Pride (Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood Book 3) (3 page)

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Meanwhile, I poured a proper pint while you were bitching about the fight club!” She Bronnydished the glass proudly and squared it in front of him with a flourish.

“Well, indeed you did. Must have been an accident on your part,” he said grudgingly.

“Thanks.”

“It doesn’t matter how tidy your pint is, they can go down to the Rooster, get their Guinness, and see dancing girls. We don’t have any dancing girls. Had a man play the flute once. Some bloke threw a bottle at him to get him to stop his music, and he never came back,” Rabbie sighed. “The one time I tried to put a bit of brass on the joint. These folk, they want fights or dancing girls.”

“Don’t look at me. I’ll cook, but I ain’t dancing.”

“See, that’s surprising, since Sammy would do anything for a quid. If he hadn’t been so fat, he’d have probably danced naked to bring in business.” He laughed until he snorted.

Camila wrinkled her nose at that distasteful image. “I’m nothing like Sammy Saunders. I never met the guy. This, where I’m in the same building as his ashes? That’s the closest we’ve ever been.”

“Eh, well, my da was a rip-snorting drunkard who couldn’t hold a job.”

“And see, you’re nothing like him.”

“I’ve done some rip-snorting in my day. And I was at great risk of getting ossified before you learnt to pour right and proper,” Rabbie said.

“I’ve got to go call the estate agent and fill her in on the plan. You try to get to a chair before you start to wobble,” she said.

*****

Upstairs, she called Callie Dolan, the real estate agent she’d been dealing with for months…the woman who was too discreet to tell her why the pub wasn’t saleable.

Camila huffed a big breath before dialing, reminding herself that she’d been taught manners and reciting Mattie’s old adage that you catch more flies with honey. So with honey in her voice, she told the recalcitrant estate agent hello.

“Yes, I’m in the living quarters now above the pub. I’m here to sell the pub, since you didn’t see fit to tell me it was sitting on an illegal fight club.”

“It was a bit of a thorny thing, you see. Those fights are important to the families in these little towns. They bring people together, like any sport.”

“I’m sure it’s a total Hallmark moment when little Johnny gets his adult teeth knocked out for the first time. But spare me the poems about how it’s tradition and it’s harmless. It’s violence for entertainment, and I hate violence. I’m shutting the fight club the day after this current tournament ends, and then you can sell the place outright, no complications.”

“You’re not understanding the way this will affect the community.”

“I don’t care how it affects the community. If they need a gathering place to bond, they can go to church or the girlie bar with the strippers for all I care. I get that you’re a Dolan and your family likes boxing, but that’s not really my concern.”

“Dolans like fighting? That’s a bit like saying the fishes like water. The only way to keep a Dolan out of the boxing ring is to put him in the graveyard, my father always says!”

“How quaint and colorful. Thank you for sharing that with me. Now, from what I understand, you’re the only estate agent around, so I need you to sell this joint for me when I’m done with it. I’m letting the town have its three-fight tourney as a goodwill gesture.” She crossed her fingers at the lie and didn’t mention the hot water heater she wanted. “So I’ll expect the same good faith when we do business. You find a buyer once the fight club is shut down and sell it, cash on the barrelhead, no leases or contracts for deed or any of that nonsense. I want my ties with this place and my father cut forever. Did that sound melodramatic?” She sighed.

“A wee bit, yes,” Callie Dolan replied with a laugh that gave Camila hope that they could work together after all.

“Look, I know I’m pushing you, and I know I’m not what anyone here is used to. I’m not friendly or looking to become part of the big, happy, gloveless-fighting family. But I do appreciate your patience, and I do need your help. I’ll get this place cleaned up so it’s easier for you to market, and I’ll take the heat for running out the fights. I’ll be sure everyone in this town knows you fought me tooth and claw to keep the boxing in the picture.”

“I’ll sell your place for you, but it won’t be easy. No one wanted to deal with the legal issue of the fight club, but no more does anyone in these parts want to be the owner who did away with Fight Night at the Cheek. It’s an institution. My own da used to take me to see it.”

“That’s very…unusual. But, I suppose, quite progressive that he included his daughter in his love of sport,” she managed to say.

“Yes, I was treated as good as the boys, I reckon.”

“Just as it should be,” Camila hedged.

“I’ll work up an advert for your place. I’ll see you at the tournament, then?”

“I’ll be there,” Camila said.

