War Poppy - Nicole Lynne

WAR POPPY War Series Book 1

STEVIE J. COLE & LP LOVELL WRITING AS NICOLE LYNNE

Contents Playlist Also from Nicole Lynne Foreword Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One Chapter Twenty Two Chapter Twenty Three Chapter Twenty Four Chapter Twenty Five Chapter Twenty Six Chapter Twenty Seven Chapter Twenty Eight Chapter Twenty Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty One Chapter Thirty Two Chapter Thirty Three Chapter Thirty Four Chapter Thirty Five Chapter Thirty Six Chapter Thirty Seven Chapter Thirty Eight Chapter Thirty Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty One Chapter Forty Two Chapter Forty Three Chapter Forty Four Chapter Forty Five Epilogue Acknowledgments Also from Nicole Lynne

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to, or downloaded from file sharing sites or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of Stevie J. Cole and LP Lovell. Editing: Indie Editor Jones Cover Design: Cover Me Darling

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They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.

Playlist

All of the songs mentioned at the start of each chapter can be found in a spotify playlist here:

https://open.spotify.com/user/steviej.cole/playlist/0x1W8A39sfNAPE6ETEHIW4

Want to read Hope and Finn's story? Pre-order War Hope. War Series: Book Two.

Foreword

PLEASE READ THIS NOTE:

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. WHILE PTSD IS A VERY REAL CONDITION, THE WAY IN WHICH IT IS represented is fictional. In no instance is the depiction in this book meant to encompass all aspects of the disease, nor is it meant to stereotype anyone who suffers from it. We only hope we were able to provide a representation of what it can do, both to the person who suffers from it and their loved ones. -Stevie and Lauren

Prologue BRANDON

AH, MY HEAD! PAIN RICOCHETS THROUGH MY SKULL. SHIT, I FEEL LIKE I JUST GOT RUN OVER BY A TRUCK. There’s a continuous drip, drip, drip, as rhythmic as a heartbeat as something warm soaks through my jacket and protective vest. I touch a hand to one ringing ear and my fingers come away wet. Fucking brilliant. Busted eardrum. I fight to blink my eyes open, and even through my distorted vision I can make out the blood covering my fingertips. The foxhound is on its side and my CO limply hangs above me, his body held in place by the seat harness. A thick piece of shrapnel is buried in his neck, the blood steadily dripping down on me. My mind numbly assesses the situation with an odd sense of distance, nothing but blood and twisted metal surrounding me. I undo the harness holding me into the seat, groaning as I slowly roll onto my stomach. The second I flip over, glass bites into my forearms, adding to the chorus of pain pulsing throughout every inch of my body. I stare down at the metal window grill. The stench of smoke, diesel fuel, and charred flesh hangs heavy in the air, and I cough, sending the gritty sand beneath the busted window up into my face. Even though I’m disoriented as fuck, that smell sends me into fight mode. I need to move. I need to get out of here. I quickly push up to my hands. Shards of glass embed in my skin, slicing through the meat of my palms, but I barely feel it. I still and listen carefully for the distinctive pop, pop, pop of gunfire, but all I can hear is a low, static buzz—one continuous note ringing through my damaged ear drums. Connor. Where’s Connor? My heart beat picks up. Fear grips me in its clutches, completely over-riding any objections my broken body may have. I crawl over the seat, throwing myself into the back of the foxhound. Connor is sprawled awkwardly in the corner against the back door with his lifeless eyes staring straight at me. His mangled face is covered with burns and blood. My chest heaves and I choke out an anguished sob, but the sound is lost, falling on my own deaf ears because I am all that's left. They're all dead. Connor is dead. My best friend. My brother. I shake him in the desperate hope that my eyes are deceiving me, that this isn’t real. But still, that thousand-yard death stare remains locked on me.

I pull my weight over the seat and then I fall, hitting the back door with a thud. The pain is so intense that my vision blacks out for a second, but I fight through it. Connor needs me. He's not fucking dead. I won't let him die. I roll him onto his back and tear his jacket open before yanking the Velcro straps of his vest away frantically. I lean over him in the cramped space and press both hands to his chest, pushing all my weight down over and over. I keep going until my arms weaken and my damaged body threatens to give out. Nothing. Still, he stares blankly. Dead. Gone. Tears stream down my face as I collapse on my back beside him. Suddenly the smell of smoke and diesel don't seem important. Without him nothing is. Pulling him closer, I cradle his limp body as everything that made me—made us— disintegrates. I cling to him, because the second I let go I must face a world without him. And if I stay here long enough, maybe the vehicle will blow up and I won't have to.

Chapter One POPPY

“Earthquake”- Em Rossi Poppy, I hate writing these fucking letters. It’s depressing. But if you’re reading this, then it means I am actually dead and, well, that sucks. Don't let them play shit music at the funeral, okay? I want to go out in a blaze of glory with all the Catholics looking positively scandalised. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. We’re supposed to grow old together and annoy our kids because we won’t hurry up and die already. I’m destined to be that old fuck who farts at the family dinner but accidentally shits himself. Seriously babe, life goals. I have been in love with you since I was ten years old and you put gum in my hair before hacking a massive bald patch in my scalp with a pair of safety scissors. My ma went mad and shaved my whole head on pure principle. I looked like a right prick. I was still like a love-sick puppy for you though. You had me by the balls and everyone knew it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you when I promised I never would. I can honestly say I have lived with no regrets, until now, until I’m faced with the idea of leaving you. But you won’t be alone. Brandon will always watch out for you because he loves you almost as much as I do. Look after each other and make sure he doesn't drown at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey. Life can be shit, but it's also short and it goes on. The sun will still rise in the east tomorrow and set in the west, so I ask nothing of you except this: don’t die with me. Live. Be happy. Love again because you deserve to experience as much love as this life has to give. I only wish I could have been the one to give it to you. You are my world, my heart. Whatever lays beyond this life, at least I can rest easy knowing that all the best pieces of me are right here, with you. If you just close your eyes, you’ll feel me right there with you. I love you in a

way that transcends life and death. This isn't goodbye, only see you later. Love always, Connor

THIS MUST BE THE HUNDREDTH TIME I’VE READ CONNOR’S GRAVE LETTER. IT’S A STRANGE THING— reading his words and knowing he’s never coming home. It still doesn’t feel real, more like a movie or someone else’s life. But it’s not. At the age of twenty-five, I am a widow. The car hits a pothole, the sudden movement jostling the tears free that have been swimming in my eyes. “Poppy,” Hope rubs her hand over my shoulder. I look up and catch her gaze drift to the letter in my hand. I don’t say anything, just fold the letter up and shove it inside my purse. She trails her hand down my arm before she grabs hold of my hand, lacing her fingers between mine. “I don’t…” she takes a breath. “I don’t know what to do to make this easier for you.” “Nothing.” “I love you, Poppy. Like a sister.” I force a smile as I fiddle with the worn friendship bracelet on my wrist. “I know,” I say. “I love you, too.” Death, though a part of life, is a hard thing to deal with. People on the outside, they feel sorry for you. They want to make it better. But they don’t understand. When you lose someone you love, someone that is a part of your life—everything changes. Your world morphs and reshapes. Darkness. You become shrouded in an impenetrable darkness. Shock and anger ripple through you like rogue waves. And then, eventually, you grow numb. That’s survival instinct kicking in, I believe. Because what person can live with the type of pain death brings? And that’s where I’m at. Trying to survive. Numb… The car rolls to a stop and I take a breath as I peer through the window. Behind the church, the tombstones loom over the landscape. The trees all seem to sag. The sky seems darker. Cemeteries, no matter where they are, are always so sullen. The driver opens the door and Hope climbs out, turning around to lend me her hand. I take it at the same time as I draw in a deep breath. This part…this last bit of the goodbye…it’s always the hardest. I was ten when my mother passed away. Watching them lower her casket into the ground broke me. I cried. I pleaded with God as I buried my face in my father’s suit jacket. When my Nan died, it was Brandon whose shoulder I cried on. And when my father left this earth, I leaned on Connor. And now, every last one of those people are gone. The hinges to the old wooden door groan when Hope pulls it open. The inside of the huge cathedral is dark and cold. Stepping over that threshold is like stepping back in time two-hundred years. The stained glass, the wooden pews, the massive

cast iron chandelier. And there, at the front of the church, sits Connor's casket. My muscles tense. My heart bangs against my ribcage and my steps falter. Hope clutches my arm. "It's okay,” she whispers. “Do you need a minute?" I shake my head because why delay this? It won't bring him back. It won't change a thing. I walk down the aisle toward the front pew, people giving me their condolences along the way. After I've taken my seat, the priest steps toward me and extends his hand. His bright blue eyes seem so sympathetic. “So sorry for your loss, Mrs. Blaine. Connor was a great man of God.” I swallow. I fight those tears because I will not seem weak to these people. Death is a part of life—but this time it has destroyed mine. “Thank you, Father Perry,” I say. And the funeral begins. A series of poems and blessings. All of it a blur until the crowd stands and is directed to the cemetery at the back of the church. I wait until everyone has left before I stand, taking one last glance at the oak box his body rests in. The cold wind howls over the hills. The branches to the oak tree creak and groan. There’s a lull of conversation from the people surrounding the gravesite, and I feel their eyes on me as Hope and I make our way to the graveside. I watch the men in uniform carting the casket on their shoulders. Each of their faces unreadable. Hard. Solemn. Hope grabs my hand again and gives me a tissue. I take it, keeping my eyes trained on the ground right in front of my feet. The harness creaks when they set the coffin in its place. My stomach knots. I close my eyes, fighting to bring back a memory. Any happy memory of Connor. Of Brandon, but in a moment so grief stricken, I fail to find the tiniest sliver of happiness, even in my memory. The priest recites the beginning of that Irish blessing and my heart slowly breaks, my chest burning, my mind becoming crippled. “Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there…I do not sleep. I am the thousand winds that blow…” People toss roses on top of the casket as it is slowly lowered into the earth, and I stand right here, at the edge of Connor’s grave, a red poppy in my hand. Just before the first shovel of dirt rains down on top of the coffin, I throw my poppy into the grave. “I’ll never stop loving you,” I whisper, wiping away the tears as I turn to leave. He's gone... He and I both—casualties of war.

Chapter Two BRANDON

“Friction” – Imagine Dragons 10 MONTHS LATER…

THE NOISE FROM OUTSIDE DRIFTS DOWN THE CORRIDOR TO WHERE I STAND WAITING. THE ROAR OF THE crowd, their cries echo from the concrete walls of the basement to this shitty pub. Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the ring, the one, the only, Brandon ‘The Breaker’ Blaine! That’s my cue, and every time I hear it, it hits me in the chest. I can’t fight under my real name. Brandon O’Kieffe died in Afghanistan alongside his best friend, Connor Blaine. The Breaker Blaine isn't real. He doesn’t exist. And that's the twisted irony of it, because I shouldn’t exist. And he should, because this world is a cold and bitter place without him. I walk through the doorway into the room filled with drunks and gamblers. They shout and wave handfuls of cash through the air. This is the dark and dirty under belly of London, where the corrupt and nameless come to trade punches, to draw blood and purge themselves of their demons. The crowd chants over and over: Breaker, Breaker, Breaker. I ignore it. I ignore them as I duck through the ropes into the ring, which is nothing more than a pitiful square of bloodstained concrete. These people love their fighting. They long for the blood, like sharks circling in the water. My opponent is some blond, tatted up guy from the north—I’ve forgotten his name already. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he punches the air with his fist, lapping up the cheers from the crowd. I, on the other hand, stand still, arms loose at my sides while I wait for the bell to sound. This moment right here is all I have any more. It’s all I’m good at. And I both love and hate it as a result. I tune out the shouting and screaming, the commentators voice crackling over the microphone—everything, until all I can hear are my steady breaths, the slow thump, thump, thump of my heart beating in

my chest. I zone out anything that isn’t me and him, because in this moment, that’s all that matters. Right now, nothing outside of this ring exists, and that makes it a strange kind of salvation. The bell dings and he comes at me like a train, swinging twice. I duck, weaving and bobbing before throwing a right hook at him. My fist makes impact with his cheek with a loud smack. He recoils and staggers back a few steps. For a second, I think he might remain on his feet, but then he goes down like a sack of shit. And he stays down. The room explodes, and the commentator steps toward me, reaching for my arm. Ignoring him, I turn and walk straight out of the ring, through the door I came in, and into the storage room that serves as a makeshift changing area. Like I said, I love it and I hate it. The power in the moment of a win is always overshadowed by the shame I feel afterwards, the rage that I can't control even though it's as familiar to me as an old friend nowadays. I was supposed to be better than this. I was supposed to be more. Now I’m just a guy with no name, dragged back into the pit that Connor helped me claw my way out of. He'd be disappointed... I’m unwrapping the bandages from my hands when Larry comes into the room, slamming the door behind him. He’s a big guy. An American Vietnam War vet with a thick southern accent and a build that would put a brick shit-house to shame. Ink covers every visible inch of skin. My favorite of all his tattoos: the topless hula girl smoking a joint on his right forearm. At one time in his life, Larry was a boxer, which, I guess, is why he owns this place. The bar, the fight ring—all of it. I stumbled in here one day looking for some whiskey and a fight. I fucking got it alright. Just so happened Kyan and Finn, both Larry’s fighters, were sitting at the bar that night. It didn't take much. One cross look and wham. I knocked Kyan's smartass right off the stool. Even though there were two of them, I still fucking won. Instead of kicking me out or having me arrested, Larry welcomed me into the fold. He said he could see the war still raging in my eyes like I never left it. And he'd be fucking right. I try to keep to myself for the most part. Come in, throw a few punches, and leave. I don't want or need friends. I just need the cash in hand these fights earn me. Larry though...well, he's hard to ignore, and he kind of grows on you...like a fungus. “You gotta give the crowd a fight!” he says, pulling up a chair and sitting backwards, resting his thick arms along the back. “I fought didn’t I?” I take off my shorts and pull on a pair of jeans. “That ain’t no fight." His glass eye has gone a little crooked and it's making it hard for me to take him seriously. "It's a fuckin’ massacre. A beautiful fuckin’ massacre.” He laughs. I yank a hoody over my head and stuff my fight gear back inside my bag. “I'm not here for a show, Larry. I'm here for the money," I say, tossing my bag over my shoulder. I guess you could say Larry takes in people like him: veterans, tormented by their own memories. He takes them in, then puts them in that ring. Lines their pockets and his own. It's a win-win, and no one fights like a man wrapped up in his

own personal war. “Get your panties out of a wad, you miserable fuck," he says. Shrugging, I turn my back to him and head out of the room. "You should go drinkin'," Larry calls after me. "Go on out there and grab yourself a lady friend. Something. Every winner has to celebrate. And you won, boy." No, I lost, a long time ago.

Chapter Three POPPY

“Breathe (2AM)” – Anna Nalick THE MIDDAY SUN HIDES BEHIND THE THICK GRAY CLOUDS. A SEAGULL FLIES OVERHEAD, GLIDING ON THE breeze that’s coming off the Channel. I lean against the metal railing of the ferry, clutching my steaming coffee in my hands as my gaze drops to the water. I fall into a daze as I watch the frothy foam ripple around the sides of the boat. It's been years since I've been on this ferry heading to England. The last time I was in London, I was with both Connor and Brandon... A man bumps into me, mumbling in a foreign language as he smiles, tipping his hat at me. I can just make out the rocky, grey Port of Holyhead. Five hours or so and I’ll be in London, looking for Brandon. My phone rings and I pull it from my purse. Hope's name flashes on the screen, but I send the call to voicemail. Before I manage to slip the phone back in my purse, she's texting me. Where are you? Poppy! I just went by your house and there's an eviction notice. Call me back or I'll have the MI5 after your arse! I should answer her calls or text her back, but I can't exactly explain the place I'm in right now. Had I told Hope, she would have found some way to stop me. Long ago. But sometimes in life, we all just need to run away. And that is exactly what Brandon did. Ten months. It's taken ten months for me to find him. Not a week after Connor's death, I received a phone call from the military. "Any contact with Mr. O'Kieffe?" "Do you know where he may be?" "You'll call us immediately if there is any communication?"

