she can. She’s a Kennedy,” Shelley reminds them. Shelley reminds me of the floral-fond innkeeper. In between stories about their other friend, Fiona, and Fiona’s miserable, two-timing arse of a boyfriend, Johnny, I learned of his shady dealings with the mob. Fiona and boyfriend will be here for the next night’s fights, news I can’t wait to share with Finn.
Lucy nudges me in the side. “Yer wan is fine.”
“But we got to ask,” Shelley says, “Did yer fella watch a fight on the tele and run down here thinking he’d give it a go?”
I shrug, then offer a very Finn-like answer. “Something like that.” Call it pride, call it a sudden sense of loyalty to Finn, but their underestimating my fake-boyfriend’s ability rubs me the wrong way. And I feel the sudden need to defend him. I raise my Guinness. “A round of drinks on me if my wan wins.”
“Sounds like we better finish these drinks,” someone comments.
“Why don’t we find a place closer to the cage?” I wave them forward and push in closer just as Finn’s opponent is entering the cage.
He’s shorter than Finn but ten times stockier, with massive muscles and a hard jawline like a pit bull.
“A newbie, too. He hit me cousin Seamus with a punch to the kidney. Came close to killing him.” Shelley nudges me. “Best take out yer rosary now.”
“What’s that in his hand?” Lucy exclaims.
I swing my attention to the brass object looped around his fingers.
“Total gobshite,” Shirley grinds out beside me. “So that’s how he hurt Seamus.”
Brass knuckles. That’s how, I think.
“I hope yer wan notices.”
“Won’t someone stop him?” I demand, already knowing the answer. The better question to ask is “Is Finn aware?”
It’s too late to warn him as he’s already climbing the steps to the cage. Smiling. Waving. Acting like a naive fool, completely oblivious to the violence about to reign down on him.
I wave wildly but he doesn’t notice me.
They approach each other.
Finn offers him his hand.
His opponent glowers at him.
“Does yer wan think he’s in there to accept a bleedin’ award?”
“Sorry, Clarissa. But he’s about to get handed his arse.”
Finn leans in and says something, unfazed by his opponent’s intense stare. Whatever is said excites the man, who waves his weapon-free fist at Finn while shouting a stream of profanities.
I take a deep breath, hoping Finn knows what he’s doing by antagonizing him.
“This isn’t going to last long.”
“Or end well.”
“We’re here if you need us, Clarissa.”
Finn sidesteps a punch then motions with his hands. “Come and get me.”
The crowd begins to shout. “Get out of the ring before you get yourself killed.”
“Lay those knuckles on him, Charlie.”
“Cover your drinks, lads, blood’s about to go flying.”
My heart sinks as two men approach the cage with an empty stretcher.
His opponent charges forward, fueled with frustration. I understand that feeling well, having been on the opposite end of Finn’s sharp tongue.
Arms to his side, Finn sways back and forth on his feet. Relaxed and seemingly unworried.
Waiting.
Either he’s as foolish as he wants everyone to believe or, like an expert poker player, he’s ready for the next gold-knuckled hand to be dealt.
Finn waits until the man is a hair’s breadth away before reacting. Then with one punch he connects with his opponent’s jawline with a loud crack. The man’s head snaps sideways, the brass knuckles hit the mat and he pitches backward , eyes rolling to the back of his head as he falls.
It’s so abrupt, so unexpected, the crowd gasps in unison.
A series of “Sweet Mary and Joseph” echoes through the room.
Finn scoops up the brass knuckles, approaches the cage wall, and gestures to the same older man who placed him on the list to fight. “Give these to your nephew Seamus, will you?” He tosses the brass knuckles and a collective cheer goes up.
I should have seen this coming. He played this fight and this crowd beautifully. In one punch, he went from underdog to savior of Seamus’s honor. A champion.
A hero.
And I’ve just won a lot of money.
Our eyes meet.
This time it’s me, giving him two thumbs-up, along with a knowing wink.
16
Finn
I’m riding high after yesterday’s win. Part of it is knowing I’ve still got the touch. But I have to say, the way the minx is staring starry-eyed at ol’ Finn-boy certainly puts a spring in me step. She can’t keep her eyes off me. Seeing me with fresh eyes and liking what she sees.
About time.
“Last night was nuts, Finn.”
“If I had two brain cells, I’d