My man!” Dez cries out above the rest. He grins wide, revealing the gold cap replacing one of his incisors. “What did I tell you? What did I fucking tell you? As easy as one, two, three! Like stealing candy from a motherfucking baby.”
Desmond Carmichael follows me from the ring, pushing through the crowd as if he’s the one who won the fight.
In his mind, as my manager, he basically has. It’s all his genius. His doing.
I’m simply the violent brute he’s chosen to champion.
I don’t like Dez, and I’m certain he doesn’t care for me either—aside from when I win fights—but he’s still the best manager I’ve had. He books the fights and handles the business side of things so I don’t have to waste time thinking about it.
“Championship’s gonna be yours, baby!” Dez claps me on the shoulder, ignoring the fact that I’m dripping sweat and probably smell like a locker room fucked a slaughterhouse. “That knockout? Beautiful. Poetry in motion. The promoters are gonna eat this shit up.”
“Great,” I mutter, marching down the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.
Our posse obediently follows, trailing behind us like fans with hearts in their eyes.
“We gotta celebrate! Drinks on me. I know a spot in Manhattan. Real exclusive joint, bottle service, women who will do anything, and I do mean anything?—”
“No.”
Dez chuckles as if I’ve told a joke, jogging to get in front of me. “No? Kill, baby, you just knocked T-Bone Jackson the fuck out in under four rounds. You can’t just?—”
“The answer is no.”
Even Dez knows better than to push his luck with me.
I shoulder past him, ignoring the fans shouting my name, the women trying to catch my eye with kissy-fuck-me faces, and the hangers-on posse who trail behind like leeches wanting to attach themselves to me.
The uproar fades into nothing as I push through the back exit and step into the warm Brooklyn night.
The alley smells like piss and garbage. It’s a massive improvement.
I light a cigarette and take a long drag. The nicotine mixes with the adrenaline still buzzing through my system.
My hands are twitchy; they always are after a fight. Not from fear but from the comedown. From my body realizing the violence is over and it can stop flooding me with chemicals designed to keep me alive.
There’s only one place I want to be right now, and it sure as shit isn’t some Manhattan club with Dez and a bunch of groupies looking to fuck a famous boxer.
I want a whiskey. Dry, no chaser.
I want the familiar booth where the clan always sits.
Most of all, right now, I want to see Bridget’s pretty smileand flaming ginger hair as she walks up to the table to take my order.
Simple and uncomplicated after the chaos of the ring.
The Banshee it is.
The Banshee’s waiting for me, the pub wedged between a shoe repair shop and an out-of-business bookmaker. The windows glow from the street, and the sounds of ESPN pierce the brick walls.
As soon as I step inside, I’m greeted by the bite of cigarette smoke and sourness from liquor.
Home sweet home.
It’s quieter than usual for a Tuesday night. A few regulars are slouched over pints at the bar while a trio of old-timers is huddled at a table arguing about hurling scores. Tom’s behind the counter, wiping down glasses with a rag that’s probably older than I am.
I head straight for the back corner booth where the clan always sits. Sean’s already there, sipping his way through a Guinness and scrolling through his phone with a bored expression.