AWOL. A deserter. Brandon left Connor in that desert. In that crumpled Foxhound. He ran. I spent weeks bouncing between anger at the situation and relief that he was still alive. I worried about where he was. How he was. The thing is, throughout my life, as I have lost every bit of family I've had, Connor and Brandon were my constants. They were the first friends I made when my father moved us to Ireland from America. They are all I've ever known about love. And what price can you really put on love? A hundred thousand pounds—all of Connor's life insurance—that was the price. A foreclosed house. A repossessed car. All I have left to my name is what's in this suitcase and a thousand pounds in the bank. But I was determined to find him. I've only known since yesterday where he is. When the PI called me with the information, I immediately packed my bags and left. I'm not sure what I'll say to him. Or what I'll do. All I know, is that I need him. And he must—he must need me. After all, we are all each other has now. THE BARKEEP SLIDES MY ALE ACROSS THE COUNTER. I GRAB IT, IMMEDIATELY TAKING A SWIG. MY PALMS are slicked with sweat, my stomach in knots. He's here somewhere. I'm on edge glancing around at all the empty faces, hoping to spot Brandon's familiar face within this drunken crowd. "My money's on Breaker," some old pikey slurs as he slaps a very plump man on the back. "Ah, of course it is." He whistles at one of the women behind the bar. "Boy ain't lost a fight yet." Brandon "The Breaker" Blaine. He took Connor's last name. I’m not surprised by any of this really. It’s home to him. He was raised a gypsy, and bare knuckle fighting is like a rite of passage for them. He’s right back down to the bottom of the barrel Connor dragged him out of. And I want to sink right along with him…I lift my beer and take a heavy gulp, watching the two men as they round the corner of the bar. There's a crazy looking man behind the counter, gray ponytail, tattoos all up and down his arm. I strain to hear the three men's conversation. "Here for the fight, Larry," they say, as they hand him some cash. The man, Larry, nods, smiling as he lifts the rope blocking an inconspicuous walkway between the bar and the hallway. He opens a door and the two men disappear behind it. I down the rest of my drink, place the glass on the bar top, and make my way to the side of the counter where Larry is drying a few mugs. Clearing my throat, I slide a crisp twenty pound note across the bar top. "I'm here for the fight." The old man chuckles as he lifts his eyes to mine. "Don't know what you're on about, darlin'." His thick American accent seems so out of place here. He smiles. He must take me for an idiot because I can hear the shouting from the top of the

stairwell. He passes the money back across the counter. "Go on now and drink your beer, would you?" "I said"—I shove the money back toward him. "I'm here for the fight." I arch a brow, and he grins as he picks the money up and shoves it in his pocket. "A little thing like you don't need to be down there with all them sweaty men." He leans against the counter, studying me. "Awful bloody." He grimaces and shakes his head. "I don't care." Shrugging, he walks to the end of the bar and lifts the rope, motioning me through. "Don't complain if you get blood on your pretty dress there." I ignore him and open the door to the basement. The stale scent of cigarettes, beer, sweat and piss nearly knocks my feet out from underneath me by the time I get to the third step. Shouting and clapping echoes up the narrow stairwell, followed by the dull smacking noise of skin hitting skin. I cringe and pause on the last step. The doorway is to my left. It's dark enough that I can't see anything past the group of men loitering at the bottom of the stairs. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and step down, grabbing the door frame as I make my way into the dingy underbelly of the pub. This stuffy room is filled with men. Mostly in dirty undershirts, cigarettes hanging limply from their thin lips. Pints of ale are raised in the air, beer sloshing over the rims. The shouting is a continuous roar. Men yelling: "Knock 'is teeth down, 'is throat, champ." "Kick 'em in the nuts." A spotlight is aimed at the back of the room, and over the crowd, I can barely see two heads bobbing up and down, circling what I assume is some makeshift ring. After shoving my way through the mass of people, I stop and stand on my tiptoes. Someone behind me stumbles and knocks me into the man in front of me. He turns around with his fist raised, ready to fight, until his eyes drop to me, then a gross smile spreads across his thin lips. "Ain't you a pretty one?" I swallow and lift back on my toes as I attempt to see around him. "Wanna see, sweet’art?" he asks as he moves to the side and motions me in front of him. "Oh, uh..." I glance at him as I shuffle ahead of him, praying he doesn't grab my ass. "Thank you." "Anytime, sweet’art. Anytime." I turn to face the ring and my heart holds back several beats before going into a full-on sprint. Because that is Brandon circling the ring. His brown hair is a sweaty mess and he's covered in blood, his fists raised in front of his face, ready to strike at any moment. Even from here, I can see those green eyes of his as he stares his opponent down. My vision blurs behind tears, my chest growing tight, and then, just like that, a jolt of anger fires through me like an electrical shock. A quick smile flinches over his lips and he throws a punch, leaving the other guy dazed for a moment before he falls flat on his face. The men in the room go crazy, shouting and yelling. Women whistle. The man behind me spills his beer on me. I hear him

apologize, but I don't respond because I'm staring at Brandon. The longer I watch him, the stronger the anger simmering inside of me grows. He glances over the crowd, a cocky smirk set on his lips and his eyes lock with mine for a fleeting moment and he freezes. He sees me. I know he does. And then...he turns his back to me and walks off, like I don't even exist.

Chapter Four BRANDON

“Sucker for Pain” – Lil’ Wayne and Wiz Khalifa HIS HEAVY FIST COLLIDES WITH MY JAW AND I SMILE, RELISHING IN THE PAIN THAT EXPLODES ACROSS MY face. Spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor, I slowly lift my gaze to my opponent. Sweat trickles down his brow as he bounces on the balls of his feet. He grins at the cheering crowd before he comes at me again, and my temper rises with each clumsy step he takes. He lunges, but I'm all out of patience. I duck, then drive my fist into the side of his head. And he goes down hard, his head cracking against the bloodstained concrete. The crowd roars. I close my eyes, my chest heaving as I stand here attempting to chain the rage pulsing through every muscle. When I open my eyes, I turn towards the ropes, ready to climb out of the ring. And there, in the middle of all the burly men, stands a woman. Her dress is far too nice to be in The Pit, and she sticks out like a sore thumb. I hesitate as my gaze glides over her petite, curvy frame that must look phenomenal naked. Long, chocolate waves of hair spill over her shoulders, and when I finally meet her face, I freeze. Poppy. Poppy is here. Her face fades white, like she's just seen a ghost. And, in a sense, she has. My chest seizes and my heart sputters, the severed fragments of it pitifully attempting to pull themselves together. Those grey eyes of hers lock with mine and a thousand memories flash through my mind—every single one revolving around Connor. And that hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. She might as well have doused me in petrol and set me on fire because I don't want this. I don't want any of it. Someone moves in front of me, blocking my view of her, and I drag in a lungful of air as if rising from the depths of a very deep, very dark black hole. I throw myself between the ropes and shoulder through the packed room until I'm pushing open the door that leads to the hallway. The door closes, muting the roar of the crowd. The only sound now is the frantic pounding of my pulse against my eardrums. I brace my back against the wall and drag my hand through my hair. How the fuck did she find me?

The metal door suddenly flies open and bangs against the concrete wall. I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, trying to avoid this inevitable train wreck. "Brandon Patrick O’Kieffe!" Her voice echoes down the corridor, and I hiss a breath through my teeth. I lean my head against the wall, close my eyes, and inhale. I can't do this with her. Her heels click over the concrete floor, stopping right in front of me. That familiar, sweet floral scent of her perfume almost brings me to my knees. I don't look at her. I pretend that if I stay just like this, maybe she'll go away. There's only so much I can handle. And that list is pretty much limited to fighting, fucking, and drinking. "Brandon!" She pokes me in the chest and I react instinctively, swiping her hand away from me. My eyes flash open and I meet her startled gaze. "You..." She takes a deep breath, and the next thing I know, her palm meets my cheek, the clap bouncing off the walls and leaving a sting. "I thought you were dead!" "Well, I'm not." I keep my voice low and fix my gaze on the wall behind her, just above her head. "Why wouldn't you have called me…let me know you were okay? Why, Brandon?" Why? It's such a simple question, and yet, it has no answer because I don't have a good reason, only that I didn't want this. I didn't want to see her. "You should go, Poppy," I say coldly, feigning the indifference I wish I felt, but the truth is: every second that I stand here with her feels like a sick form of torture. "I'm not leaving," she whispers. I don't say anything. Just keep my chin to my chest, rubbing my palm over my stinging cheek. Poppy grabs my face. "Look at me," she says, hatred oozing from her tone. "Fucking look at me." And I do. Dark circles, that look permanently etched into her skin, linger below her eyes. Her face has sunken with weight loss and her hair is dull. It's as though everything that made Poppy, Poppy, has withered and died, faded away. Connor would be rolling in his fucking grave. I promised him, should anything ever happen to him, that I would take care of her, but I can't even take care of myself. The guy that made that promise to him—well, he's long gone. Poppy’s eyes swell with tears. "Why would you hurt me like that?” she says. “I lost him. I lost him..." And she breaks down. Those tears spill down her porcelain skin. Her red lips tremble as she fights back a sob. "You left me when I had no one else. And I knew it..." She shakes her head. "I could feel you were alive, and had I not looked for you.” She takes a quick breath and her eyes suddenly flash with anger. “People die of a broken heart all the time, you know, Brandon? They do and my heart is fucking slaughtered." Guilt consumes me, but I can't hate myself any more than I already do. If I were a better person I would shoulder her grief, but the fact is, I lost him. And I can't see past my own grief. It's too big, too all consuming. I'm drowning in it, slowly

crumbling under the weight of it, so I can't shoulder hers too. She grabs my chin and jerks it up, forcing me to look at her again. "Say,” her grip tightens, her eyes blazing, “something to me!" "You shouldn't have come," I say, as I step around her and open the door into the shitty storeroom to retrieve my clothes. "What? I shouldn't have..." Her heels stomp over the floor. She grabs onto my shoulder, but I don’t budge. I keep my back to her as I shove my shorts down my thighs. "Whatever it is you came here looking for,” I shrug, “you aren't going to find it." “Brandon, I need to know what happened." I stiffen and take a deep breath, holding it before I slowly release it. "He died. I didn't." And isn't that the shitty truth of my existence...summed up in four words? "Why did you leave him?" she breathes. "I..." The words stick in my throat, and I want to fucking shout. I want to punch something until my knuckles rip open and bleed, and then, I want to drown myself in whiskey in an attempt to turn my mind off for just one fucking second. "He was dead," I say on a strangled breath. "And I left him because there was nothing fucking left. Just bodies." I pull on my tracksuit bottoms and whirl around to face her. "I'm sorry about Connor." "Sorry?" Her voice cracks. "That's all I get? Sorry?" Her eyes fall to the floor and she fidgets with a loose string on her dress. "Then why did you leave me?" "I can't look back. Like I said, there's nothing left but bodies." Frowning, she takes my hand and rubs her thumb over my sore knuckles, and I notice the tattered friendship bracelet still tied around her wrist. "No, I'm still here." "Well, I'm not." I offer her a small smile and pull away. She needs to know I'm not her fucking salvation. This isn't the part where we help each other. No one can help me. I shoulder my bag and walk through the door without a backward glance. Running. Always running. WHY THE FUCK DID SHE HAVE TO TURN UP HERE? SO, WHAT? NOW SHE KNOWS I'M ALIVE AND SHE KNOWS what a fucked-up son of a bitch I am. How does that help anyone, least of all her? If I'm honest with myself, I've thought about contacting her a thousand times, but I just couldn't do it. I couldn't bear to see my pain reflected in hers. I knew I wouldn't be able to look at her without seeing everything that we’ve lost. And, I know in doing so, I let Connor down in the worst way because he loved that girl more than life itself. Smiling, I remember that first time we ever saw her. Even at the age of ten, Poppy was already Poppy. That girl you just couldn't ignore no matter how hard you tried. Conner and I are sitting on the playground playing pogs, and I'm kicking his arse. I flatten his stack and look up, a smug grin plastered all over my face, but he

isn't even looking at me. He's staring across the playground at the jungle gym. I follow his gaze to a girl with brown hair sitting on her own. "She looks sad," he says. "So." I shrug. "I beat you." I turn back to him. He gets that frown on his face and I sigh, because I know he's going to go over there and talk to the girl. "Connor, we have ten minutes of playtime left," I groan, looking at my batman watch. He rolls his eyes, gets up, and walks past me. I scowl at his back as he goes over to the girl and sits down next to her. Gross. I don't want to play with girls. With a huff, I get up and follow him, scuffing my shoes on the tarmac as I do. Her hair falls out of her ponytail when she looks up at me. "I'm Poppy," she says in a weird accent, blowing a bubble with her gum. "You're not allowed gum in school," I say. I want gum. Connor punches me in the arm. "Leave her alone, Bran." She smiles at him and his cheeks turn bright pink. "You can have my gum,” she says shyly as she takes it out of her mouth. "You have to put it behind your ear for later." She tucks it behind his ear and he blushes even more, grinning at her as she jumps up and skips away. "You have girl germs. Gross." I start making fake heaving noises and pretending to be sick, but he ignores me.

I LAUGH WHEN I THINK ABOUT HOW THAT BIT OF GUM GOT STUCK IN HIS HAIR. HE MANAGED TO HIDE IT from his mum for two days until Poppy finally convinced him to let her cut it out. That bald patch she left him with made it look like he'd lost a fight with a lawn mower. His mum shaved all his hair off and grounded him. I was so pissed I'd lost my playmate, but of course he was love sick for her. And that was how he stayed, completely and utterly in love with Poppy Turner until the day he died. I go upstairs and into the pub, taking a seat at the old mahogany bar. The entire place smells of smoke because, despite the smoking ban, no one in here gives a shit. The booze is cheap and the women even more so, but I don't care. All I need in life is to drown everything out and bury my dick down some girl's throat. Whiskey and pussy are old friends, ones I can rely on. Lou, Larry's wife, slams her palm down on the bar in front of me. She's in her mid-forties with bleach blonde hair and tits so big she actually rests them on the bar. She's all of five foot two, but she scares the fuck out of me. "You win, again?" she asks, already pouring whiskey into a glass for me. I snort. "I always win." Her lips kick up on one side. "Sweetheart, just you wait 'til my Zac gets home. He'll put you on your arse." I down the cheap whiskey, sucking a breath through my teeth as it burns its way down my throat. "He's welcome to try." Lou throws her head back on a cackle, swatting at me with her dirty bar-rag before she tops off my glass and struts away to serve another customer.

A hand clasps my shoulder. "Damn woman is like a fine wine," Larry says with a grunt. "Gets better with age. You just think these young women know what they’re doing. But boy, you just wait 'til you hit forty or so. Women get freaky as a pack of hyenas jacked up on some Mexican black tar heroin." He shakes his head. "And don't ever go trying that shit. Knock you out of your gourd and have you riding a donkey out in the middle of the desert..." Larry's the craziest bastard I've ever come across. I rub my hand over my face, trying to bleach that mental image from my mind. What the fuck do I even say to that? "She uh...she's a keeper." "Damn skippy she is. Was enough to move my ass from Mississippi to London. Bring me back to the motherland." He chuckles as I down my drink and flag Lou for another one. "Hell," Larry says, eyeing the empty glass in my hand. "What's got you drinking like a goddamn one-flippered goldfish?" "You told me to fucking drink." I raise my glass. "Here I am." "Nah." He rubs at his glass eye, poking it and rolling it around in his socket. "Got some shit in my damn eye hole." He shakes his head. "Something's itching your butt. What is it, boy? I reckon it's got something to do with that pretty girl that followed you out after your fight. You ain't done gone and got her knocked up, have you?" "No." I frown, staring at my empty glass on the bar. Lou places two drinks on the counter. One for me. One for Larry. "Well, she's got some nice titties." He cups a pair of fake breasts. "She's like my fucking sister," I say, disgust lacing my voice. Larry shrugs. "Hell, where I came from, girls like that, didn't matter if they were your sister." A perverted grin slinks across his face as he slaps me on the back. "She's Connor's widow," I whisper. Even breathing his name hurts, like a knife being wedged right in the centre of my chest. Larry knows all about Connor. Kyan, Finn, Larry, me...we're all ex-military. All running, still fighting a war we wish we'd never fucking signed up for. I don't like to talk about it, but they understand. They've all seen shit, lost friends, lost part of what essentially makes us human. Larry says a man must sacrifice part of himself to survive war. I think he must have sacrificed his sanity because he's batshit crazy. "Aw, hell." He hitches his pants back under his gut. "How the shitfire did she find you?" I shake my head. "I don't know, but now she's fucking here and I really wish she wasn't." "God bless the little thing. Don't go being an ass to her. She's most likely just as lost as you are, boy." He glances around the ratty bar. "Where'd she go off to?" "Don't know." I shrug and take a gulp of whiskey. "Don't care. Whatever she came looking for, it's long fucking gone." A heavy sigh slips through Larry's lips before he downs his glass of bourbon. There's a girl at the end of the bar shamelessly staring at me. Small waist, big tits, a tonne of cleavage, and bleach-blonde hair. She's the kind of girl you only have to

look at to get her on her back, and it's just what I need. Larry follows my gaze. He lets out a chuckle which turns into a hacking cough. He pats me on the shoulder as he stands and finds his way behind the bar, walking over to Lou and groping all over her.

SIX GLASSES OF WHISKEY LATER, AND THE GUILT IS GONE. EVERYTHING IS GONE. I'M BLISSFULLY NUMB AS my vision blurs in and out. Blondie is hanging off my arm, her lips leaving a trail of bright red lipstick down my neck as she tries to kiss me. I sit on the bar stool and let her grind all over me, her hips moving in time with the music coming from the jukebox. Damn, anyone would think the girl is being paid for it. "Wanna get outta here?" she purrs against my ear before scraping her teeth over my earlobe. My eyes drop to her chest that’s bursting out of her top. "Sure." She giggles and clings to my arm as we walk to the exit. The world starts to spin and I brace my shoulder against the doorway before I step out onto the street. Blondie takes my hand, dragging me down the alley that runs alongside the bar. She shoves my shoulder and I stagger back against the wall, the shadows swallowing us as she slams her lips against mine. She tastes of cheap wine and cigarette smoke. I push her away from me, but she just goes for my neck, so I decide to yank her top down and palm her fake tits. Moaning, she paws at my belt buckle like the holy-fucking-grail is hidden in my jeans. This chick is on her knees before I can blink, her fingers yanking at my boxers right before her lips wrap around my dick. There's something to be said for easy girls: they aren't scared to suck dick.

