Let Me: An O'Brien Family Novel (The O'Brien Family Book 2) (18 page)

I walk cautiously to Finn, trying to work up my courage to say something inspirational. But when he grips my hips and yanks me to him, all my words become jumbled beneath that stare I so adore.

“Hey,” he says, resting his forehead against mine. “How you doing?”

My arms tighten around him. “I’m scared,” I admit.

Like always, he grins. “You worry too much, you know that?”

His easy tone lifts my mood slightly, yet it does nothing to stop the tremble in my voice. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, or this face.”

He chuckles. “I’m not sure about my face, but I’ll be all right. I promise. Just promise you’ll be waiting for me when I’m done.”

“You know I will,” I assure him. “No matter what.”

Finn kisses me then. It’s not quick, nor is it innocent. It speaks of our time alone in bed, those moments when the world stops spinning with problems and angst and all that matters is our bare bodies merging as one. At first I was shy about his show of affection in front of his family. But as we grew closer it just seemed right, becoming something I expect and desire.

“I love you,” I whisper when he pulls away.

“Cool,” he tells me once more. But as he continues to hold my gaze and catches sight of my fear, his smile vanishes. He knows I’m terrified. “It’s going to be all right,” he tells me softly.

He means what he says. Yet as I leave his arms and walk out with his family, I can’t be sure it’s a promise he’ll be able to keep.

CHAPTER 18

Finn

MMA followers in general are loud, fanatical, and so full of energy you can feel it. Tonight is no different. Everyone is pumped and eager for more action and blood, their need for it luring me to the octagon like a predator to its prey.

I’m ready. I’m willing. I’ve got this.

The moment I yank my T-shirt on, I head for the door. I know Sol’s scared, and I hate that she is. But right now the best I can do to assure her is to step into the octagon and get the job done.

I don’t get far.

Kill steps in front of me, blocking my way. His expression is hard, bordering on pissed. “Look, Finn. I don’t believe the shit Angus says about tonight being cursed.”

“Good,” I tell him. “Cause I don’t either.”

He doesn’t move, and suddenly Curran is there, too. “What’s the problem?” I ask. Jesus, the adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream has me jumping in place. I need to move, not keep still and hear more of Angus’s superstitious bullshit.

Kill works his jaw. “I don’t want you to put on a show tonight.”

“What?” I ask, thinking he’s lost his mind.

Here’s the thing, MMA isn’t staged, it isn’t fixed, but the promoters like the drama. It stirs the crowd, gets fans talking, fills seats, and makes everyone more money. Men, they have to show what they’re made of, they have to show off their moves, bash skulls, and talk trash. The women, that’s a whole different level of drama. They get personal, vindictive, and nasty. But either way you slice it, you’re putting on a show.

“It could cost me the title match,” I point out.

Sumar Okafe just moved up from ninth to fourth for the lightweight title. When I win tonight, it will take me from seventh to the number one spot based on my opponent’s rank. Technically this puts me next in line for the belt. The problem is, Sumar has a big mouth and a bigger attitude.

Following his win last week, Sumar ran out into the audience and called out the champ, the champ’s woman,
and
his mother in front of a capacity crowd. Fans and fighters alike lost their shit all over social media, calling Sumar disrespectful, which the asshole is. But because of what he did―and because he stole the champ’s belt during the press conference that followed, fans of the champ are demanding he pummel his ass―which means they’ll pay big money to see it. If I don’t put on a big enough show, asshole or not, Sumar is going to get that title bout before I do.

“I don’t care about that right now,” Kill says.

My scowl deepens. “As my manager and my brother, you damn well should.”

“It’s not always about the money, Finnie,” he says.

“You’re right,” I grind out. “It’s also about getting what I deserve.”

“I’m not saying you don’t deserve a shot at the title. God knows you’ve earned it,” he says. “Just keep cool and stick with the plan.” He motions out the door, ignoring the reps beating on the door, telling me I’m needed out now. “You hear that crowd. They’re nothing more than piranhas, Finn. They’ve already seen and tasted blood so they want more. Your opponent knows it. So right now, his camp is telling him he needs to make sure that’s what he gives them. They’re telling him to fuck you up. You need a fast win, in the off chance he gets lucky.”