“I wouldn’t miss it. It’ll be such a bittersweet finale, the last fight at the Cheek.” The woman almost sounded choked up.

When Camila put down the phone, she checked the clock and determined there was enough time left to get a few simple things from the shop. If Mattie had taught her one thing, it was to make do with little.

She gathered eggplant, tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil, and threw in an overpriced chunk of Pecorino cheese, because Mattie always said that a little bit of luxury went a long way. She changed to her last pair of clean jeans and put on some smoky eye makeup, tying her flannel shirt up so it exposed a sliver of olive skin along her midriff. She took a rough washcloth, wetted one of the shamrock tattoos, and stuck it on her lower back. The Irish tramp stamp, she thought with a laugh. She shook her hair out of its ponytail and undid one more button of her shirt, hooking in long silver earrings. She looked way more Italian than Irish, she knew, but at least she’d fit the atmosphere a little more.

Down in the cramped and outdated kitchen, she boiled pasta and sliced tomatoes and eggplant. A quick sauté, and her first batch of Mattie’s Pasta Norma, straight out of Sicily, was done. Camila inhaled the aroma and took a huge forkful. It was heaven, rich and robust, with a generous sprinkle of that cheese grated on top.

“Hey, Rabbie, come taste this,” she called. “It’ll change your mind about adding brass to the joint. This is nothing but good honest peasant food. Perfect for a beer crowd.”

He didn’t come. She stepped out into the front of the house and saw Bronny Dolan standing there. Not really standing, since he didn’t loll about with his hands in his pockets, staring like most men. He circled, he moved lightly on the balls of his feet, surveying, predatory. She bit down on her lip a little too hard.

The belligerent bartender, as he had nicknamed Camila Saunders, was looking fetching when she came out of the kitchen holding a wooden spoon. A tanned sliver of her belly showed above her jeans, and he wanted to put his mouth to it, to taste her caramel skin. She bit down on her lip when she saw him, in what was probably dismay, but it made Bronny Dolan want to bite her lip for her. That was a thought which crowded out twenty-two years of conversational charisma.

“Here,” she said, as if startled awake. “Try this and see how you like it?” She held out the spoon to him. The upward lilt of her voice, which made it into a question, was what decided him to accept.

Bronny took a bite of the tubular noodles coated in something orange and chunky. It tasted phenomenal, hearty with tomato, garlic, and something else he couldn’t identify. But he wanted more of it, whatever her secret ingredient was. He nodded appreciatively.

“That’s amazing.”

“Pasta Norma alla Mattie,” she said, and her face broke into a smile.

Bronny Dolan had survived many a bloody fistfight, plus three years of uni being ridiculed for doing his law degree by his fight enthusiast family. Nothing in his past had prepared him for Camila’s smile. It was brilliant: her dark eyes flashed, her entire face transforming. She was incandescent, and the need to kiss her was an irresistible, physical pull. He even took a step toward her, not straight on, but from the side, approaching as if she were an opponent.

“Do you want some more?” she asked, oblivious to the firestorm of lust and desire she’d unleashed in him.

He nodded, settling himself on a stool so he wouldn’t embarrass himself by grabbing her. Although on a stool, he would be able to pull her across his lap and—get thrown out of the Cheek, he told himself. This was no County girl who’d lead him behind the barn with a twinkle in her eye. This was some foreigner who hated Ireland, hated fighting, hated her dad, and probably Guinness, too.

When she turned back to the kitchen, Bronny watched that sliver of exposed skin and, Lord above, there was a tattoo of a shamrock, green as the hills, riding just above her jeans. One more part of her he wanted to put his mouth on. While she was in the kitchen, he dropped his head in his hands. He wanted to convince her to keep the fights going, to get her on his side. This attraction was something that he couldn’t afford. He needed her to keep the fight club open, needed to prove himself in that tournament. His whole life was coming apart at the seams, and he didn’t need some black-haired girl with a shamrock tramp stamp to rip the rest of it asunder.

Camila was gone so long that he wondered if she’d slipped out the back door. Then he remembered that Sammy would never have brought the Cheek up to fire code by installing a back door. So he paced the room, cracked his knuckles, wondering how to approach her about the fights. He was a lawyer, for Chrissake; he should know how to argue and win.

“So,” he called, “my family’s pretty keen on the fights continuing. A tradition, they are.” He cleared his throat, surprised by the weakness of his own voice.