Chapter Five POPPY

“Muddy Waters” - LP THE WIND KICKS UP, THE SUDDEN CHILL SENDING A SHIVER DOWN MY SPINE. I PULL MY COAT CLOSER together and warm my hands with my breath. It's been nearly two hours since I left that pub. And if I had to bet, by now, Brandon is probably slobbering drunk. I'm just waiting for him to come stumbling out of the pub door. I should just go in there, but I know Brandon, and if I want to get my way with him, I need him pissfaced drunk. The street is nearly deserted, with the exception of the old men hanging out by the front of the pub, smoking and making cat-calls to any girl that passes by. Why am I doing this? What do I expect to get out of this? To talk some sense into him because I need something, someone. He needs someone. Connor would want us to lean on each other. He would. And I refuse to let Brandon piss his life away like this, fighting in filthy bars and probably drowning himself in whiskey every night. The thing is. I love Brandon, and whether he wants to admit it or not, we've been bound to one another since we were kids. Knowing he's alive, well, I can't just leave him. I'm not the kind of person who will abandon someone. That's the one thing Connor always taught me—us. And I swear, I can almost hear his voice reciting the saying he said a million times: "A friend is someone who understands your past, accepts you for all your wrongs, and who carries you when no one else will.” I'm lost in my thoughts when I hear the noise from inside the pub spill out onto the street. I glance up just before the door to the bar swings shut. Brandon's stumbling around outside the pub, a giggling woman clutching his arm. I roll my eyes. Of course, she'd be a blonde. I stand and they disappear down an alleyway, her annoying laughter bouncing off the walls of the buildings. Rolling my eyes, I cinch my coat as I check that the street is free of traffic, and I sprint across the road, straight to that alley. I can barely make them out in the shadows, and I stop when I hear Brandon groan. "Shit, baby," he says, and I cringe. Inhaling a deep breath, I push my

shoulders back and walk right down the alley, stopping behind the blonde on her knees in front of him. "Really?" I cross my arms over my chest and cock my hip out. The girl’s head stops bobbing and she glares over her shoulder at me. Brandon fists her fried hair, pulling her back to the job at hand. "I'm busy," he says, cocking a brow and smirking. "So I can see." "You're welcome to watch, but Connor would probably beat my arse for it." He laughs. Heat flames my cheeks. My jaw tenses. That was low, even for shitfaced Brandon O’Kieffe. I want to punch him, but instead, I clear my throat and wait. "I guess since getting the shit beat out of your face isn't enough, getting AIDS or fucking herpes from this skag sounds like a good idea to you?” The girl pulls away from him and pushes to her feet, turning to face me. She carefully wipes the corners of her mouth as she approaches me. She raises her hand to slap me, but Brandon catches her by the wrist and shoves her to the side. "You can go," he dismisses her, and she flashes me a nasty glare before spinning on her heel and stomping away. "Brandon," I sigh, "put it away." He laughs. "I still have a dick that needs sucking. You chased off my willing volunteer." Groaning, I grab him by the ear, twisting it between my fingers. "Put it away." "Ow, fucking shit..." He hastily adjusts himself, zipping his jeans. "You smell like whiskey and piss," I say when I release his ear. "It's the smell of man," he slurs. "Man?" I stifle a laugh because I'm angry with him and I don't want his drunken brain to think anything other than that. "It's a stench, alright.” He trips over his feet, slamming into the wall. I grab him and steady him. "Come on," I say, walking toward my car. "I'm taking you home, you drunk rat." "Yeah, yeah." He swats his hand through the air. “Just ruin all my fucking fun.” BRANDON FUMBLES WITH THE KEYS, DROPPING THEM SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE I SNATCH THEM AWAY FROM him and shove them into the lock. The moment the door opens, he tumbles into the room, walking the few short steps it takes him to get to the sofa before he falls face first onto it. His arm hangs over the edge of the cushions, his fingers brushing the dirty carpet. I flip the switch. My jaw drops when I glance around at his living room. There must be about ten empty bottles of whiskey lying around. Crushed beer cans. Pizza boxes with half eaten crust tossed inside. And there, on the shitty excuse for an end table, is a glass bowl full of charred weed. Tossing my head back, I sigh. "What in the hell, Brandon?" I say beneath my breath. He was always the neat one, borderline obsessive-compulsive with cleanliness.

How he's able to live in this—I look around again, my eyes landing on the punching bag hanging in the corner of the room. I walk toward it and poke at it with a finger. It doesn't budge. The white material is tattered and torn, splits covered with silver duct tape. And the blood—dried blood covers the damn thing. Brandon...I find myself shaking my head when I turn back to his near unconscious body sprawled out on the ratty couch. "Oh, fuck." He doesn't move, but I can hear his stomach churning from here. Abruptly, he sits up and falls to the floor. "Fuck," he moans again as he starts to slowly crawl across the floor. "Where are you going?" I chase after him, leaning down to try and get him to his feet, but he swats me away. He makes his way to a tiny bathroom off the hall and uses the doorframe to hoist himself up. He wavers and staggers, his hand covering his mouth as he hurls himself inside and slams the door. The next thing I hear is violent heaving and coughing followed by a string of profanities. And here I stand, in his hallway, as the smell of stomach bile and whiskey float out from beneath the door. The awful retching noise falls silent. The toilet flushes and the door swings open. Brandon stands in the doorway, eyes bloodshot, face flushed. He rolls his eyes, grunts, and then stumbles down the hall to another room. "Brandon..." Again, he swats his hand through the air and grunts. I follow him into the bedroom. He yanks his shirt over his head, tosses it to the floor, then flops down on his back on the rickety mattress. "I'm fine," he manages. "Yeah, I just..." I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers through his thick hair. I’ve missed him so much. "I just. I'm glad to see you. No matter how pissed I am at you, I couldn't be happier that you're alive." "And I didn't—" he hiccups—"didn't mean it," he says cryptically. "I know." "You always know, possum." And here go the tears. I turn away from him to wipe them from my face. "You still hate me calling you that?" He swats at my hair. I shrug. "Always hated it, which is why I called you that...I…" And now he's snoring. Out cold. I stare at him through the dark, watching his back rise and fall in deep swells. His face is bruised, his bottom lip split from the fight. And I know, as I glance around this room, he's broken. He's hurt. And the one thing about Brandon: he was always out at the first thought of getting hurt. I guess this is no different. Connor was his brother, not by blood, but by choice, and if you really think about it, that has to mean more. They chose to carry each other. "Possum," he grumbles through a jagged breath, still asleep. I can’t help but to close my eyes and remember the first time he called me that:

My eyes are trained on my bloody knee. Brandon stops walking for a second and takes a breath. "How much do you weigh anyway? Dear God," he says, adjusting me on his back. "I'm gonna have to carry you the rest of the way home, aren't I?" I sniffle in response and he sighs. "Fine, but I told you, you were going too fast. You can't keep up with those big kids." "They made fun of me." "I know, I know." I wiggle my leg, trying to make that stinging feeling go away and Brandon shakes his head. "I'm gonna have blood all over me," he huffs. "Should have let Connor carry me then," I say. "Oh, he'd just drop you halfway up the hill. He's too fat." Brandon's winded and it makes me giggle. "What are you laughing at?" "You probably look so silly with me on your back." "Yeah, just like a possum, aye?" He chuckles. "That's what I'm calling you from now on. Possum." I wrinkle my nose. "Why? Those little beasts are so ugly." "Ah, nah. They're well cute. Just like you—" He stops midsentence and I feel my cheeks blush. Brandon O’Kieffe just called me cute. It shouldn't bother me, but, for some reason, it does. It makes me proud or happy or...something. "You're just like one of 'em, hanging on my back for dear life." He laughs again. "Guys. Wait up..." Connor shouts from the bottom of the hill, already out of breath. "Wait up..." Brandon jerks in his sleep, startling me and bringing me back to the present. His breathing has grown rapid, uneven. His forehead is dotted with sweat. He throws his arm across the bed again and groans, and that's when I see the crumpled photograph, the edge stained with what looks like blood. My heart rate kicks up and I swallow around the lump that has now formed in my throat. Leaning over Brandon, I grab the picture, my hands already shaking. There's a dark green tank, Brandon is sitting on the hood and Connor’s against the side, an AK-47 saddled on his hip. My heart tears right in two, the sight of the two of them at war destroying me all over again. All I can think about is how badly Connor must have suffered. What it must have felt like to have your life come to such a brutal end doing the one thing you loved. And then, I wonder what that must have done to Brandon because, unlike me, he doesn't have to wonder what it was like. He doesn't have the luxury of protecting himself from the grim details because he lived that.

Chapter Six BRANDON

“Hold Me Down”- Halsey I'M STARING DOWN THE SCOPE OF MY RIFLE, AND DESPITE NEEDING TO SLOW MY HEART RATE TO GET THE shot, it slams against my ribs like a freight train hammering along the tracks. My arm shakes slightly. I still when I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Breathe, Bran. Just take a breath," Connor says. "I can't do this." I say, meeting his deep brown eyes, so steady, so calm. "This is war, Bran. Those guys—" he points towards the derelict factory building that our unit is surrounding, "they will kill hundreds, if not thousands. They would blow up kids in the name of their cause. This is war, and in war, there are always casualties. This doesn't make you a monster." And it really is that simple to him, right and wrong, good and bad. So, I pick my rifle up, stare down the sights, and I pull the trigger, watching as the bullet tears a hole straight through the chest of the elderly woman that the enemy is using as a body shield. I was aiming for her shoulder. I didn't want to kill her, but I did and that does make me a monster. I just lost a little bit of my soul. I jolt awake, pitching upright and dragging a gasping breath into my lungs. The sheets beneath me, as they are every night, are drenched with sweat. Something brushes my arm, and I instinctively lash out, slamming my palm against something warm and soft. When my mind finally blinks back into focus, I'm on my knees, hovering over Poppy's small body with my forearm pressed over her throat, pinning her, choking her. She stares up at me, her eyes wide as her bottom lip trembles. This is not war. She is not the enemy...reality sets in and I panic, scrambling away from her to the edge of the bed. I sit up and turn my back to her as I drag a hand through my hair and try to force my heart rate to slow. She shouldn't be here, let alone in my bed. When did that even happen? I can't help but think of Connor. He was always the good one. He married Poppy when they were only twenty-one and only ever slept with one girl until the day he died. He loved that girl the way you see in fucking movies. Me on the other hand—I was the bad boy, the train wreck, and the pair of them

were all that kept me on the tracks moving forward. I'm nothing more than burning wreckage now, and Poppy is standing far too close to the flames. I didn't fucking ask her to, though. I told her to leave. Pushing to my feet, I throw a glance at her over my shoulder. "You need to go," I say through clenched teeth. I'm angry at myself. I'm angry at her. I'm angry at the whole world for fucking me in the arse so damn hard. "Brandon, I—" "Fucking go, Poppy!" I roar, barely holding on to any semblance of control. I hear the springs to the mattress creak when she stands. "I'm not leaving. Connor told me to look after you, damn it." I squeeze my eyes shut and release a ragged breath as I swallow around the lump in my throat. "You can't carry me, Poppy. I can't look at you," I whisper. "I look at you, and all I see is him." Her chin drops to her chest and she fidgets with the hem of her shirt. "And when I look at you, all I see is him, too, but I don't want to let that go. I can feel him when I'm with you..." "He's fucking dead. I've let go. So should you." I get up and walk out of the room, everything in me crumbling. Connor would hate me for this. Hurting Poppy is the only thing I could possibly do that would make Connor hate me. "Fuck you, Brandon O’Kieffe," she shouts, her voice shaking. A few seconds later, I hear her break down into sobs. I can't take this shit, her grief, mine, the guilt, the fucking tragedy of it all. I need a drink. And I'm practically running for the kitchen, tearing the cabinet open. I grab the bottle of whiskey and press it to my lips, swallowing gulp after gulp, finding relief as the hot liquid burns its way down my throat and settles in my stomach. Poppy storms into the kitchen after me. I don't pay her any mind, just keep drinking and watching the bubbles float their way up the neck of the bottle. "You can be as mean as you want," she says, as she snatches the bottle from me. Liquid spills all over the front of my shirt, some splashes to the floor. "But I'm not going anywhere." I go to grab the bottle from her, and she smashes it against the wall. Glass goes everywhere. Whiskey's running down the damn wall. That anger begins to bubble beneath the surface and I snap, charging her and backing her into the whiskey soaked wall. Glass cracks beneath my bare feet, cutting into my skin, but I relish in it. Pain is the only thing that reminds me I'm alive. Her delicate breaths blow across my face. Those stormy grey eyes lock with mine, so damn innocent and good. "What the hell do you want from me?" I shout. She stands stock still, her arms rigid at her sides. "You want me to fucking save you, huh, Poppy?" I laugh as my grip on her shoulders tighten. Her eyes flutter shut, tears collecting on her lash line. "No,” she says. “I think I'm the one who needs to save you."

"I don't need saving, poss." I smirk. "The devil looks after his own, and I'm far beyond redemption." I let go of her and take a step back, leaning against the counter. I just want her to leave. Her being here is too painful. Too real. Too much. I've accepted my fate, paying my way with dirty fights and losing myself in fast pussy and booze. I'd almost convinced myself that Connor never existed, that everything before this right here was nothing more than a dream. Almost… She stares at me as she rubs over the red marks my hold left on her arm. "Then take me down with you," she screams, breaking and sliding down the wall to the floor. Glass crunches beneath her and she buries her face in her tiny hands. The diamond on her wedding ring glints in the light, and that's like another goddamn knife in my heart because she hasn't let him go. Not one bit. "You're all I have, Brandon." She chokes back a sob. "So if you want to drink yourself to death, push me away, whatever it is you want to do—that's fine. But I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere." I fall against the wall, dropping down next to her, and we sit wordlessly, allowing all the pain and the heartbreak to swirl between us. She leans her head against my shoulder and cries, her small body shaking. They say the people who are left behind are the ones who suffer the most when it comes to death and ain't that the truth? I'd give anything to swap places with him. Anything. Poppy didn't deserve this, and now, I'm all she has. If there is a god, he has a sick sense of humour.

Chapter Seven POPPY

“The Real You” – Three Days Grace THE MORNING SUN FILTERS THROUGH THE SINGLE, ALUMINUM WINDOW INTO THE LIVING ROOM, THE DUST catching in the light. I grab the glass of water from the end table and take a sip before wiping the sweat from my brow. I couldn’t go to sleep last night. I tossed and turned, but never found rest. Around 4AM, I gave up and started cleaning this mess of an apartment. There was a film of grime on the coffee table half an inch thick, I swear. Beer bottles, condom wrappers—at least he's being safe—socks and half smoked joints. Brandon, where did you go? On the outside, he's still Brandon, but on the inside...I don't even know that I can say he's a ghost of who he once was. He's angry and volatile. All I can see in his eyes are regret and hate. Brandon hates himself, and if he hates himself, how am I ever going to get to him? "My fucking head." I turn around to find him stumbling down the hall with his hands to his head, his shirt off. My eyes trace over the tattoos covering his chest and arms, and I stop on that tattoo. The one on his left pec of a cartoon rat. I fight a laugh at the sight of that one, the memory of him and Connor flooding my mind. The door swings open, Connor and Brandon standing in the doorway. They both have horrendous bags below their eyes, their hair is disheveled, and they reek of filth. "Ibiza fun?" I ask, laughing. They both grunt as they shoulder their way through the door. "Looks like someone had fun on their eighteenth birthday." I laugh. "Well, I did because I'm single." Brandon smirks. "But this fucker, all he did was mope about because he missed you." Connor punches Brandon in the shoulder, then smiles at me. "I did miss you." He grabs me by the waist, pulling me to him and giving me a tender kiss. "And we have a surprise for you." He steps back and glances at Brandon. They nod at each other, wide grins covering their faces as they lift their shirts up. My jaw drops when I see the red skin

surrounding a tattoo of a.... "Rat? You two got a rat tattooed on your chests? Why?" Connor's brow furrows as he stares down at the ink. "It's not a rat." "Yea, Poss. It's a possum," Brandon says. "In honour of you." He looks down at Connor's chest, then down at his own before his gaze flies up to me. "Don't it look like a possum to you?" "Uh, no. It looks like a cartoon rat stood on its head." I cover my mouth to stifle the laugh, but it's useless. Connor's gaze strays from mine to Brandon's chest. "I say possum." "Possum." Brandon agrees. "And I say rat." Brandon's coughing snatches me away from that bit of my past, and I find myself smiling from the memory of the two of them together like that. Best friends. The three of us. He places his hand over the tattoo, scowling at me. "Don't start." And then I realize, instead of two rat tattoos, there's now only one. My chest goes all tight, my throat burns from the urge to scream and curse at God for doing this to me, to us... "It's a rat," I whisper, trying to keep the tears away. Hoping to pick a fight with him to change this somber mood that has settled between us from the sight of that damned tattoo. "It's a possum." He shoulders past me, heading for the kitchen. My gaze trails down his back and I notice a long, jagged scar, raised and ugly on his side. A multitude of tiny scars are scattered over his back. Shrapnel. And that lump forms in my throat. "Whatever you need to believe, Brandon." He grabs a box of cereal from the cupboard and shoves his hand inside. "Why the fuck does my flat look like Mary fuckin' Poppins has been in here?" "Because it was disgusting. I'm worried I've caught hepatitis just from sitting in here for too long." He shrugs. "You might from that couch." He cocks a brow and smirks. Rolling my eyes, I walk into the kitchen, snatch the box of cereal from him, and toss it into the trash can. "Woman." He growls as he walks up behind me. I turn around and collide with his broad chest. "That cereal is crap. You don't need to eat it." "Is there a reason you're still here?" he grumbles. "Don't you have a life or something?" The sad thing is, no, I don't. Not without Connor. Not without Brandon. I shift my gaze to the floor, staring at a spot I missed with the mop. "You should go home." "I have nowhere to go.” I laugh because, now that I think about it, now that I'm standing in the middle of his kitchen, him obviously wishing I'd never found him, it all seems so pathetic. I take a breath and let the shame drown me. "They'll have

repossessed the house by the time I get back." I keep staring at the circle of dirt on the floor. "And you don't want me here..." I hear his feet shift, and I nearly jump when his knuckles trail across my cheek. I lift my gaze to his and there is nothing but pain shining through those green eyes of his. "It's not that I don't want you," he whispers. "I just don't want the memories. We were happy once, and now—look at us. We're nothing more than empty shells. You remind me of everything I've lost, and it fucking breaks me all over again." My eyes drop to the floor. I swallow. I breathe. And then his fingers grip my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Did you hear me?” he says. “It's not that I don't want you." His muscular arms wrap around me, hugging me, and I do the only thing I can in this moment: I cling to him for dear life. There is something so familiar, so safe with him. Connor was, no doubt, part of my soul, but Brandon, he's part of my heart. As long as I have him, I'm not alone and he's not alone. And when you can share something as horrible as this grief and regret with someone who knows you, that must be worth something. "You can stay here. I'll sleep on the sofa," he murmurs, his warm breath blowing through the strands of my hair. "Thank you." "But you can't be throwing my Coco Pops away." "You are not living off cereal and beer." "I'm not." He pulls away from me, the wry smile I remember so well tugging at his lips. "Really?" I go to the fridge, open it, and stare at the carton of expired milk and slice of pizza setting on the shelf—no plate, no wrapping—just the pizza on the shelf. "Well," I say before slamming the door shut. "Make that cereal, beer, and pizza." I grab my keys from the counter and head to the front door. "Come on." "Where are we going?" "To the market to buy adult food. Now, get a shirt on and cover up that rat tattoo, would you?" "Fucking rat...It's a possum!" He stomps off down the corridor and I roll my eyes. Jesus. THERE'S A BABY CRYING IN A BUGGY BEHIND ME AND BRANDON'S PLUGGING HIS EARS, SHIFTING HIS weight back and forth on his feet. "How long does it take you to pick out a fucking tomato?" he asks, grabbing one of the biggest from the middle of the pile. Several fat tomatoes roll down the heap onto the floor of the supermarket. "That one's not ripe enough," I say, snatching it from him and placing it back on the shelf. He grunts and walks off in the opposite direction. I shake my head, pick a few

ripe tomatoes, stuff them into the bag, and sling them into the front of the cart. Bananas, apples...broccoli...Oh, he's sure to appreciate that one... I finish loading the buggy with fresh vegetables and then go on my merry way. I pass a couple stopped in the middle of the aisle, arguing over which type of tea to purchase. Connor and I used to do that. I'd say Twinnings, he'd insist on Yorkshire. I swallow that hurt down like a jagged little pill, clearing my throat as I push the cart through the store, that one damn wheel squeaking as I search for Brandon. I come to the frozen food section, and there he is, the door to the freezer propped open with his hip, a case of Stella beer in his hand. "Ahem." I stop behind him and he barely turns his head. He peers inside the cart before shaking his head, disgust snarling his lip. He pulls a pizza out of the freezer. "No pizza," I say. "Put it back, Brandon." He snorts. "Still bossy as fuck. Fighter's diet." He shrugs, holding up his pizza and beer before dumping both into the cart. I sigh. "I'd hate to see the state of your arteries." "There's a whole host of shit that will kill you before a heart attack, Poss. Life's too short to be eating shit that looks like a mini-fucking-tree." And how do I argue that?

