Sloane touches the window with her fingertips, checking the place out again, eyes fixed on the sign. “O’Shannessey’s? As in the same O’Shannessey that…”
I pull a tight smile. “Not for him, no. For his dad. Father O’Shannessey had two sons. One of them was my best friend, Murphy. Charlie killed him to hurt me, slit his throat right in front of me. The O’Shannessey you had the pleasure of meeting was his brother. He watched as Charlie killed Murphy, and he did nothing to stop it. He let it happen, and then he stuck with Charlie all these years since.” I shrug my shoulders—no matter how many times I’ve tried to reconcile that in my head, especially while I was sitting in prison with nothing better to think about, I’ve never been able to understand. “Father O’Shannessey’s too old to run this place now. Michael brought me here yesterday morning to burn off some steam, and it just made sense. I knew I needed to buy it.”
My certainty yesterday, the deep knowing I’d experienced, seems to have fled me now, though. Fuck. This was a stupid idea. How the hell did I think running a boxing gym would be a smart move? I have one skillset, and one skillset only. Hurting people is all I’m good for. I curl my fist around the key, feeling the bite of pain and clinging onto it for dear life.
“I think…I think it’s a wonderful idea, Zeth. I think it’s perfect. I can help you run the place.”
I let go of the key, risking another glance at her. Her expression has changed, as if it was only taking her a moment to refocus her vision of the place, but now she’s seeing it more clearly. Not O’Shannessey’s Irish Boxing Club for Boys anymore, but something else entirely.
“What will you call it?” she asks.
“Blood ‘N’ Roses Fighting Gym,” I tell her.
She laughs. “Blood ‘N’ Roses? Why Blood ‘N’ Roses? Seems a little contradictory, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It just seemed appropriate. It’s the life I’ve been given so far. Not perfect. Far from perfect. It’s been bloody and hard, with plenty of sharp edges, but…” I look at her, listening to me so intently, and I feel like a total dick.
“What? Tell me,” she says, laughing quietly.
“But it’s had its beautiful moments, too.” You. It’s had you in it, and you make the rest of that shit worth it. I shrug. “Fighting’s a lot like that. It’s hard. Pushes you to the limits of what you’re capable of, but then it makes you stronger and clears your head, too. Gives you strength for when you need it later. Fuck it. I’m probably not making much sense.”
“You’re making perfect sense.” Sloane climbs out of her seat and into my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck. “I get it. And I think it’s perfect, too. The gym’s a perfect idea, and so is the name. It’s going to be a roaring success. And you can teach me how to beat up anyone who wants to give me shit. Deal?”
I’m about to kiss her, but that stops me dead in my tracks. I cup her face in both of my hands and I make sure she believes me when I tell her, “No one’s going to be giving you any shit from here on out, Sloane. No one. I will kill anyone that tries. You’re going to have a normal life from now on. Well, as normal as it can get with me as a boyfriend. But you don’t have a choice in that matter, I’m afraid.”
She smiles, and that smile lights up my whole fucking world. “I don’t want a choice, Zeth. I just want you.”
We get out of the car, and I collect one of the bags of money from the trunk. We go inside together, and I get to introduce my girl to Father O’Shannessey.
And then O’Shannessey’s Irish Boxing Club for Boys becomes the Blood ‘N’ Roses Fighting Gym.
We spend three hours at the gym, while an excited Father O’Shannessey shows us around and regales us with stories of the countless boxing legends that have trained with him over the decades. I’m a little confused as to why Zeth calls O’Shannessey Father all the time—he definitely doesn’t look, act, or dress like he’s been running any churches lately—but that’s only until the old man with the shock of silver hair winks at me and says, “I left the priesthood when I met me boys’ mother. I would have defied any warm-blooded man to stay celibate with that woman sitting in his pews. That was over forty years ago now, but these ingrates still insist on calling me Father.”