Your family,
he imagined Camila countering.

Aye, my family.

What about you?

Now, that was a question altogether different. Did he want the fights to keep going? Truth was, with the court to keep him busy, some of his fight had gone elsewhere. Some. But the Dolans’ word was law, and their word was that he would keep fighting. He imagined Camila’s reaction to that. Probably more of those flashing eyes, a good slap on the counter for emphasis, and a blue streak, cussing out his damned family. Speaking of the girl, where had she and her shamrock tattoo gone?

When Camila came out with a plate of pasta, a basket of bread, and a big hunk of cheese, it was all he could do to slink over to the stool and manage a halfhearted smile. It was always like this. He’d be going along, happy, and the thought of his family, of their expectations, would reach its long fingers around his throat.

“This looks terrific. When did the Cheek start with a menu?”

“Today. I got this chalkboard to prop up.” She pointed to the chalkboard on a stand by the door.

As he ate, she picked through a box of colored chalk and listed the night’s special. As he ate, his eyes slid to her. He watched the way her top rucked up when she bent to make a swirl on the board, the way she wrinkled her nose when something wasn’t quite right. She kept wiping the board and starting over until she was satisfied with the results. She turned the apparatus toward him with aplomb.

“What do you think?”

There, in elaborate swirling letters of lime green chalk, it said, “The Cheek, now serving dinner…” Underneath, it listed the night’s special and the charge.

“It’s supper,” he said.

“What?”

“Now serving supper.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Lettering looks good, though. Bit fancy for here, but maybe it will work.”

“Rabbie says it won’t. That it’s either boxing or dancing girls, nothing else will bring or keep customers.”

“Rabbie’s a good enough chap, but he never struck me as a marketing whiz,” Bronny said lightly. He was rewarded by that dazzling smile.

“Did you like your dinner—your supper, I mean?”

“Yeah. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. You’re my guinea pig.”

“Pardon?” He’d been called many an endearment in his life, but never a guinea pig.

“It’s an expression. Someone you test things out on. Like I asked you to try the food and see if it was good.”

“You knew it was good.”

“Yeah, I did. I just wasn’t sure Sicily by way of Newark would appeal to an Irishman.”

“It surely does,” he said, looking her up and down.

She fixed the sign and cleared away the plate and bread basket, briskly wiping the counter with a disinfecting cloth that burned his lungs with fake lemon scent.

“What is that?”

“The newest revolution in cleaning. Gone is the biohazard cotton towel.”

“When I was a lad, it used to be white,” he joked.

“I threw it away. Don’t tell him. It’s like his security blanket. Like he needs stage business—something to do to look busy.”

“I won’t breathe a word to him,” Bronny promised.

His phone buzzed, and he stepped out to take the call, wondering what fresh hell this was that a property lawyer had to work after hours.

“Bronwen Dolan?” the voice inquired.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The Law Society of Ireland is pleased to inform you that we have accepted your article submission for publication. Your paper on tenant rights will appear in the next quarter’s edition of the Review.”

“Thank you! That’s phenomenal news.”

“You’ll be receiving an e-mail with the details in a day or two, but go ahead and tell your family!” the woman said encouragingly.

“Thank you. Have a good evening now.” He rang off.

His family. As if the Dolans would be pleased to hear he had a paper in the Law Society Review. It was an honor, a boost for his career, even in this rural place. All they would care about would be that he wasted time on scribbling away about tenants’ rights when he ought to have been training for the fights. It seemed topsy-turvy at best that he would have to hide his academic accomplishments and talk about his underground fights at dinner tomorrow, and not the other way round. But the Dolans were no average family.

He stared at his phone for a minute or two and finally called his seventy-three-year-old secretary, Bobbie, the only legal secretary in town. , When he called to tell her about his publication and his call went to voicemail, he felt oddly deflated. When he went back in the Cheek, it was already filling up with the after-work crowd. Camila was behind the bar pouring Guinness well enough, and he ordered one himself just to watch her turn and pull the lever and then top it off.

“Anyone take you up on the menu special yet?”

“No, I’ve even stooped to asking if anyone’s hungry, wants to try the pasta. They should be begging for it.”

“This is a fish and chips crowd, more like. They’re not used to eating noodles with their Guinness.”

“So I wasted my time? There’s no reason to try to serve them good food. Lot of woolheaded drunks who wouldn’t know a good meal if it bit their ass,” she fumed.