Chapter Eight BRANDON

“The Pretender” – Foo Fighters I HOLD THE LIGHTER ABOVE THE SMALL GLASS PIPE, WATCHING AS THE FIRE CATCHES TO THE GREEN IN THE bowl. I inhale and draw the pungent smoke deep into my lungs and hold it. I can feel Poppy's gaze on me from across the room, but I ignore it. "Really, Brandon?" She huffs. "Weed?" "Burning the Christmas tree, poss. Want some?" I hold the smoldering pipe out towards her. Her brows knit together as she shakes her head and shoves the pipe back at me. "No. No Christmas tree for me. Thanks." There's a moment of silence while I take another drag from the bowl. "Why in the world are you smoking that crap anyway, huh? I haven't seen you smoke weed since we were sixteen at Hobbit's party and he dared you to drink the bong water. Connor told you not to, but your dumbass wouldn't listen. And what happened, huh?" I glare at her, holding my breath and letting the weed slowly seep into my lungs. I wait on my heartrate to pick up and that numb feeling I'm in desperate need of to kick in. "You threw up,” she says. “Didn't you? All over me, all over that girl you were trying to screw, what was her name? Betty...what a crappy name,” she rolls her eyes. “You were sick for three days." I smirk as I allow the cloud of smoke to billow from my lips. "This sure as shit isn't bong water." Coughing, I grin. "This will make you forget all your troubles." Poppy just shakes her head at me, and, for a split second, I feel a bit of shame, but I brush that off. Poppy always did have this way of making me feel guilty, and now more than ever because I have so much to feel guilty for. And that’s why it's best not to feel anything. I'm blissfully fucking numb when the front door clicks open and Kyan, one of the guys from the fight ring, walks in. I frown at him. "Fucking knock, you prick." His dirty blond hair is dragged into a haphazard man bun and his eyes are blood shot. I'd put money on the fact that he rolled out of bed sometime in the last hour.

He grins. "You're normally too pissed to get up and answer, so why bother?" His eyes stray down to the burning pipe in my hand. He holds his palm out, jerking his chin up. I pass him the pipe. His heavily tattooed fingers clasp the glass as he brings it to his lips. He puffs and puffs, holding the smoke in, his cheeks growing red. Poppy makes some noise in the kitchen and his gaze darts over to her, cheeks still puffed out as his eyes work over her body. Coughing, he blows the smoke out and nods toward the kitchen. "Well, hello there." He stares at her with all the subtlety of a fucking brick. Kyan is a dog. Pussy, booze, blow, and fighting are all he knows. We don't talk all that much, other than when Larry sends him over here to sober me up for a fight. I make him a lot of money. Can't have his prize fighter down and out. Poppy folds her arms over her chest. "I'm sorry… you are?" "Well, I'm Kyan Brooks, treacle." Oh god, he's pulling out treacle? He reaches for her hand, but she yanks it away. "You down for seconds? I'll take you out for dinner and everything." He glances in my direction, smirking. "And I'll do you better than that one and his permanent weed dick." "Um, no thanks. As charming as that sounds," Poppy's gaze strays over to me, "I think I'll have to pass." "Ah, you're breaking my heart." He grins, clutching at his chest. "You be sure to call me when you change your mind." "She doesn't want your fucking chlamydia-riddled dick." I shake my head and clear my throat. "This is Poppy. She's...a friend." Poppy looks pissed. Kyan looks confused. "If you know her name," he says "does that mean you didn't fuck her?" "Oh my God." Poppy wrinkles her nose. "No." "No fuck zone," I say, pointing at Poppy while eyeing Kyan. I don't miss the way that fucker is dragging his eyes over her and I don't like it. "Repeat after me: no fuck zone." "Yeah, yeah.” Sighing, he snaps his gaze back to mine. “Just checking you're alive." He shakes his head and turns away. "I'm going down to the pub. One-eyed Larry wants you down there in a half hour." He gives Poppy another quick once over. "You should come down and watch the fight. I'll introduce you to Madame Wrinkles." "I'm sorry, who?" I toss my head back on a groan. "Madame Wrinkles," he says again. "She's the bald pussy Larry keeps behind the bar. You ain't seen her yet have you?" "Oh, for the love of..." Poppy tosses her hands up in the air. "It's a fucking hairless cat," I say. "He adopted it." "Yeah, because he said it looks like an old man's ball bag," Kyan says with a laugh. "Alright,” I point angrily at the door, “out. Fuck off." I get up and open the door,

shoving him through and locking the deadbolt behind him. "Well, he seems delightful." Poppy eyes the door before she releases a long sigh. "Brandon, what are you doing here with these people?" "Right now? I'm getting stoned." She huffs. "Aside from the obvious, what are you doing with your life?" I reach for the pipe on the table again, but she snatches it away, tucking it behind her back. Her judgement pisses me off and my temper spikes. "What are you doing with your life?" I ask, glaring at her. She doesn’t say a word, simply drops her gaze to the floor. "I didn't fucking ask you to come here. You want to stay, stay, but I'm not looking for a mother. And by the way, you're not coming to my fight." "Oh, so you think you can tell me what I can and can't do?" I smirk, leaning closer to her until I'm in her face. "You won't last five minutes in there,” I narrow my gaze, “princess." "I was just fine the other night, asshole." She smiles. "Kyan asked me to come anyways, not you. I'll go to see him." She looks well pleased with herself, smiling and popping her hip to the side. "You're not fucking going!" I shout. She flinches away from me. I clench and release my fists, trying to get a hold on my temper. The weed usually numbs it, keeps it locked down, but fuck if she doesn’t bring it right to the surface again. "I'll do whatever I damn well please. A guy who's fighting in a shitty bar basement really has no right to tell me what I ought to be doing, now does he?" She turns around, storming to the front door and slamming it shut behind her. "Fuck!" I pick up a beer bottle from the table and throw it at the now closed door. It smashes against it, brown bits of glass shooting off in every direction. She can go to that fight, but I'm sure as fuck not helping her when some dude decides to cop a feel. She's on her own. I stand up and head to the bathroom, pulling my shirt over my head as I go. Poppy can judge me all she likes. I don't care. We both know that this is exactly where I would have been all along without Connor. It's almost fitting that, in his absence, I should become everything he tried so hard to save me from. That boy couldn't help but want to be the fucking hero.

Chapter Nine POPPY

“Team” - Lorde I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M STANDING HERE, IN THIS BAR, SURROUNDED BY THESE FILTHY MEN. HAD BRANDON not told me I couldn't come, I probably wouldn't have. "Ah, treacle." Someone brushes my hair from my shoulder before placing their hand on it. "Was it the lure of the ball bag cat, or just my dashing good looks?" I turn just as Kyan steps up beside me. He's cleaned himself up from earlier, his blond hair is twisted into a messy bun, the scruff on his face shaved into clean lines. He smiles at me and those deep blue eyes of his lock with mine. "Um, sure." I glance down at the low cut of his V-neck shirt, at the hodgepodge of tattoos covering his skin. "The cat..." "Yep. The puuusssyycat," he laughs as he lifts a beer to his lips. "Well," he grabs me by the waist and tugs me from my spot in front of the bar. "Come on then." Reluctantly, I follow him through the crowded room to the side of the bar. He hops over the counter, then lifts the sidebar allowing me through. "Should we really..." I start and he shakes his head. "Ah, Larry doesn't give a shit if we're back here. Not like you'll be necking back his liquor or anything." He motions with his hand for me to follow him before he squats in front of a cooler. "Come on now, you little scroate." I watch as he shoves his hand between the shelf and the cooler. There's a hiss and a tiny, flesh colored paw swats at him from the crevice, catching his hand. He yanks his arm back, biting down on his lip. "You little fucker." He reaches in again, this time dragging the cat out by the nape of its neck. And it's an ugly animal. Fat. Pink, wrinkled skin, bulging blue eyes, and a pink rhinestone collar. "Aw, don't hurt it," I say, hurrying next to him and reaching for it. "I'm not hurting it. It's how they like to be carted around, like their mums did, you know?" Kyan is rough around the edges, but there's something about him that's endearing. I take the bundle of flesh and cradle it in my arms. Purring, Madame Wrinkles stares up at me with her huge yellow eyes. "So, the cat lives here.” I say.

“In the bar?" "Yep." He leans against the counter, inspecting the scratch on his hand. "I'm sure she hates that." "Ah, the little thing likes it. Once the crowd gets really thick in here, she comes waddling out, usually perches up there on the counter." He points to the end of the bar where a tattered, pink towel is laid out. "She likes the drunks because they pet her." I nod, scratching over her smooth side. Kyan stares at me with an unnerving smirk twisting over his lips, and I decide it's best if I just stare at the cat. So, I do. "What the hell you got a girl back here for, boy? Huh?" I deep, twangy American accent filters through the air and the cat jumps out of my arms, scurrying back behind the counter. "He was showing me the cat." I turn around and smile, unintentionally shrinking away from the massive old man. One of his eyes is foggy and aimed in the opposite direction of the other, and it is so hard not to stare at it. "Madame Wrinkles?" He chuckles. "She's my little baby." He clicks his tongue, calling the cat over. I watch her slink out from the crevice, rubbing against the counter before trotting over to the old man. "Haven wouldn't like that much," Kyan says. "She hates the cat." "Ah, Haven just likes to pretend she's a badass. She's got too much of that feistiness from her mother." The man glances back at me. "I'm Larry." He stretches his arms out. "Lord of this here bar. And as a father of a girl close enough to your age, let me tell you, that one," he winks with his good eye and points at Kyan, "He ain't worth a pile of shit. You're more likely to get a three-legged midget to win ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ than get that boy to fall in love with you." "Oh, fuck off old man." Larry swats his hand through the air. "You fuck off. Now, you gonna be a proper gentleman and introduce me to this lovely girl or not?" "This is Poppy. She's Brandon's..." His brow scrunches. "Something." "Ah, so you're Poppy then." Larry smiles and scratches his hand over his stubble. Great, who knows what Brandon has said about me to this old man. He throws an arm around me, escorting me to the side of the bar. "Now, you want one of them froo-froo prissy drinks? Sex on the Beach or maybe a Cosmo?" I shake my head. "I really don't..." But he's already grabbed a bottle of vodka and started pouring. "Now, Brandon. He's um..." He takes another bottle from the shelf, pulls the stopper, and gives it a good sniff. "Hey, Lou," he shouts. "Lou, does Grenadine go bad?" "What?" A banshee-like screech comes rattling around the bar. "What kinda dumb question is that?" "Hell, woman, I just don't want to kill this girl Kyan's got behind the bar." "Girl?" A short, curvy woman comes stomping around the corner, bar towel in

hand. "No it don't go bad you idiot, and honey," she glances from me to Kyan, "that one there's a case of the clap waiting to happen. Stay away from him." She smiles. Kyan tosses his hands up. "What the hell have I done to you people to make you so fucking mean?" "She's Brandon's friend. Poppy," Larry says to Lou. Lou's face goes all soft and sympathetic. "Oh, honey." She snatches the bottle of Grenadine from Larry and nudges him out of the way with her hip as she starts pouring. She hands me the drink before patting me on the back. "It's on the house." "Thank you," I say, holding the drink in my hands. "Larry, you think you could stop running your mouth and get the case of ale from the back?" He grunts, eyeing her as she walks off. "Well," he says, following Lou out from behind the bar. "It was nice to meet you. I'm sure I'll see you around." And he disappears around the corner. I glance up at Kyan who shrugs as he grabs a beer from the cooler, He pops the top and we make our way down to the basement, claiming a spot at the front of the ring. The crowd grows thicker by the second. There's the low lull of conversation, the occasional hacking cough from some man in the corner, and a cloud of smoke fills the room. I glance across the ring and there, in the back by the exit door, stands Brandon, his eyes glued on me. He shoves people out of the way as he stalks toward me like a predator. The closer he comes; I realize he's not paying me attention. His gaze is locked on Kyan. Brandon's jaw twitches, his eyes swirling with anger as he grabs Kyan by the front of his shirt and yanks him up, bringing their faces inches apart, but…Kyan looks unfazed by any of it. "You brought her into the middle of The Pit?!" Brandon snarls in his face. "She wanted to come." "If she gets hurt, I'm going to personally tear you a new arsehole." Kyan rolls his eyes and lightly shoves against Brandon's chest, breaking from his hold. "Fine. Now go fight. I'm putting money on you, you psychotic bastard." He laughs. Brandon spares me the briefest of glances before he turns back to head to the ring. The second he steps between those ropes, the men go crazy, the women go mad, screaming and whistling. A middle-aged woman standing on the other side of me claps, her exaggerated movements causing ash to fall from the cigarette hanging from her pink lips. "He's my favorite one,” she says and winks at me. “I'd do some dirty things to that boy." She takes a drag from her cigarette and blows the smoke in my face. I cough, swatting the cloud from my face as I turn back toward the ring. The lights bounce off Brandon's bare chest, shadows settling in the ridges of his muscles. And I can absoletly see why the women go nuts over him. His tattoos, the

muscles—everything about him screams bad and wrong. And isn't that what most women crave—a guy they know is no good for them? At least, that's what it was for me at first. Brandon O' Kiefe was my best friend growing up, but, at one point, he was also my obsession. I watch him and I can’t help but recall what it was like when we were younger, when it was so much simpler… "We aren't going to get caught," Brandon groans as we step up to the front door. "Connor said his cousin went to jail for underage drinking." "Yeah, well." Brandon rings the doorbell. "I love him and all, but that Blaine family’s a bunch of pussies. And Darren got arrested because he had weed on him. We..." he puts his arm around me and I can't help but to pull his scent deep inside my lungs, "are not going to jail." The door opens to loud music and a living room packed full of people. No sooner have we stepped inside than we've had drinks shoved in our faces. I swear, all the girls stare me down. They all hate me because I'm so close to Brandon. And every one of them wants him. Brandon takes his beer and we toast. "To getting drunk and having fun." I smile, my gaze veering down to his lips before I nervously glance away. "Hey," Brandon says as he takes his arm away from my shoulders. "I'll be back in just a second, I just, uh," I glance up at him and catch him smiling at someone across the room. "Got to go say hey to someone." I nod, but he's already halfway across the room, making a bee-line to Nieve Kirkpatrick. She's a year older than us, blonde, and there are rumors she has fake boobs. It takes less than a minute before Brandon has her pinned against the wall, his mouth on hers, his hands groping her ass. And now, I'm the jealous one. I may be close to Brandon, but the thing is, it's shit being hopelessly in love with your best friend. A form of utter torture hell wouldn't even put on a person, I'm sure... The bell dings and I snap back to the moment, back to this shitty bar and Brandon. His gaze remains aimed on his opponent. They circle one another, fists up. The other guy throws the first punch, and Brandon suddenly drops his fists, allowing that guy to punch him square in the jaw. That warrants a gasp from me because the Brandon I know never lets the other guy get one hit in. Never. I watch the guy hit him again, and this time, Brandon actually smiles. His grin deepens as his eyes lock on me just before he spits blood from his mouth. Another punch hits his face. Brandon stumbles back a few steps, dazed. "What the hell is he doing?" I shout at Kyan. He shrugs. "Ah, he likes the way it feels to get slammed in the face a few good times. That's all, treacle." "Likes the way it..." Shaking my head, I swing my gaze back in the direction of the ring. Brandon's cheek is bloody, his lip busted. The side of his face red and swelling. I hate this. I can't watch him let some guy beat the shit out of him. If I'm honest, I'm not even sure how much of my Brandon is left inside, and I don't know

how to help him. I don't know how to understand him. I turn to shove my way through the crowd, but Kyan grabs my hand. "Where are you going?" he shouts over the noise of the crowd. "I don't want to watch anymore of this." He starts after me. "Brandon will have my arse if I let you leave." "Just give me a minute." He reluctantly nods and I turn, forcing my way toward the exit through the sweaty men. It's too much. Part of me believes Brandon is letting that guy hit him because I'm here—just to get to me. I hurry up the stairwell and push open the door to the bar. There's only a few men scattered about. Most everyone is downstairs, and every few minutes the floor rattles with the shouts and applause. I take a seat at the bar and bury my face in my hands. Why, out of all the people on the face of the earth, did God have to choose us? Why Connor? Why Brandon? Why me? The longer I sit here fighting back the tears as I stare down at the worn bar top, my self-loathing turns to anger. I find myself wanting to curse God, to say screw it to everything. And I guess there's not much left to me anymore, either. War and loss. It will destroy a person from the inside out. "My mum, Lou, told me to give you this." I glance up from the hair hanging in front of my face to see a girl, blonde with doe-like green eyes, pushing a glass in front of me. "Can't argue with her," she says. "And if you don't drink it, she'll take offence to it." She giggles. “I’m Haven, by the way.” "Thanks." I take the drink and just hold it. She's still standing in front of me, leaning across the bar, picking at her Barbiepink nails. "You don't look like the kind of girl who'd be hanging out here." She bites down on her lip as she fights a smile. "Those ones, well, they're usually here after one of the fighters." "Yeah, well, I can assure you, I'm not." "Oh, I know. Mum told me you're Brandon's friend." She shrugs. "He's a good fighter." A loud boom of applause comes from the floor. "Bet he just knocked that lad square on his arse." She grins at me, but I can't force a smile at that comment. She taps her fingers over the counter, and, after an awkward moment of silence, she walks off to tend to another patron. Madame Wrinkles comes trotting along the bar top, flopping her fat belly down in front of me. And here I sit, drinking by myself in a bar, and petting a hairless cat. Amazing.