More knocks on the door, more urges for me to get my ass moving. Kill keeps talking like no one is there. “Just like you want the title shot, he wants it too. Just like Sumar is making noise, he wants to make some of his own.”

“Hear him out,” Curran says when I start swearing.

“Just finish Boris quick,” Kill adds. “No showing off, no waiting for a shot that pisses you off enough to act. Get in, get a knockout or a submission. That’s all I ask.”

“If I get the win in the first round, it won’t be enough of a show for the higher ups,” I tell him. “Not with how much the fans on social media are talking up all the shit Sumar’s pulled―and not with how they’re demanding the champ lay him out.”

“No, it won’t,” Kill agrees, his voice tight. “But it will give you time to prepare so when the time comes, you’ll wear that belt, and be in one piece to enjoy it.” He shakes his head. “That last fighter, as young as he is, he’s done. You hear me? He was so focused on putting on a show, he got sloppy and now he’s hurt because of it.”

And messed up for life he doesn’t say. Like the others before him, and like Conan who probably won’t even be able to tie his own damn shoes.

The door swings open, but before one of the producers can rip into me, I bound past them with Kill and Curran at my heels. The cameraman scrambles when he sees me, pushing off the wall and racing to shove his lens in my face. As soon as it connects and the lights flick on, the crowd loses it.

Roars shoot down the hall like a cyclone. They know I’m coming. But they don’t know what Kill just said.

I’m not stupid. The last thing I want is to end up like some of those fighters who’ve spent years taking blows and can’t think straight, can’t keep their hands from twitching, and who can barely finish their thoughts. All that aside, I’m not going down like a punk. If he wants me to finish fast, I will. But I can’t say I’m not going to look good doing it.

The moment I cross into the arena, that’s when the crowds’ energy strikes me at capacity. It’s not the first time I’ve stepped toward the octagon, but it is like that first time. And I swear to Christ, it’s like I’m reborn.

This . . . this is where I belong.

Invincible is what I am at this moment. Alive is how I feel. And strength is all I own. I thought that part of me had died―that this taste had grown old, dulling to that numbness that had become more friend than foe. But now I’m back. I feel it, I breathe it. It’s a part of me once more. And it’s not simply because of my newfound commitment to training, or how I’m progressing in counseling.

It’s because of Sol.

This woman has been the breath I didn’t know I needed to take. Yeah,
her
. The one clinging to Wren and Sofia as I pass. But I don’t look at her then. I have a job to do, and that includes proving why I deserve to be her man.

I’m checked by the cut man, every inch of me tensing as he swipes petroleum jelly all over my face. It’s supposed to help the punches slide off my face, and decrease the cuts I receive. Personally, I think it does jack.

Kill clasps my shoulder, Curran does, too, both assuring me my opponent doesn’t stand a chance. I respond with a stiff nod and make my way up the steps and into the octagon.

Game time.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . .” the announcer begins.

I’m not paying attention to my stats or Boris “the Thorn” Thornsby’s. I’m looking at him, like he’s looking at me, both of us so wired and ready, we can’t keep still. His favorite submission is the rear-naked choke, when he doesn’t knock his opponent out first. He hits hard, but so do I. And I’m just as good on the ground as I am on my feet. If he gets me down, he’ll try for the choke, guaranteed.

But he better watch out for his arms, or I’m popping one loose with an armbar.

I hear, “against Finn the Fury O’Brien” in time to raise my fist. Yet it’s Sol’s “Get him, baby!” that almost makes me grin. Almost. I’m a fighter now, I’ll be her lover
after
I win.

The ref calls us to the center. “You both know the rules,” he says. “Give us a good show and a clean fight. You want to touch gloves, do it now.”

I lift my hands to tap his gloves. He responds with a middle finger. Okay, there’s my grin. You want to play it that way? Let’s go.

We back into our corners. “You ready?” the ref asks Thorn. Thorn nods. “You ready?” he asks me. I lift my hands and tilt my chin. “Fight,” he yells.

“Come on, Finn,” my camp begins.

“Come on, Fury,” some fan yells.