“That escalated quickly.” e chuckled. “From the fact no one’s ordered it in a quarter of an hour to the utter condemnation of their intelligence and taste.”

“I have a temper.” She shrugged. Even her shrug was surly.

“Truly? I’d not have guessed.” Bronny smiled at her, thinking what a handful she was, how feisty—her moods and her perfectionism with that chalk sign, the rich unexpected food she cooked, her full bottom lip. His mind wandered a path up the stairs, littered it with their clothing.

“Another half hour of this and I’m just taking down the sign.”

Bronny sat at the bar, watching her for a while. She served customers, and he finally turned to chatting with an old schoolmate, Dillon Carstairs, about the tourney..

“My money’s riding on you, ya know,” Dillon told him.

“There’s no better bet in the county,” Bronny agreed.

“’S it true the first chap’s fought in Dublin?”

“True enough. And handed an Englishman his arse for the title.”

“Can you take him?”

“I’m a Dolan, aren’t I? Been training for this lot my whole life.”

“What’s your dad say?”

“Same as ever. I’d better win or I’m out of the family.”

“Nothing like the love and loyalty in the bosom of the family, right?”

“Yeah.” Bronny said, his laugh faltering.

As more people filed in and ordered their drinks, he noticed Camila kept up with the orders, managed to smile at the patrons. Her guard was down, just slightly, and she was actually talking to Tommy Fallon, the baker. She laughed at something the baker had said, and Bronny found his hands clenched into fists.

Instead of enjoying her laughter, her evident happiness, he wanted to punch Tommy Fallon, who was married with four kids and had no interest in Sammy Saunders’ daughter. But he had made her laugh, which was more than Bronny had managed, and it made him mad. Mad enough to hit someone, but he cracked his knuckles instead.

“Didn’t your Ma ever tell you that’s a bad habit?” Dillon asked.

“My ma ran off when I was a kid. I don’t think she was much concerned with my habits.”

“Lord, I forgot, Bronny. I’m sorry.” Dillon said.

“It’s nothing.” Bronny brushed it off. One more thing to be mad about, one more thing to take out on the heavy bag later.

Camila breezed by to get Dillon a refill. Before he even realized he meant to do it, Bronny caught her wrist. She spun to meet his eyes, more startled than annoyed.

“I figured if I didn’t catch you as you went by, I wouldn’t see you again. This place is busy for an off night.”

“Off night?”

“No fight,” he clarified. “Has anyone ordered your Pasta Mattie?”

“Pasta Norma alla Mattie. It’s really Pasta Norma, but Mattie, my aunt, taught me to make it. And no. Unfortunately, it’s a failure. No one here wants Sicilian food. They’d prefer something greasy and fried, no doubt.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Yeah. Do you want the leftovers to take home?”

“No. I want you to make up a bowl of that pasta, dump some cheese on top, and give it to that table over there,” He indicated Tommy Fallon and his brother Jamie, “on the house. Let them try it. If they like it, if other people see it and smell it, you may get some orders.”

“Increased sampling…good idea.” She whirled back toward the kitchen. “Uh, I’ll need my wrist, Bronny,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Bronny released her arm, sitting unusually still, as if listening. She had said his name, possibly for the first time, possibly the second; he didn’t recall. But she said it differently than anyone else had. It seemed shockingly familiar, intimate, for Camila Saunders to call him by his name. All his life he’d been the youngest Dolan boy, a promising boxer, a decent student who got through uni on hard work, not brilliance. She didn’t know any of those things about him, but she could say his name like someone who knew him, like someone who had whispered his name in the dark.

Camila breezed out with a big bowl of pasta, set it on the Fallons’ table, and grated fresh cheese onto the fragrant garlicky food with a grin. Bronny saw her stoop to talk to them and favor them with a smile.

God, that smile wrecked him.

He noticed men and a couple of women at the surrounding tables craning their necks, looking toward the delicious smell and watching the Fallons shovel in big forkfuls of steaming pasta. Soon, three tables had flagged her down with orders for food. Rabbie laughed.

“Wish you hadna said anything to her. She’d have been mad enough not to try it again.”

“Why don’t you want her serving food?”

“Don’t fit the place. They may eat her noodles for a few weeks, but she’s Italian and loud and moody. She don’t belong in Murrawallen.” Rabbie shook his head.