Chapter Ten BRANDON

“Bodies” – Drowning Pool I WATCH AS THE GUY GOES DOWN, HITTING THE CONCRETE HARD, BUT IT'S NOT ENOUGH. I FIND MYSELF ON top of him, laying punch after punch into his face until my knuckles rip open and my arms ache. Someone grabs onto me, restraining my arms before they drag me backwards, but even then, I’m still fighting to get another punch in. Next thing I know, I’m in a chokehold, and whoever’s got me has such a grip on my neck, I can't move, let alone breathe. "Don't kill the son of a bitch, boy. This ain't the war," Larry says. "It ain't the war." "Fucking let me go." I pant through clenched teeth. "You gonna stop beating the shit out of him?" His grip loosens. "Don't make me choke you out." I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, attempting to fight back the mad rage firing through my body. I cannot control it. I cannot leash it. "I'm fine." I grate. "You sure? 'Cause I let you go, and you go at him again, I'll take you down. Lights out and all. Don't doubt this old man, son." I force my muscles to relax, and Larry slowly releases his grip on my neck. I shove away from him, ducking through the ropes and heading straight for the door in the corner of the room. The door slams behind me. And I pace back and forth, clenching and releasing my fists. This rage— it's like a demon that lives inside of me, and when it digs its claws in, I just can't shake it. Anger and violence consume me until it's all that I am, until all that I'm good for is fighting and hurting others. With a roar, I slam my fist against the nearest wall. My bones crack. The pain explodes across my skin. And I want it. I like it. I need it. The rumble from the crowd outside grows louder for a second and then quiets again as the door opens and closes. I glance up to see a brunette in a tiny dress standing there, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Normally, I'd find her sexy, thinking: hell, maybe I can fuck this rage out of me. But no woman could handle all

this. I drop my head forward and focus on a spot on the floor. My pulse relentlessly pounds against my ears, which, I guess, is why I don't hear her approach. When I feel the sudden touch of her fingers over my chest, my hand darts out. I grip her wrist hard enough that her eyes go wide and her lips part on a choked breath. "Get. The. Fuck. Out." I say in a growl. Her eyes well with tears before I finally release her and she scurries from the room, clutching her arm to her chest. I need to get out of here. The people, the noise, the scent of blood, I can't handle it right now, and I definitely can't handle being around Poppy. So, I get dressed and slip out the back door next to the cellar without speaking to anyone.

Chapter Eleven POPPY

“Dark Times” – The Weeknd, Ed Sheeran KYAN HAS THE CAR STOPPED AT THE END OF THE STREET, AND I’M STARING THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD AT the row of townhomes. "I really don't think you should go back to his flat tonight," Kyan says. “Really. I don't. You can stay at my place. It's five minutes away. I know I come across like a ripe prick, but I promise, I won't try a thing." I turn to look at him, and due to the worried expression etched on his face right now, I believe him. "It's fine. Really, it is," I say even though I don't know that to be true. "Look, Poppy. I know you knew Brandon, but that's just it. You knew him before war ate him up and spit him out." I stare out of the passenger side window, watching a stray cat dig through a toppled over trashcan. Knew him. Kyan is right. I don't know him anymore. In the matter of a year, I've lost all grasp of who Brandon is. "Treacle." Kyan gently grabs my face, turning my face toward him. "You've not a clue what we've seen—me and him. It ain't something you see in a film. The media makes it all tragic, but honestly, there ain't a word that can touch what war is. Fuckin' hell is the closest you can come to it." He releases a sigh. "And right now, you don't want to go dancing with the devil." I stare at him. "It's fine." Shrugging, he turns the car down the road and lets me out in front of Brandon's flat. "Don't take any shit from him." I wave him off, and the car sputters down the street as I approach the apartment. I can hear Brandon going at the punching bag before I open the door. The second the door opens, he glances over his shoulder. His jaw is swollen. Blood coats his knuckles. Sweat covers every inch of his bare chest. He gives me a cold stare before giving one last punch to the bag, leaving a bloody mark on the side of it. He turns

away, snatches the bottle of whiskey from the coffee table, and disappears down the hallway. The bathroom door slams shut with such force the old windows in the living room rattle. Moments later, the shower cuts on and I take a seat on the couch. He's lost. I know it because I see it in his eyes. I know it because I am too. Grief does funny things to people. And it would seem I'd know how to handle this with Brandon because we've lost the same person, but, I have no idea where to begin. His demons are so much more than mine, one's I couldn't possibly hope to ever understand. And when a person has no one to understand them, they must feel so alone. I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. We should be able to understand one another. We always have, but the war...it's like a toxin still coursing through his veins, feeding his anger and guilt. And part of me feels like all I'm doing is making it worse. Selfishly, I don't care because I don't want to lose this part of my life. But then, the other part of me thinks maybe I should let him be, maybe I should just let him keep running. After all, who am I to make him face reality? HE'S BEEN IN THE SHOWER FOR NEARLY HALF AN HOUR AND MY MIND STARTS TO GET THE BETTER OF ME. Those punches he took were hard. What if he's got a concussion? What if he's drank himself into a stupor and is passed out, face down in the tub? I push up from the couch and make my way down the hallway, stopping in front of the door to the bathroom. I tap over the wood. "Brandon?" Nothing. "Brandon, are you okay?" Silence. Slowly, I twist the knob and open the door. Brandon's sitting on the floor of the shower, his back against the wall, boxing shorts still on. He lifts the bottle of whiskey to his mouth and takes a gulp. I watch the water run over his knuckles, washing the blood down the drain. And he doesn't even look up at me. "Brandon?" Another swig from the bottle. He's so broken, battered and wounded, and not just from the physical scars I can see. Sighing, I sit on the edge of the tub and go to grab the bottle, but he yanks it away. "Give me the damn bottle would you," I say. "I'm not going to smash it this time." His green eyes slowly lift to meet my gaze before he passes me the bottle. I take it, place the rim to my lips, and tilt my head back. The warm whiskey heats my throat as I swallow mouthful after mouthful. I drop the bottle long enough to catch my breath, then turn it up again. If this is what we've become, so be it.

Neither of us utters a word, the only sound comes from the water raining down from the shower. I hand the bottle back to him, and we drink. Once the bottle is empty, I stand, my head spinning as I stagger into the hallway. I throw the bottle down beside the couch because I can’t be bothered to make my way into the kitchen. Sighing, I fall back onto the sofa, tossing my head back as I try to focus my swimming vision. The door to the bathroom bangs against the wall and Brandon comes stumbling down the hall. He slumps against the living room wall, his eyelids half drooped, his shorts soaking wet and clinging to his legs. Water is dripping all over the floor. When he looks up at me, I notice the split on his cheek has reopened. Dark, red blood oozes down the chiseled planes of his bruised face. I get up, go to the freezer, and dig around amongst the frozen TV dinners to find an ice pack. Taking a kitchen towel, I wrap it up. But when I come back to the living room and offer it to him, he simply shakes his head. "Your face looks awful, Brandon," I say, irritation leaking into my voice. "I like it." "How can you like it?" I whisper. Dropping back onto the sofa, I throw the ice pack onto the coffee table. "The pain...." he slurs, stumbling further into the room. "I like the pain." But why? I want to ask him, but I dare not. Most people run from pain, avoid it at all costs, yet, here he is craving it. The only thing I can think: It's his own form of punishment. But you've been punished enough in life. We both have... Brandon runs into the coffee table and half falls onto the couch beside me. Groaning, he lies down next to me and lays his head on my thigh. One of his large hands reaches across my lap and comes to rest on my knee. I hold my breath as I stare down at him, uncertain of what to do. He drags in a heavy breath then rolls onto his side. "I'm sorry, possum..." he mumbles as he grabs my hand and places it on his wet head. And in this moment, my heart breaks a little. He reminds me all too much of the boy he was years ago when he lost his mother. This is what he did. He laid his head in my lap, begging me to run my fingers through his hair because that's what she did when he was upset. All he wanted was that affection, to feel that kind of unconditional love that had been so brutally torn away from him. And here we are again. All I want to do is make him feel loved. All I want to do is make the pain stop. "It's okay." I choke on the words as I brush my fingers through his thick, damp hair. His fingers wrap around my knee, just holding onto me, clinging. "You know it's not." "Okay. It's not. But what do we do, huh?" "We drink and we try to fucking forget." "Forever?" "Until we can't forget anymore." He rolls onto his back, his gaze touching mine before he focuses on the ceiling. "And then the demons will be right there. Waiting

for us." "Are they ever gone, Brandon? Do they ever leave you alone?" I sweep a dark curl from his forehead and he closes his eyes, his brows pinching into a frown. "Every time I close my eyes, all I see is their faces," he says through clenched teeth. The comment forces chill bumps across my skin. I stare down at him, trying to form words, but I fail. "Nothing but death and destruction,” he says. Tears creep from his eyes and roll down his temples into my lap. This is the part of war that is left unseen. He and I—we are the reality of what it does to people, and there is nothing romantic about it. In our cases, I don't believe there is anything salvageable from it. And I find myself questioning God again. With the whys, the hows...trying to grasp the cruelty of it all. "It's not fair,” I say. “None of it." I feel like a fool for saying that, because, of course it's not. His eyes close and a few more tears break free. "You should leave, poss. I destroy everything I touch. My dad always said the devil wouldn't even want me. That I was a worthless shit." He huffs a laugh. "Con found that out the hard way." "I'm not leaving you." Anger rises in my chest. I hate his father. He's an awful man. Abusive, drunk. Pathetic on every level. "Never leaving you," I repeat. "I'm gonna hurt you, poss. This thing inside me, I can't control it." He sounds so desperately sad, so worn. "You already did...." I say it before I even realize it. "And I'm still here." "I barely even know myself anymore." He drags a hand over his face as he closes his eyes. I comb my fingers through his hair, fighting back the tears. I must be strong right now for him. When he's weak, I must be his strength. "Neither of us are the same people." I take a breath. "So, Brandon Blaine, who are you then?" "I don't know." "Well, when you figure it out, you just let me know." Leaning down, I press a gentle kiss to his forehead. He reaches up and trails his fingertips along my jaw in a feather light touch. "I'm just glad I have whoever you are." "Always, possum." He taps that rat on his chest. "Right here." I choke on a sob, covering my mouth with my hand. "I'll always love you. Always. No matter who you are." He smiles and his eyes lull shut. I keep sweeping my fingers through his hair until he passes out. The broken taking care of the broken. What a pitiful mess we are.

Chapter Twelve BRANDON

“Home” – Gabrielle Aplin I BLINK MY EYES OPEN, GROANING AS THE BRIGHT MORNING LIGHT SCORCHES MY FUCKING RETINAS. MY head pounds and my stomach clenches uncomfortably when I roll over. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen has me wincing. When I glance up, Poppy is leaning against the kitchen side, a cup of coffee in her hand, wet hair hanging in her face. She looks worse than I feel and that's saying something. I get to my feet and unsteadily rock back and forth for a moment. "I have a headache," she mumbles. I have a blurred memory of her drinking whiskey straight from the bottle last night. "Whiskey will do that to you." I place my hand on the wall, make my way to the bathroom, and stumble inside, squinting against the sunlight as I piss. Today is not going to be a good day. By the time I stagger back to the kitchen, Poppy is bent over the counter with her face resting on her outstretched arms. I pick up her cup of coffee and open the cupboard, grabbing a new bottle of whiskey. She doesn't even lift her head as I pour a splash into the warm, brown liquid and take a sip. This will fix my head. Poppy on the other hand, I'm not sure there's any fixing that. "Possum, what are you doing?" I ask her. She slowly lifts her face from her arms and stares at me, her eyebrows knitted together in a frown. "Dying." "This isn't you, Poppy. You don't do this shit." She was always the good girl, well, at least unless I was involved. She was always on this pedestal, the girl that was far too good to be anything to me, but miraculously she was my best friend. She mumbles something before snagging my coffee from me and taking a swig. Her eyes water and her lips purse together before she turns to the sink and spits it out. "What the hell, Brandon? Whiskey? In your coffee?" Placing her palm on her forehead, she shakes her head. "Jesus." I snort.

"Seriously, what are you doing? You just gonna hole up in this shitty apartment, dragging my drunk arse off the couch every night and watching me fight? This isn't your world, poss, and he'd want better for you." I want better for her, but we both know Connor's opinion was always worth a damn site more than mine. And really, I'm in no position to be telling her anything anyway. "Sort your shit out. Get the house back." She shrugs, circling her finger on the counter. "I don't want it back. I don't want any of it. Surely you, of all people, can understand that..." I drag my hand down my face. "Well, then you sell it, you...you plan. Me, this… this is not a plan, babe." I can just see her spiraling right on down with me, and the truth is, in just a few days, I've come to like her being here. Poppy was always this shiny fucking light to me, something I had to consciously stay away from. Even at the tender age of ten, I knew I'd extinguish her if I wasn't careful, and by the time I was eighteen she felt like a damn addiction. Just being around her made the world a little bit brighter and the shit a bit easier to bear. My world is darker and shittier than it ever was before, and here she is, her light dulled but never completely gone. Only now, Connor isn't here to protect her from me, and I will destroy her. The worst part is that I think I already need her too much to do the right thing. I'm too fucking selfish. "It's too late," she says. Her eyes drift to the floor and her shoulders fall. "I had an eviction notice on the door the day I left." "How? The army must have paid out a war pension for Con." Her gaze remains trained on the floor. "I, uh..." She swallows hard and takes a deep breath. "I spent it. Most of it, anyway, you know…" "Don't tell me you did rent-a-crowd for his funeral." I smirk. "Got him a horse drawn carriage and unicorns?" She almost laughs. "No." Her eyes lift to mine, and I see how destroyed she is. That familiar ache surfaces and I find myself shuffling back to the cabinet and reaching for the bottle of whiskey to top off my coffee. "You didn't buy him that fucking sarcophagus?" When we were kids, we learned about ancient Egypt and Con said he wanted a pimped-out, gold coffin with his face on it. Life goals. "God no." And this time she does laugh. "Nothing ridiculous like that." "The suspense is killing me here, poss." "Finding you. I spent it finding you." My heart drops. I stare at her for a while, uncertain of what the fuck to say. She's broke and homeless because of me. She closes her eyes and a stray tear tracks down her face, trailing over her porcelain skin and touching the corner of her lip. I catch it with my thumb and cup the side of her face. Inhaling a sharp breath, she leans into my touch and her eyes lock with mine. "You are all I have left in this world, Brandon." And that's the saddest thing I've ever heard. She steps closer to me and wraps her arms around my waist. I press my lips to her forehead, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. She needs me and I need her. It's

a twisted form of co-dependency, but it's all we have. "You're better than this, Poppy. I'll help you, but I won't watch you nose dive into this shit with me." "I'll make a deal with you then." She sucks back her tears. "I'll get out of it when you get out of it." I inhale, holding that breath deep inside my lungs. I can't agree to it, because I thrive in the gutter. It's where I belong. "You always were manipulative," I say, smiling as I step away from her. The torn look on her face tells me she knows I have no intention of getting out of here.

Chapter Thirteen POPPY

“Cathedrals” – Jump Little Children THE SMELL OF EXHAUST SWIRLS AROUND ME AS I TAKE A SEAT ON THE COLD, CONCRETE EDGE OF THE fountain, taking in the crowded area of Trafalgar Square. Several pigeons land on the pavement in front of me, bobbing their heads as they pace, looking for crumbs. It's been ages since I've been here, but it's one of those places that seems to never change. I remember coming here with Connor and Brandon after I turned eighteen. It was one of the few times I got so drunk I couldn't walk straight. We'd come out of a pub, and Connor and Brandon basically carried me over to this exact spot on the fountain. The very second they sat me down, I started dry heaving. Brandon took my face and turned me around so I'd vomit in the water instead of all over my new Chuck Taylor’s. I can’t help but to laugh thinking about it. Brandon always was the one who took care of me when I'd get in a state like that, one, because it was usually his doing, and two, well, I didn't want Connor to see me such a mess. The pigeons that litter the courtyard go flying off when a motorbike veers off course and starts into the square, people scattering every which way. My phone rings. I ignore it, wishing I hadn't turned it back on. I pull it from my purse and there’s a missed call from Hope. Part of me debates on tossing the phone into the fountain. As much as I love her, I just want to start all over. I know how pathetic and ridiculous it sounds, and I know I'll feel differently tomorrow, but right now, in this moment, I just want to forget anything before this day. Before this very minute, because you can't miss things you don't remember. Just as I rear my hand back to throw the phone into the water, it buzzes again. I stare at Hope's name flashing on the screen. Reluctantly, I swipe to accept the call and before I even pull it to my ear, I can hear her shouting on the other end. "Poppy, where are you?" "I'm fine, Hope. I'm fine." "Fine...I went by your house a few days ago, you know after you wouldn’t answer my calls or anything. It's not your house anymore. The bank seized it..."