Thorn and me meet in the center. We smack gloves, trying to get a feel for each other’s reach. It looks innocent, cute, even. It’s not so cute the minute he takes his first swing. I duck under and nail him square in the chest with a front push kick.

It’s enough to get his attention, and knock his air out. I rush forward as he stumbles away. He sees me coming and reacts without thinking. His rush to return my strike making him reckless.

He goes for a jab, but tries to fake me out and does a back spinning kick. I dodge that, and his elbow, nailing him hard in the face. “Oh!” yells the crowd.

Pain is my trigger, it always has been. But apparently it’s Thorn’s, too. He punches me in the jaw. I punch him back and the next thing I know we’re going blow for blow. Considering I knocked the air out of him, he should be slower. Yet he’s swinging like it never happened.

Hard, that’s how we go at it, throwing our weight into every blow. I don’t have to look to know the crowd is on their feet. I barely hear their screams, too focused on slamming Thorn with everything I have. But this guy’s no pussy.

I catch him just right in the chin, sending him staggering back. I charge, but he kicks me off and tackles me. Now, we’re on the ground. I was the better fighter on my feet. Now I have to prove I’m also better on the ground.

Like I guessed, he goes for the choke. I slip out under him before he can move his arm beneath my chin, swinging my legs around and searching for his wrist. I snag it fast, hooking my legs around his arm and pulling hard, feeling that sweet tap on my shoulder when he submits seconds later.

I roll off him to my feet, raising my fists in victory, electrified by the roar of the crowd. My brothers rush in, losing their minds in a way I feel down to my bones. Jesus, I feel everything now, and it’s never felt so damn sweet.

I climb the cage, straddling the bar to scan the crowd and find the rest of my family. But it’s Sol’s face I lock onto. I toss her a wink and a grin, halting her screams and her jumps up and down. She smiles, gushing with pride as she clutches her hands against her chest.

That’s her. That’s my girl. That’s the woman I fucking love.

CHAPTER 19

Sol

I lean heavily against Finn as we make our way through the hotel lobby and toward the elevators. What a night. It was an awesome fight, and an even better win. My man kicked serious ass, annihilating his opponent with four seconds left in the first round! But it was the way he pulled me out of the crowd on his way back to his changing area that completely stopped my heart.

He kissed me, in front of all those girls elbowing each other to touch him, in front of all those men patting his back wishing they could be him, and in front of the cameras. I blushed, but oh yes, I totally kissed him back.

“You okay with us heading to the room?” he asks.

“I am,” I assure him, stroking his waist.

“Yeah? You look like you were having fun dancing. I almost hated pulling you away.” His stare drags the length of my body. “Almost.”

His appraising look is one I need then. You can call me insecure, but the more I’m around professional fighters, the more I’m aware how much like rock stars they truly are. Women, lots and lots of women, with bigger breasts, better clothes, and more grace to their movements want to have sex with Finn. His Instagram account alone lit up with “Marry Me Fury” requests. And as MMA becomes more popular, supermodels and celebrities are starting to date the most prominent stars.

Have I mentioned Finn is a prominent star?

I voiced my concerns to Sofia when we returned backstage. “You’re beautiful, and he’s fallen head over heels for you. You have nothing to worry about,” said the woman who resembles a supermodel herself.

Sofia glides instead of walks. She fits right in with all the model types because of her beauty and grace, but it’s her endearing personality that makes her a favorite among the wives. And then there’s me, loud laugh, loud personality, and someone who bounces when she walks.

I’m not trying to put myself down. I like me. I really do. But after seeing what the other women wore, and how hard Finn fought to win, tonight, I wanted to be something more than his cute girlfriend. I wanted to be a woman who could rival, or at least, somewhat fit in with the other ladies who run in the MMA circles.

While he met with the press, Sofia and Wren hurried back to the hotel with me and into one of the trendier boutiques, minutes before it closed. There was nothing to the strapless black cocktail dress I found, but that didn’t make it any less lovely. Yet the shoes Wren picked out took it from elegant to downright alluring.

The glittery charcoal heels sparkle even in the tame lobby light. Both were way more than I could afford. But it was important for me to look good on Finn’s arm. And after seeing how tempting the other women dressed, my jeans and blouse weren’t cutting it.