"I know..." "Where. Are. You?" "In London." She sighs. "Fuck, Poppy. Where in London?" "In London, Hope. I found Brandon. I'm fine. I'm just..." "Brandon?" "Yes, Brandon." "The..." "I hired a PI. He found him in some nasty bar in London, so I came to get him." "Get him?" Hope groans. "You went to get him and do what?" And that, I'm still not certain of. "Your house, Poppy," Hope says. "You don't have a house to bring him back to, you realize that?" "I know." "Where in London are you?" "In..." I glance around, watching people carry out their lives. People smiling and laughing. Couples walking hand in hand. Children bickering. Why can't I just disappear within the masses? Fade away? What would be so wrong with that? "I'm just…in London," I say. "Have you gone mental? I'm coming to get you." "No, you're not, Hope. I love you, but I'm fine. I promise. I’ll call you back later." No sooner have I hung up my phone than she's ringing it again. Without a second thought, I drop it into the fountain, watching the tiny bubbles that trickle up from it as it falls to the bottom of the concrete pool. And I walk off. I'm not running. Just turning my back on the things I don't want to acknowledge. Some call it cowardice, an inability to cope. I call it survival instinct. AFTER I LEFT TRAFALGAR SQUARE, I STOPPED BY THE LIBRARY, DID A BRIEF SEARCH ON PTSD ON THEIR computer, and found a link to the Combat Stress Treatment Centre. I need to understand Brandon. I need to know what I'm dealing with if either one of us are ever going to get out of this mess. So here I sit, in front of Retired Sergeant Fergus Henley's desk. A picture of Jesus on the far wall and a picture of the Queen right beside it. I only meant to get some information, and had I just done that, all would be well. But, the problem is, Fergus Henley has that kind of face that makes you want to pour your heart and soul out to him. I felt like I was in a confessional and he was a priest. I told him about Brandon's injury—not about him running, of course, but about the fight ring Larry has pulled together for all those vets, even Madame Wrinkles. I'm terrified I've given him too much information. Actually, I know I have. "Just one moment." Fergus says as he rises from his chair. "I've got some good

informational packets for you." His ink-black hair is neatly groomed. His face clean shaven, but he has a full sleeve of tattoos showing through his crisply laundered white dress shirt. He walks out of the room, leaving the door slightly cracked. The tick-tock of the clock on the wall is nearly driving me insane. "Well, Ms. Blaine," he strides back into the room, placing several pamphlets and one thin book on the desk beside me. "I think those may help you gain a better understanding of the issue at hand." He takes a seat behind his desk, the leather office chair groaning under his weight. He offers a sympathetic smile. "I can tell you that social support is one of the most important things for someone with PTSD. The Tyrwhitt House, it's in Surrey, not too far from here, it's a grand place. I'm sure I may could get your..." There's a brief pause. "Husband?" I nod, feeling guilty for lying. "Yes." I can feel my cheeks warm and both the picture of Jesus and the Queen seem to be disapprovingly glaring at me. He grabs a notepad and a pen. "What's his first name?" I can't give him Brandon's name. Brandon Blaine isn't a real person, and Brandon O'Kieffe has a warrant out by our military. Sweat beads on my forehead, under the collar of my shirt. "Oh, he won't be up for any treatment center Sergeant. He's um..." My heart bangs against my ribs, my blood pressure skyrocketing. "He likes to keep to himself, you know? Just wants to go do his rough housing and drink his whiskey. Honestly, he'd probably be unhappy about me even coming by here. I just...uh." I abruptly push up from the chair, nearly knocking it over as I reach for the pamphlets. "I should just go." I'm backing out of his office while he's giving me a curious stare. "Thank you for the information." I smile and he nods, waving at me before I turn to open the door. The moment I'm out of his office, I breathe a sigh of relief. That's all I need to do. Get Brandon reported.

Chapter Fourteen BRANDON

“I Predict A Riot” – Kaiser Chiefs I'M STANDING IN THE KITCHEN, SHOVELING COCO POPS IN MY MOUTH WHEN THERE'S A KNOCK ON THE front door. If Kyan has finally figured out how to fucking knock, then it'll be a miracle. I go and open the door, bowl of cereal in one hand and my spoon in the other, and the second I do, I wish I hadn't. "Brandon fucking O'Kieffe," Hope says, pointing at me. "You know, you're a cunt." "Nice to see you too, Hope." She shoulders past me and my Coco Pops spill over the edge of the bowl, scattering across the floor. Great, now Poppy's going to whine. "Come on in, why don't you," I grumble as I close the door. Hope McGrath is a sassy redhead with a mouth on her that would put a sailor to shame. She's all long legs and a tight waist, and back in the day, I had a huge crush on her. But honestly, high maintenance isn't even the word with that one. She stands in the middle of my living room, glancing around and wrinkling her nose in disgust as though the place might taint her designer shoes. Poppy appears from the hallway, a small frown on her face when she glances at Hope. "How on earth did you find this place?" she asks. "That PI you paid was good for something, so it seems." "Oh, what did you do, Hope? Blow him or something?" Poppy asks as she leans against the wall, folding her arms over her chest. Hope’s mouth pops open before she snaps it shut again. "No, I just threatened to report his phony arse. I still fucking might. Money grabbing cunt." "I told you I was fine." She rolls her eyes. "Babe, you are so far from fine it's unreal." "I'm as fine as I'm going to get." "Come home. This place is...I'm pretty sure I contracted Ebola and the mange when I walked through the door." Ah, yes, and Hope is a complete snob. Her family is in whiskey, and in

Ireland...well, whiskey might as well be oil. "I don't want to go anywhere." Poppy groans. “I’m not going anywhere.” Hope turns her honey-coloured eyes on me. "You always were bad news, Brandon O'Kieffe." She drags her eyes over my body, a small smirk touching her lips. I raise a brow at her. "And you always were a mouthy bitch." "Okay, fine." She shrugs before she drops her handbag on the coffee table and props her hands on her hips. "Then I'm not going anywhere either." "Fucking joy," I grumble, making my way to the kitchen and dumping my bowl in the sink. The front door bangs open, Kyan and Finn barging in. Kyan stops mid stride when his eyes land on Hope. "Hello there, treacle," he says, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. "Oh, god," Poppy groans and tosses her hands in the air as she turns around. Finn waves as he meanders past me into the kitchen. "What's your name, you gorgeous, little thing?" Kyan says. I face-palm and shake my head just waiting to see how Hope reacts to that one. Her lips kick up at the corner and she pivots on her heel, closing the distance between them. Leaning in, she whispers something in his ear, and he groans. When she pulls away, he bites down on his closed fist, his eyes falling to her tits. "Anything," he whispers as he clasps his hands together in a praying gesture. "I'm yours." Finn comes out from the kitchen, my damn Coco Pops in hand. He glances at me then looks at Hope and Kyan before laughing and stuffing his cheeks like a chipmunk storing nuts for the winter. "Hope, honestly," Poppy says as she steps between them, shoeing Kyan away like a stray mutt. "He's nice as can be, but he's dirty. You'll end up with a rash on your mouth and something horrid between your legs. Contain yourself." Poppy chokes a laugh as she glances at Kyan. Hope’s eyes drag all over Kyan's body. "That one's pretty enough that I might just take a rash." I clear my throat, seeing an opportunity too good to be fucking true. "Hope meet Kyan. Kyan meet Hope." I step beside Kyan and clasp his shoulder with my hand. "For the love of God, take that one with you, would you?" He tilts his head to the side. "I guess I could be persuaded to take one for the team," he says, adjusting himself. Poppy sighs, shaking her head. "You do realize you just connected the two biggest sluts in The British Isles, right, Brandon?" Hope gasps. "I am not a slut. I am simply generous. Call it a gift." "Yeah well, " I laugh. "Kyan's the gift that keeps on giving. Chlamydia will burn for a week or two." Poppy nods, her eyes rolling slightly before she glances around. "Why is everyone here anyway?"

"We were on our way to the gym." "You wanna join?" Finn asks. If it gets me the fuck away from Hope, I'm game. "Sure."

Chapter Fifteen POPPY

“Gold” – Kiiara HOPE CAREFULLY APPLIES A THICK LAYER OF BRIGHT RED LIPSTICK. I KNOW I WAS RUDE WHEN SHE SHOWED up. I shouldn't have been, but shit, just let me be. "So did he tell you why in the hell he went AWOL?" Hope asks, digging through her purse before she pulls out some black eyeliner. "Got a sharpener?" "No." "No you don't have a sharpener, or no you haven't found out why he went AWOL?" "Neither." She shakes her head as she attempts to use her fingernail to dig some of the eyeliner out. "I never understood you and your disrespect for makeup." I sigh. "So why haven't you asked him?" It seems simple enough. And you'd think I would have insisted on finding out what went through his head when he ran off. But, I just haven't. I guess maybe, I don't want to know, or maybe I just don't care any longer. "Just haven't. He's uh, well, you know, not really himself." "Probably has PTSD. Combat usually fucks a guy up, I mean killing people and all, can you imagine?" She smudges some of the eyeliner over her eyelids then tosses the pencil back inside her purse. "Has he scared the shit out of you yet?" I think back to his outburst the night I found him. How he pinned me down with his forearm in his sleep. The way he was a few nights ago. "Not really..." "Give it time. Look, I'm not trying to be a cunt, Poppy, but you remember Sylis?" Sylis was some Irish military guy she "dated" a few years back. He was literally insane. "Yeah, you can't exactly forget someone like that." "Yep. PTSD. His family swore he was the most docile person ever before he went to war and did combat. Poppy, it's something they can't control. You can't fix him, you know that?" I stare at her reflection in the mirror, my cheeks warming with anger. She

doesn't get it. "He's not a broken toy, Hope. There's nothing to fix." She drops her chin to her chest, inhaling as she shakes her head. "I didn't mean it like that, I just...Poppy, you're just in for it with him. Your head will constantly be spinning, and before long, with someone like that, you won't know which way is up, which way is down, and where your arsehole is to wipe it." "Can we just change the subject or something." "Yep," she says, primping her hair before turning from the mirror. "So, this fight. What time does it start?" "Ten." She nods. "Well, this should be interesting. Dive bar, bad boy boxers." She smiles. "You know I like my men rough around the edges, like pikey Brad Pitt." Rolling my eyes, I grab my purse from the floor of the bathroom. "Yeah. I know." "And that Kyan." She bites down on her lip. "He looks about as rough as they come." "And dirty, Hope. Dirty." She heads to the door, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "A little filth never hurt anyone." IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT AND THE PUB BASEMENT IS PACKED. THE SMELL OF STALE BEER AND CIGARETTE smoke permeates the air causing my nose to wrinkle. Money is changing hands everywhere I look. The hum of voices almost drowns out the heavy rock music blaring through the room. A girl in a neon green bikini walks around the outside of the roped off ring. The stringy material barely covers her nipples, much less her ass. Smiling, she prances around the ring with a board raised above her head that reads: Five minutes. Five minutes before grown men beat each other into a bloody pulp. I roll my eyes. Hope claps her hands. People swarm closer to the ropes. These sweaty men have no respect for personal space, and me and Hope are jostled around as everyone pushes closer and closer. The tattered rope to the ring is right in front of me and I grab onto it to keep from falling over. "We're going to get crushed if we stay right here," I shout over the noise. Hope grins. "This is the best spot. Close enough to get their sweat and blood on me." She throws her head back on a laugh. "There's something wrong with you." "What?" she shouts. I shake my head. Larry appears from the back of the room and slips between the ropes. "Ladies. Fellas," he speaks into an old microphone. The speakers crackle and screech with feedback. "Welcome to The Pit. Tonight, we have three fights lined up, all new challengers for your favorite boys." There's a loud round of applause, which

prompts a deep grin to set over Larry's weathered face, his eyes sparking. "So, tonight's challenger is from up north. Undefeated in his last three fights, it's Dale Winters!" A few people cheer—women, but there's a low boo that booms around the room. A brawny man with a shaved head steps into the ring, pumping his fist in the air. "And, like I need to introduce this bastard, Finn the 'Iron Fist' West." The entire basement rattles from the applause as Finn dashes through the ropes and circles the ring. A bell dings and the two men round each other, knuckles up, gazes locked. "Punch 'em in the face, Finn," the drunk man behind me shouts. Finn throws a punch and the other guy darts. Another jab is thrown, this time, Finn's knuckles land on the side of Dale's face, his head whipping around and spittle flying out. "Oh, such Neanderthals," Hope says with a swoon. "I love it." The fight lasts no longer than five minutes. Finn gets in one good punch to the guy's temple and he falls to his knees, pitching backwards and forwards for a moment, spit flying from his mouth when he finally hits the floor. Finn leaves the ring and Larry bends down next to Dale, rubbing smelling salt beneath his nose. Dale sits up, groggy and unsteady, and Larry helps him to his feet and out of the ring. "Well," Hope says. "If this doesn't get your ovaries pumping, I don't know what will." "Right,” I slowly turn to look at her, my eyes narrowing. “Because bloody noses and split lips are so sexy..." The screech of a guitar and loud bass of drums comes blaring through the speakers and, as if on cue, the girl in the green bikini prances around the ring again with the five-minute warning sign. "Oh, I hope the dirty one is up next," Hope says. "You mean Kyan?" "Yep." She smiles, but only for a moment before a scowl forms on her face. "What?" "Look at him over there brooding." She crosses her arm over her chest and shakes her head. "Such a child." I follow her stare to the other side of the ring to find Brandon, a drink in one hand and a nasty glare set on both of us. "What's his deal?" she asks. "He doesn't like me coming here." I shrug. "He thinks it's too rough." "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were a precious little wallflower. For the love of God, Poppy, don't let him treat you like an invalid. You are plenty capable of taking care of yourself." "I'm here aren't I?" Just then, the guy behind me grabs my waist, attempting to dance with me. I

turn around and glare at him. "No thanks." "Ah, come on now, love." He reaches for my waist again and I swat his hairy hand away. "I don't want to dance." A smirk forms over his face. Hope steps beside me. "How ‘bout I cut you if you touch her again?" "That a promise, love?" He leans down, inching his face toward her as he grabs my hips. "I like a woman with a bit of fire in her." "Oh, I'm a ginger, there's plenty of fire in me," she says, rearing back and throwing a punch at the man. He catches her arm and twists it. Suddenly, the entire crowd shifts and sways. There's shouting. Women scream. I'm knocked over, my shoe falling off in the process. Hope grabs onto me and we scurry to the side of the room. "What the crap happened?" I ask, panting for breath. Hope stares across the room at the men shouting. Her brow wrinkles before her eyes pop wide and she grins. "Oh, Brandon just happened." "What?" "Yep." Her smile widens. I peer over the top of the crowd. Brandon's got the guy pinned up against the wall by his throat, wailing on his face with his free hand. Several men are attempting to drag Brandon away, but to no avail. At first, I’m shocked and cover my mouth with my hand. I watch in horror for a few seconds, my heart banging furiously against my ribs. I wait for someone to get control of him, but he’s like a beast. “Damn it,” I say as I take off, shoving my way through the crowd. "Poppy, what in the hell are you doing?" Hope shouts after me, but I keep going. I'm about three feet away from Brandon when a man blocks me. "Brandon!" I yell around the man. "Stop it. Stop before you kill him." Two men finally manage to pull Brandon away and the man falls to his hands and knees, his face smeared with blood. Brandon struggles against the men restraining him, somehow managing to kick the injured guy in the gut. "Brandon O'—"I stop myself just as Larry comes charging through the crowd with Finn right behind him. Larry's carrying a fire extinguisher and swearing as he shoves through the men. "Fucking hell, Brandon." Larry stops behind him. The men holding Brandon turn around, and when they do, Brandon breaks free from their hold, immediately grabbing the stunned man on the floor and hitting him again. "Motherfu..." Larry pulls the pin to the fire extinguisher, aims, and sprays the foam all over Brandon. And…he freezes. It's almost like that snapped him back into reality for a split second. Brandon glances down at the bleeding man, then down to his blood-covered knuckles. "Now get your ass on back to the lockers." Larry points to the back of the room, fire extinguisher still aimed and ready to spray if needed. Brandon gives me one fleeting glimpse before turning around and storming

across the room. Larry shakes his head as he makes his way back through the crowd. Hope grips my elbow. "Holy shit. That was hot." I glare at her. "No, it wasn't. Look at that guy." I point to the man slumped against the wall, several men now attempting to help him to his feet. "That is not hot. That is out of control." She shrugs. "I mean, yeah, but still. The guy was being a ripe dick." Tossing my hands in the air, I go to walk off, but Hope grabs onto my arm. "Let him be." I yank away from her grip. "I'll be back in just a minute." Why I want to follow him, I don’t know. I should leave him alone, but something inside of me can't stand to see him hurt like that. Not the physical wounds. That's not what any of this is about. It's the deeper scars. The real reason he's become Brandon "The Breaker" Blaine. It's that feeling deep inside his soul, inside the little bit of heart he has left. The need he feels to punish himself for something he had no control over—that's why I want to follow him, because I do know what that's like. I stayed up for nights on end, wondering if Connor would still be here if I'd fought him a little harder about the military. I blamed myself because isn't that the easiest thing to do—blame yourself for something that destroys you? I open the door and hurry through the exit. I'm halfway down the corridor when I hear Brandon shout a string of profanities that are interrupted by the unmistakable thud of his fists slamming into one of the metal lockers. I turn the corner. Brandon's arms are braced against the locker, his sweat slicked muscles tensed, his chest heaving. My gaze swings to the huge dent in the locker with a spatter of blood in the center. I cautiously approach him. I know he must hear me, but regardless of that, his head remains dropped. With each step I take toward him, I watch him. His shoulders rise and fall on heavy breaths, the exaggerated movements cause those purple scars that dot his side and back to catch underneath the fluorescent lights. I stop behind him, staring at that long, jagged scar. I just want to touch it for some reason, run my fingers along it to let him know he’s still perfect, he’s still Brandon… "Brandon," I whisper as I lift my hand and gently brush my fingertip over the longest of his scars, the raised skin almost like braille beneath my finger. The next thing I know, Brandon spins around, grabs me by both shoulders, and slams me against the metal lockers with a bang. The scream I let out from the sudden shock of it echoes down the hallway. His eyes are locked on mine, void of all expression. His nostrils flare. "Brandon," I say calmly, because I'm not sure he's even here right now. I need him to come back, leave the warzone in his mind. "Brandon..." His eyebrows pull together in a frown and his fingers wrap around my jaw in a fierce grip. For a second, I think he's snapping out of it, but all at once, everything

changes. He presses his body against mine, pinning me between his hard chest and the dented locker door. His eyes drop to my lips just before his mouth brutally slams over mine. I can't breathe. I can't move. Shock has me completely frozen. His lips lay harder over my mouth, trembling as they demand a response to his violence. His grip on my jaw grows more intense, and I fear he's going to break my skin. His tongue grazes my lips and my body softens under that simple touch. I can’t help but to gravitate toward him. Something that has long been dormant awakens, surging to the surface like a rogue wave and washing over me. Brandon's lips sear me, heating every cold inch of my body. I should push him away, but I couldn't find the strength if I tried. So, I surrender, winding my arms around his neck and tugging him closer. I part my lips. His tongue brushes mine, generating a fire that threatens to consume us both. All his anger, his pain, our pain—is poured into this one kiss. And it's such a beautiful kind of torture. A blinding shaft of pure light in our own personal hell. And just as quickly as the kiss started, it ends. Brandon tears away from me. He staggers back several steps, swiping his hand down his jaw and over his mouth. He cast one, fleeting glance in my direction before he turns his back on me. "I..." I start, but I don't know what to say. What can I say? “I…” "Just go, Poppy," he whispers. "Brandon..." I take a step toward him. He turns to face me, but holds out a hand as if he wishes he could ward me off. "I can't...I can't do this right now." My heart pounds, my chest growing tight before I turn and walk out of the locker room. I can’t do this right now. Shaking my head, I laugh because I heard those exact words from Brandon when I was sixteen: "Why you out here all by yourself, possum?" "Don't know." I shrugged, kicking my legs off the side of the pier, my toes barely dipping beneath the water. "Connor was looking for you—well, you and the Caramel Nibbles." He laughs. I roll my eyes. I wish it were Connor I was in love with because he would never run off with Nieve Kirkpatrick. Loving him wouldn't hurt the way loving Brandon does. "I'm sure Nieve is looking for you." There's an edge to my tone even though I try my hardest to keep it polite. She wants Brandon. He wants her. She is everything I will never be—the slutty blonde who can make boys fall to their knees with one glance. "Well, she can keep looking." "I saw you kiss her the other week." Heat washes over my cheeks. "She's pretty." "She's alright." He sits down next to me and nudges me. "Wouldn't be jealous, would you, poss?" "Jealous of what? And stop calling me that." "Of me kissing her." "I don't care who you kiss."

"You don't?" "No," I say with a sigh. "You've probably got mouth gonorrhea or something." Brandon laughs, and I hate him and love him at the same time. Everything about him makes me want him. It's annoying. He pinches my side and I jerk away, giggling. "My little possum is jealous." "Would you shut up?" I turn to face him and he's so close to me, his breath laced with whiskey and cigarettes. I close my eyes, breathing him in, pretending I could kiss him if I wanted. "I'd kiss you too, if you'd let me..." he says, and my heart goes into a fit. In the dark, I can barely see the faintest of smiles flicker across his lips, his green eyes dancing. My pulse hammers in my chest and I swallow. The next thing I know, Brandon's fingers sweep my hair behind my ear and his lips barely brush mine. A rush of heat drowns me and before I can move, his mouth crushes over mine. So soft and warm and gentle. He holds his lips against mine, his hand cupping the back of my head as the tip of his tongue touches mine. And just like that, he pulls away on a sigh. "Fuck..." He stumbles to his feet, dragging his hand through his hair as he paces the length of the pier. "What, I..." "I can't. I just can't do this with you." My nostrils flare, my jaw tenses, and anger crashes through me. "I didn't ask you to." But Brandon's already half way up the lawn, heading back to the house. Brandon O’Kieffe was my first crush, my first kiss, and the first boy to ever break my heart...

Chapter Sixteen BRANDON

“Demons” – Imagine Dragons WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? POPPY? OF ALL THE FUCKING PEOPLE. I JUST LOST IT. MY MIND WAS completely engrossed by the bloody memories of war, and then…there she was, like a fucking apparition. For a second, all I wanted was to bathe in her warmth, to remember what it's like to be immersed in that glow she emanates. She's so beautiful and good and, fuck...Connor's. She always was, and she always will be, Connor's. I shouldn’t have kissed her, but I liked it. She made it all disappear, the hate and the anger and the battle raging in my mind. The second my lips touched hers, there was nothing but silence, and my mind hasn't been silent since that bomb exploded. That one kiss was peace in a lifetime of war and it terrifies me. The guilt is eating me alive, gnawing away in the pit of my stomach until I feel physically sick. I've done a lot of wrong in my life, but my best friend's widow.... that’s the shit that will get you a spot in the inner circle of hell. I PUSH AND SHOVE MY WAY THROUGH THE SWARM OF SPECTATORS ALL FOCUSED ON KYAN'S FIGHT. PEOPLE turn to glare at me, then they realize who I am, at which point, they can't get out of my way quick enough. On the far side of the basement is a fire exit. I shove it open and climb up the short flight of stairs that lead out into the alley at the back of the pub. The air outside is cold and I inhale a deep breath, allowing it to clear my mind. A spark of light catches my eye. I watch through the shadows as Finn leans against the wall of the alleyway, cupping the flame from his lighter. Wordlessly, he holds out a packet of cigarettes, offering me one. I take it and he lights it for me. The thick smoke lingers in my lungs and I slowly release it, allowing it to drift past my lips. "You're slipping," Finn says quietly. I sigh and rest against the wall right next to him. He fights like an animal when he's in the ring, but outside of it, he's practically a ghost. He's the guy that sits

back. The one you forget is even there, but he hears and sees everything. He may not say much, but when he does, everyone listens, and, to me, his presence is a comfortable silence. "It's just been a rough couple of weeks." I take another drag from the cigarette. He shrugs one shoulder, throwing his cig on the ground and stepping on it. "Careful, friend. If you go up in flames with her standing too close, she's going to get burned." I nod. I know. I know all too well. He pushes off the wall and saunters back inside, closing the fire exit behind him. He has this way of placing thoughts in your mind and then just leaving you to think on it. The hurt look on Poppy's face plays through my mind over and over. And It's not the first time I've put that look on her face either. I'm a fucking arsehole. IT’S STARTED TO RAIN. WATER TRICKLES FROM THE EAVE AS I LINGER JUST OUTSIDE THE DOOR, KEY IN hand. I've tried to think of what to say to her the entire way home, but I can't come up with a single fucking thing. I inhale, slide the key into the keyhole, and brace myself. But when I open the door, I'm met with darkness. "Poss?" Nothing. She's not here. I switch the light on, head straight for the kitchen, and grab a bottle of whiskey. I pause, staring at the golden-brown liquid, and for a moment, I feel guilty, guilty that I'm not better than this. But I'm just not, and there's no point in pretending otherwise. I yank the top off and press the bottle to my lips, swallowing back a third of the bottle in several gulps. Numbness, lack of feeling…these are the things I'm constantly chasing, and Poppy—she makes everything bright and shiny. I don't want it. So, I drink and I drink. By the time the lock on the front door clicks open, I'm three quarters of the way into the bottle. Rain now pounds against the windows, thunder rumbling as though the whole world is mad at me. Poppy steps into the room, her long brown hair drenched and hanging in front of her face. Her entire body is soaked liked a drowned rat. She gives me a shortlived glance before making her way back to the bedroom, banging into the wall as she goes. Fuck, she's drunk. A few minutes later, she comes stumbling down the hall wearing one of my ratty, old Nirvana t-shirts that hits her at mid-thigh. My eyes stray down to her bare legs and I sigh, trying to block out the thoughts running through my mind. It's fighting a losing battle. That kiss...it was like ripping off a Band-Aid. I haven't kissed Poppy for nearly ten years, not since I was seventeen years old. I blocked it all out, shoved any romantic feelings I had for her into a hole so deep, I hoped they would never surface because I could never hurt Connor that way. And I hated myself for hurting her that way, for reciprocating something that had no right being there in the first place. But now...one kiss, and everything is right there at the front of

my mind. Only, this time, it's infinitely more painful because it's shadowed by guilt, haunted by Connor's ghost. She plops down at the end of the couch, grabs the TV remote, and turns it on, surfing through the channels. I just stare at her, wanting to say something, but instead, I tilt that bottle back. "Gonna drink the whole bottle again?" she asks, her eyes glued to the TV. I want to pretend her disappointment doesn't affect me, but of course, that's bullshit. I down the remaining whiskey, drop the empty bottle on the floor, and listen to the glass as it rolls across the carpet. "Yep." "Wanna go wander out into the street and see if you can find someone else to beat up?" She shakes her head. "Really, it's amazing. You're an angry, drunk fighter." She claps her hands. "Way to go, Brandon. Way to fucking go." She hiccups. Oh, she's on form. The thing with Poppy, she's the sweetest person you could wish to meet, until you hurt her feelings. And then the only way she knows to handle it is to try and hurt you right back. I'm fucking invincible though. She can't hurt me. "It's not like anyone ever had high expectations of me, is it now?" She snorts. She's pushing the buttons on the remote so hard, the controller shakes every time she changes the channel. "You're an asshole." Another drunk hiccup. She glares at me and I can't help but smirk at her. Poppy's shit at being mad, but damn she's cute when she's drunk. "I've always been an arsehole, poss." A slight smile tugs at her lips and she shakes her head. "And now, entering the ring, Brandon the Breaker Blaine..." She giggles before cupping her hands to her mouth and pretending to be the roaring crowd. "Punch him in the face, Brandon." Now her voice sounds more like some annoying bimbo. "You kill him, I'll sit on your face and have your illegitimate children, Brandon. Blood makes me all hot." She laughs at herself then shakes her head. "Dumb women." I press my lips together to stifle a laugh. "You almost sound jealous there, poss." She whips her head around and glares at me. "Get over yourself, Brandon. Should I remind you, I'm not the one who kissed you? So, you can take that jealous bullshit and shove it." I pull my gaze away from her and stare at the coffee table. "It was a mistake. I was...my head was in a bad place." "Your head's always in a bad place." She drags her hands down her face. That little demon in me rears its ugly head. Gritting my teeth, I fight with myself. "Yes.” My gaze snaps back to her. “It fucking is. And I have told you a thousand fucking times to run as far and as fast from it as you can." But I don't want her to. I'm a selfish prick. "Can't take the hits, get the fuck out of the way." She sighs. "Why did you do it?" And there it is, the question I don't have an answer for. All I know is that Poppy

represents something good; happiness, a better time. I both love and hate her for it. I want to push her away at the same time as I want to hold her so tight I'll never let go. Everything about her is a double-edged sword. But all I know is that for those precious few seconds that she kissed me back, I found peace. "I don't know," I whisper honestly. "Friends?" I hold up my little finger and she stares at it for a moment, her eyes softening. She slowly links her little finger through mine. "Always and forever." "Promise?" I feel raw and exposed, clinging to her as if everything starts and ends with her. I don't like it. "I mean, I did just pinky promise on it. And besides, I'm used to you being an asshole. It'll take a lot more than that to make me hate you." That's just the thing though, eventually, she will hate me. She flops back against the couch cushion, her head lulling to the side and coming to rest on my shoulder. "Being a grown up sure does suck, doesn't it?" I wrap my arms around her and pull her against my chest. "Yeah, it was so much simpler when we were kids." I kiss her damp hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo mixed with rainwater. "Remember when we used to climb up that oak in your garden and throw shit at Connor?" She giggles. "Yeah. He was so bad at climbing trees." "I always did tell him he was an evolutionary drop out." I snort. "He did come and get me that time I got stuck, though." "Yeah, but then he fell and broke both his arms." I laugh, because he looked like such a dick walking around school with both his arms in casts. Still, everyone signed them and no one took the piss out of him. He was Connor Blaine, friend to everyone. The golden boy. "That was him, though. Always coming to the rescue." A soft smile forms on her lips, but I can see the tears building in her eyes. Cupping her face, I swipe my thumbs under her eyes. "I'm fucking starving,” I say. “Want some pizza?" "Sure." And that's it. Poppy's version of being pissed off lasts all of five minutes. I wish all women were like that. Life would be a damn site easier. I order pizza and we watch some shit on the Discovery Channel until she falls asleep on me. Having her small body pressed against mine is comforting, soothing in a strange way, but I don't trust myself to fall asleep like this, so I slip out from underneath her and pick her up, carrying her to the bedroom. When I pull the duvet over her, she grabs onto my wrist. "Connor?" she murmurs his name in her sleep and my chest plummets. I swallow around the lump in my throat and kiss her forehead, wishing, for her sake, that I was Connor. As I stare at Poppy's sleeping form, so small in my king size bed, I wonder how we got here? Two lost souls trying to save each other from unsalvageable events. She may be my hope, but I'm surely her destruction. I just wish she would see it. I wish she would run but she won't, because she has nothing

to run to.

Chapter Seventeen POPPY

“Radioactive” – Madilyn Bailey PROFESSIONAL TREATMENT FOR PTSD CAN HELP RELIEVE THE SYMPTOMS YOU ARE DEALING WITH. A doctor or therapist will have you relive the traumatic experience in a controlled environment in order to process the emotions which may help reduce the powerful hold the event has on your life. "What's that?" Brandon asks as he walks past me and into the kitchen. I glance up from the words, watching as he grabs a mug from the cupboard. His hair is damp, and a tattered towel clings to his hips, and I can't help but let my eyes roam over the defined expanse of his back, watching his muscles tense and flex with every tiny movement that's made. "Something I picked up the other day," I say, closing the book and holding it up so he can see the title: "PTSD: Moving Past the Pain". I watch him, waiting to see what kind of reaction he'll have to this. He briefly skims the title, rolls his eyes, then swats his hand through the air. "Nothing in a book is going to help me with this shit." "Brandon." I sigh and toss the book down onto the couch. "You need help, you know? And that fight ring isn't helping you. At all. All it does is aggravate the situation." He shrugs, turning his back to me. "Gives me someone to hit." "Someone to hit...Jesus, Brandon. Really?" I point to the ratty punching bag in the corner of the room. "Hit that thing, why don't you?" He turns around, spreading his arms wide. "They get fucking paid. I get fucking paid. Everyone's happy." "You're not happy, Brandon." I swallow, waiting on his anger to bubble to the surface. Maybe I shouldn't have said it, but it's the truth. He grips the edge of the counter. The muscles in his jaw repeatedly clench. "This is as good as it gets, Poppy. I don't need anything more. I don't fucking want more." "How can you not want more than this?" I gesture around the bleak apartment.

His chin drops to his chest, and a strand of dark hair falls over his forehead. There's an uncomfortably tense moment of silence before his head lifts, his sad eyes locking with mine. "Because those are the cards I was fucking dealt," he whispers. "Stop it, Brandon." I shake my head. "Just stop it!" Those words come out sounding much harsher than I meant. My heart is pounding in my temples, my chest constricting. I reach to touch him, skimming my fingers over his arm. "Stop wallowing in it." His brows pull together, and his eyes grow hard and cold. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Every single thing I do makes me feel guilty because he's not getting to do it. So, I'll take the fucking punches, and give them right back, because it makes me feel better. If you want to move on, be my fucking guest, but I can't." I can feel the hate filling the tiny apartment. I fight back the sob working its way up my throat. I grit my teeth, swallow, and inhale. "Don't you dare do that to me!" I take a step toward him. "Do not act like I'm just letting him go." He pushes off the kitchen counter and walks toward the hallway. "Don't try to fix me, Poppy. You'll be bitterly disappointed." The door to his bedroom slams shut, and I stand in the middle of the living room with anger pulsing through me. Part of me wants to punch him or the wall or....I slam my fist against the punching bag and it barely budges. Pain radiates up my arm as I shake my hand out. I stare at the bloody knuckle prints and smears, wondering what it is that I am doing. I want Brandon to be Brandon. I want him to realize he's worth so much. To make him feel loved and cared for. And when he just walks away from me like that...My head is swimming in confusion, but even with that, all I want to do is make this better—for both of us. I go to his room and slowly push open the door. He's sitting on the edge of the mattress, his head hung as he stares at the crumpled picture that sits beside his bed. My chest tightens. Brandon 'The Breaker' —so indestructible, yet so utterly shattered. Without a word, I crawl onto the bed and slide up behind him, wrapping my arms around his broad body. The way he smells is familiar, and there is something soothing about having familiarity in a world that seems so foreign. I peer over his shoulder at the picture of him and Connor. "He dragged you into signing up for the army." I laugh. "God, you pitched a fit. Remember?" I take the picture from his hands, forcing myself to stare at Connor. Making myself look at him all the while reminding myself that he is dead. Gone. No longer mine. That ache settles in my chest, causing my heartbeat to stutter for a second. "Yeah. Stupid fucker was determined." He shakes his head. "I hated every minute of training. Only stayed because I refused to leave him." "Honestly, I was shocked you didn't get kicked out. I actually bet Connor a

hundred quid you wouldn't last three weeks." "Ye of little faith.” He snorts. “I'll give it to you; I was so close to walking out when they made us sit in that muddy ditch for two days in the piss wet rain." He shakes his head. "This..." I rest my chin on his shoulder and rub my hand over his arm before lacing my fingers through his. "This is what we need to do. Remember him. We don't have to let him go, Brandon, just the hurt. Only the hurt, never him." "War fucked me up long before Connor died. That just...pushed me over the edge. I'm angry at everyone and everything." He turns to face me, and I rest my forehead against his. His brow furrows, his eyes soften, and his callused fingertips brush over my cheek. "Except you." "I don't want to fix you, Brandon. I just want to understand you." Tears blur my vision so I close my eyes. His rough fingers continue to trail over my face, and the longer they do, the more I lean in to his touch, because it is safe, it is understanding, it is as close to home as I'll ever get again. "Trust me, you don't want to understand me," he whispers. I open my eyes and stare at him, my eyes desperately searching his. At one time, not that long ago, I knew this boy right here like the back of my own hand. But now there are parts to Brandon that I don't know—pieces that are violent and angry, a person that I fear he has little control over. "I just want to understand what you're going through. I know you, Brandon." I trace my finger over his shoulder. "I know you." There's a beat of silence and his thumb gently brushes over my bottom lip. "God, I fucking wish I was still that guy you knew, poss, I really do." "You are," I whisper. "Deep down, you are." I do believe that. I do...

Chapter Eighteen BRANDON

“When You Were Young” – The Killers “DEEP DOWN, YOU ARE,” SHE SAYS. AND THERE’S SUCH HOPE IN THAT STATEMENT, HOPE I KNOW I’LL DO nothing but smash. Poppy’s soft breath touches my face and I back away, locking eyes with her. "That guy wouldn't have kissed you, poss." The pathway of her fingers across my arm comes to a halt. "That guy did kiss me once." She exhales, her gaze drifting down to my mouth before she closes her eyes and swallows. "Besides, it was just a kiss, Brandon," she whispers. “Just a kiss.” "This is you and me. There is no 'just'." "No, you're wrong there, Brandon.” A sad smile touches her lips. “We're just friends." I frown because I can picture the broken expression on her innocent, sixteenyear-old face as I uttered those exact words to her. I can practically feel my chest aching the same way it did then. The guilt swallows me because we were never just friends. I felt things for her that I had no right to feel because Connor loved Poppy, and I loved him. It was messed up, but even back then I knew he was a better man for her, I knew he deserved her in a way I never would. My dad always said that I was good for nothing, that I was a waste of oxygen, so even though I wanted her, I stepped back and watched destiny take its course. I was too selfish to ever let her go completely, and every day I felt like the world's biggest prick because I was in love with my best friend's girl. Every day, I looked at her and pretended I felt nothing, and, in a way, nothing has changed. Connor's ghost is more of a deterrent than he ever was. But…I can't help it. In the end, we all lost. She and I, we're all that's left of something that was so beautiful and so fucking vital to my survival. I need her. "I loved you enough to be your friend,” I whisper. “Even when it hurt." She gently takes my chin in her hand, turning my face. She's biting down on that damn lip of hers, her gaze flitting between my eyes and my mouth. "Loved?" she says quietly.

"I've always loved you, Poppy." I sweep my thumb over her bottom lip. "You bring me peace when all I know is war." And here we sit, staring at each other, lost in whatever this is between us, and then, Poppy leans in gently placing her lips to mine. A calm washes over me—the kind you get when you’re standing in the middle of the woods when it snows. Silent. Calm. Still. I grab the back of her neck, pulling her closer, needing every part of her. A little voice in the back of my mind is screaming that this is wrong, but rational thought has given way to the simple need to survive, and that's what Poppy feels like right now: fucking survival. Without her, I'll drown. She grips both sides of my face and a soft sob breaks through her lips. Her eyes close when she touches her forehead to mine. We're trapped in this swirling vortex of guilt and anger, twisted love and desperate need. Her soft fingertips drift along my jaw before her lips tentatively brush mine again. I cup her face, swiping the tears from her cheek as I press my mouth harder over hers. The kiss grows into something desperate, as though we're both fusing together while somehow fracturing apart. Her fingers wind into my hair, tugging on the strands, and I'm not sure if she's pulling me closer or pushing me away. The guilt eats at me, gnawing in the pit of my stomach like a parasite. If I were a better person, I would push her away. If I truly loved Connor, surely I couldn't do this, to him, to her? But she's too easy to get lost in. Whatever slither of my worthless soul is left, I will hand it over to her willingly, for this...this tiny slice of peace, a futile salvation. Before I know it, my hands are gripping at her hips and I'm shoving her back onto the mattress. Her body feels so small beneath mine, so fragile, and I crave her in a way that feels like insanity. When I move to kiss her again, she holds a finger to my lips, halting me. Her eyes close on a ragged breath. The trance shatters, and, once again, I feel like an arsehole. "I'm sorry." I drag a hand down my face, shame crawling over me. Poppy is holy ground that I just desecrated. "Don't be..." I feel the mattress dip when she stands. She doesn't say another word, just quietly walks out of my room, closing the door behind her. There are some things you can never take back, some things that have the potential to be so destructive...and this is most definitely one of them.

Chapter Nineteen POPPY

“Friends” – Ed Sheeran WHAT. THE. HELL? I pace in front of the couch with the unmistakable taste of his lips on mine. My head is a jumbled mess, my emotions all over the place, and the guilt—the guilt of it is nearly paralyzing. Connor would roll over in his grave. Actually, when it comes to me and Brandon, there are a lot of things Connor would roll over in his grave about. I fall back onto the couch, angry at myself because I have been here with Brandon before. Brandon O’Kieffe was the boy I always wanted to want me. I tried, believe me, I tried not to fall for him, but the thing is, I was always in love with him, I think, if it’s possible, from the moment I saw him on that playground. And it's just not that simple to make yourself fall out of love with someone. The heart just doesn't work like that. So I accepted that I would always be his friend, and that was better than nothing. And then, one night, at a party, the way he looked at me changed. Within the matter of a second, the tension between us shifted. Snapped. He took me by the hand, stumbling as he led me down the hall and to the spare room. The second he shut the door, he grabbed me and pinned me to the wall, kissing me with the type of passion you only see in movies, the kind of passion everyone tells you only exists within the realms of fiction. It was drunk and it was messy and it hurt, but it was everything I wanted it to be, because it was him. There's a bang over the front door which causes me to jump. "Poppy, it's pouring rain," Hope shouts. "Let me in." Another loud thud. I hear the hinges to Brandon's bedroom door creak and I nearly trip over my own feet trying to get to the front door to let Hope in because she, at this point, is my saving grace. I won't have to discuss any of that awkwardness with Brandon if she is here. The second I unlock the deadbolt; Hope comes toppling inside. Mascara is smudged beneath her eyes, her hair in utter disarray. "I need paracetamol. Now,” she groans. “My head is going to rupture."

"Above the cooker," Brandon says. "In the cabinet." "Ah, yes. Seasoned drunks always have headache medicine on the ready." Hope pushes past me to the kitchen. I turn around and Brandon's shoving clothes into his gym bag. Part of me doesn't want him to leave, then the other part, well, it can't wait for him to get out so I don't have to look at him. He zips his bag, grabs his keys from the coffee table, then, without a word, leaves, closing the door gently behind him. "What in the hell..." Hope steps out from the kitchen, throws the pills inside her mouth, and swallows. "What?" "That." She points at the door. "Him." Her eyes narrow on me, and I can feel my cheeks heating with embarrassment. "You. The two of you..." She covers her mouth with her hand. "Oh. My. God." When her hand drops back to her side, a smile ripples across her face. "You banged him, didn't you? That's what all that awkwardness was about, huh?" "No." I shoot a scowl at her. "Absolutely not." "Well, it wouldn't be the first time..." "Please just shut up." I start past her to the kitchen, but she grabs me by the elbow. "Uh-uh. Come back here, possum." She giggles. I pull away from her, go to the kitchen, and grab a glass of water. "Why wouldn't you, anyway?" she says. "Brandon's hot. I mean, have you taken a good look at his body lately?" My mind veers off to how defined his chest is, how soft his lips are...his eyes. I chug the water then set the cup in the sink. "Don't think I've forgotten about the shit I dealt with from you for weeks after the two of you bumped uglies back in high school. You were gutted, he was...well, he kinda just disappeared for a while. Wouldn't talk to any of us. It was weird. Kinda like now...weird." "Don't you have somewhere to go?" I cross my arms over my chest, turning to glare at her. "Like back to Ireland?" She shrugs. "Nah, that's the luxury of being the heiress to McGrath Whiskey. No responsibility. Tonnes of money. The inexplicable ability to annoy the piss out of you..." She laughs. "Besides, I quite fancy London. Think I may get a flat here or something. Try to snag me some surly pikey." "Outstanding," I grumble. "Alright, you know what, let's go get our nails done. My treat." "I don't want to get my nails done." She's on my last nerve already. "Come on, you need to get out of this scummy flat before the mold spores go to your head. Nails then a walk through the park or something, huh? Promise, not one mention of Brandon's genitals touching yours."

THE ASIAN MAN SHOUTS SOMETHING TO ANOTHER EMPLOYEE AS HE SCRUBS OVER THE BOTTOM OF MY FOOT. "He's telling that other one how gross your toes are, you know?" Hope whispers with a laugh. "You should be ashamed of the state they're in, Poppy. I sure hope you didn't screw Brandon with those feet shoved back by your head. Imagine if he had to stare at the scaggy remains of that one-year old nail polish." I roll my eyes. "You said you wouldn't talk about genitals—" "I said," she holds a freshly painted, pink fingernail up, "I wouldn't talk about the two of you's genitals touching. That was about your feet touching his shoulders while he was crammed up inside you." She burst into laughter, but abruptly falls silent. "Sorry...too much?" Narrowing my gaze in disgust, I nod. "Just a touch." The Asian man chuckles to himself and shakes his head. "Look," Hope says. "I know you're a bit lost and all. And maybe this," she holds her hand up gesturing through the window to the jam-packed London streets, "maybe this is what you need. A new start. Someplace different." She inhales. "But, Brandon, he's not Brandon, and maybe you can't fully see that. Like I said, Poppy, it's obvious he's having issues dealing with what he saw. God knows he must. But I can tell you from dealing with Sylis that is not a road you need to go down right now. You need to—" "I don't need to do anything." Something inside me snaps. My tone's bitter. My pulse skyrocketing. "Hear me out." She looks sternly at me. "You are both in fragile states right now and I'm afraid you'll both just drown together. I'm not saying leave him. Just...I'm getting a flat...I've nothing better to do, stay with me. At least that way you aren't living in some ratty place with carpet that could be considered Grade A biohazard waste. Brandon has no idea what he's up against, and trust me on this, he's gonna lose his shit soon enough. You don't need to be dealing with all that while you're trying to get your feet back under you." "Hope, I..." I know it's a disaster waiting to happen with him. His mood swings. My mood swings. That tension between us constantly swirling. But Brandon is like a drug. I crave his presence, that high, the what ifs... "Just think about it, okay?" I know she's right, of course I do. The problem is, I think I want to drown with him. "I'll think about it." "Well, meanwhile, while you're thinking about it—which I don't know why you are thinking about it. Why wouldn't you want to live with me? I'm a fucking delight..." She snorts at herself. "There's this doctor I know that works at Headley Court, I banged him a time or two, not too shabby either. Anyway, I already spoke to him and he said he could get you a job as an inpatient nurse." She smiles. "You're welcome." I know I need a job. I need some normalcy. And even though Hope is a walking disaster, she somehow manages to pull stunts like this. "Thank you," I say. I jump when the man trimming my nails accidentally catches some skin in his

clippers. He glances up and mouths Sorry. Hopes scrolling on her phone, some god-awful pop song is playing over the sound system, and then, for some reason, I out myself. "He kissed me. Or, well, I kissed him. I don't know, we kissed." "Yeah, figures.” Hope doesn’t even glance up from her phone. “And how did that work out afterwards?" I shrug. "Well, you saw him. He left to go to the gym." "Maybe what you need to think about here is what you stand to lose, Poppy. You already lost Connor..." My chest tightens. Guilt swallows me. And I start to wonder what kind of person I am. A widow getting all giddy over kissing my first crush. My first love. His best friend… "What happens when it all goes tits up with Brandon, huh? You fuck him. You two start dabbling in some type of fucked up, parasitic relationship based on mourning Connor, and when it all falls to pieces, you'll end up losing Brandon too." She sighs. "Not all strangers have always been strangers you know. A lot of them, at one point, meant the world to each other." THE BAR IS PRACTICALLY EMPTY WITH THE EXCEPTION OF LARRY, KYAN, AND—I TAKE A DEEP BREATH— Brandon. Of course, he would be here, it's where all the alcohol is. "He looks so broody, look at him," Hope whispers as we walk toward the bar. "He's all upset that he kissed you. Bless him." "Would you shut up?" I swat her away. "Fine," she holds her hand up and shrugs. "Fine." "Ah, look what that cat drug in," Larry chuckles from behind the counter and points toward us. Kyan and Brandon both turn on their stools. Kyan grins. Brandon, well, he turns back around, grabs his drink, and downs it. "Brooding..." Hope sings in my ear. This time I shove her away and she nearly trips in her heels. "Jesus, Poppy," she groans as she catches herself on one of the grimy pub tables. "And who's this pretty little thing you've brought with you, Poppy?" Larry asks leaning across the bar top. "I'm Hope," she says before I even have a chance to answer. "I'm her best friend." Brandon snorts into his glass before tipping it back. "Wow, it's barely midday and you're already at it," I say. "It's gone ten already, Poppy. Let's not pretend most of Dublin's not gone halfdrunk by now." Hope walks up behind Brandon and whacks him on the back. "Thatta boy, Brandon." He ignores her and I roll my eyes. "I like her," Larry pipes up, grinning at her. Oh, dear god, that's all I need, Hope becoming their own personal hero.

She saunters over to where Kyan is sitting. He, of course, drags his eyes over her body when she hops onto the bar stool next to him. "I second that," he says, staring at her chest. Hope grins at him. "If you're so opposed to daytime drinking,” Brandon says, “what are you doing here?" He’s still staring directly behind the bar. "Hope wanted to go look at apartments...but somehow, we've come here first." "Jesus, she's fucking staying?" He takes another swig of his drink. "Well,” Hope narrows her gaze on Brandon, eyes blazing. “I'm not leaving her with you. For the love of God, your apartment is deplorable." With that comment, Brandon turns and looks at me. I walk up behind him, trailing my fingers over his shoulders. He tenses under my touch and I yank my hand away. I don't even know how to act around him now. "Can I talk to you for a second?" I say. "Alone." He sighs and pushes to his feet. We walk around the corner of the bar, out of the other’s view. He turns, folds his arms over his chest, and stares down at me. Brandon suddenly seems to fill the room, making me feel so small. "Talk," he says, animosity pouring off him. Why is he being like this? It's times like this when I feel like the boy I once knew is truly lost, not a trace of him to be found. "Hope said she's going to rent a flat. She's evidently bored of Ireland..." "Great." Again with the hostility. "Figured you'd be super excited about that one." I laugh, but there's not the slightest flicker of a smile on his face. "Anyway, I'm going to stay with her—” "No.” I stare at him for a moment. The tension right now is so strong it feels as though it is pressing in on me from all sides, and whatever this is going on between us is toxic. I swallow, then continue. "She said she could get me a job at Headley Court and all. You know, just a good way to start over and—” "No, Possum." He takes a deep breath, unfolds his arms, and then slowly closes the space between us. Towering over me, he grips my chin and lifts my face until my eyes meet his. "No," he says quietly, sternly. His eyes drop to my lips just before they close. My staying with him shouldn't be a question. Hope is right, we're both too much of a mess. But…I can't help myself with him. He's like the imploded remains of a destroyed planet, and I'm his lone moon, orbiting him fruitlessly, bound by a simple gravitational pull. And what will be left when it all comes crashing down? He is a person that I cannot lose. "I can't stay with you because I don't want to lose you and if..." I shift my gaze to the floor. This is all so awkward and unplanned. And wrong. Don't forget wrong... He ducks down, forcing me to look at him. "This is us, Poppy. I literally disappeared and you still found me. You can't lose me." There's just a hint of desperation in his voice as his moss green eyes plead with me. I place my palm against his chest, watching my fingers as they scratch over his

shirt. We're both so vulnerable. "I..." My gaze quickly lifts to his mouth, to the perfect dip in the middle of his upper lip. "There should not be an 'us', Brandon. You and I—there is only a you and I..." "No matter what happens, you'll always be my best friend. Always." "Always," I whisper. He leans in, kissing my forehead. I wrap my arms around his broad waist and inhale the scent of his cologne that is permanently tainted by a hint of whiskey. My chest tightens. A little bit of fear has me by the throat. I should have said no, but the truth is, this is what I wanted. I want to stay with him. I want to be near him. I want him to need me just as much as I need him, and the fact that he does is terrifying. I loved Connor more than anything in this world, but he's gone, and honestly, I don't think I can survive this without Brandon. He's my lifeline. He always has been. We're both lost in the middle of some horrible storm and the only way out is together.

Chapter Twenty BRANDON

“Seaside” – The Kooks FINN’S ALREADY WORKING OVER THE SPEED BAG WHEN I WALK INTO THE GYM. HIS HANDS ARE WRAPPED IN gauze, his vest soaked with sweat. He spares me a brief glance before going back to his workout. I strap my hands and hammer my fists against the bag over and over. I allow the violence to consume me, allow my mind to slip until it's blinking through the images that haunt me, placing me right back in the middle of a war scene. The rhythmic sound of my fists hitting the bag morphs into the steady pop, pop, pop of gunfire. My legs become unsteady at the memory of explosions vibrating the ground beneath my feet. And finally, the image of Connor's lifeless eyes staring at me surface, and that is an image that has been branded into my mind in vivid detail. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on it, allowing the pain to engulf me because I deserve it, and I need to fucking remember what's at stake here. Poppy is not just some chick. Hell, Poppy isn't even one of the girls that you think could be a keeper. She's Poppy fucking Blaine. She's family. "Bran." I lash out when I feel someone touch my shoulder, my hand slams around Finn's throat. He brings his arm up and easily twists out of my hold. My heart slams against my ribs. I can't breathe properly. His dark brows pinch together in a frown as he stares at me. "Sorry," I mumble. He folds his arms over his chest, watching me like a hawk. "You fucked her, didn't you?" "What? No!" He tilts his head to the side. "Only the guilty torture themselves." "I..." I drag a hand through my hair. "I kissed her. I didn't mean to." He shrugs one shoulder. "And now you feel guilty." "I can't even explain to you how Connor was with her." I shake my head. "She

was everything to him and I betrayed him." "Brandon." I lift my eyes to Finn’s. There's this sadness lurking within them. "He's dead," he says simply, as though it's justification, as though Connor’s death eliminates my loyalty to him. I don't want justification or to be relieved of guilt. I frown, dropping my gaze to the floor. "He was my fucking brother. Death doesn't change that." He shrugs. "No, but you can't betray the dead. All you can do is live." He turns and walks away, picking up his gym bag on his way out. I OPEN THE DOOR TO THE APARTMENT, EXPECTING POPPY TO BE OUT SOMEWHERE WITH HOPE, BUT SHE'S not. She's sitting on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other. The black jeans she's wearing are tight, her green blouse slightly see through. My eyes drift to her made up face. Her eyes seem to pop against the dark eyeshadow, and the bright red lipstick she’s wearing does nothing but accentuate how full her lips are. The way her wavy hair hangs so carelessly across her shoulders makes me want to fist it right before I kiss her. I hate that I'm looking at her the way I am, but I can't help it. She's gorgeous. I narrow my eyes at her and drop my bag to the floor. "You look nice," I say, suspicion in my voice. "Thanks." She smiles. "We're going out." "Out where?" "I don't know yet." Shrugging one shoulder, she pushes to her feet. "But, you smell like feet. Go take a shower, would you?" She gently places her hand between my shoulder blades, shoving me towards the hallway. "I smell like man," I mumble under my breath, the comment making her snort. "Well, the smell of man is gross." Stopping, I turn around and brace my arms against the walls of the small hallway. Poppy places her hands on her hips, lifts one eyebrow, and purses those bright red lips. "Aw, poss. I don't remember you being so prissy." I smile, grabbing her and pulling her against my sweaty chest for a hug. She shrieks. "Let me go! Oh, my God..." She dry heaves. "You smell...Oh, God...something awful. Death. You smell like dead cat or badger gravy. Better yet, dead cat bathed in badger gravy." She gags again. I throw my head back on a laugh and hold her for a second longer while she struggles against me. When I release her, she glares at me. "I'm offended," I say, sniffing as I pull my shirt over my head. Her eyes drop to my stomach for a second and I smirk before I turn into the bathroom. "You're offended?!" she says as I slam the bathroom door in her face.

TEN MINUTES LATER I WALK INTO THE LIVING ROOM WEARING A PAIR OF JEANS AND A LONG-SLEEVED TOP. She looks me up and down, the corner of her lip curling slightly. "You'll do, I guess." On the way out the door, my eyes drift to her arse those tight jeans are giving me a perfect view of. Damn it, this is fucking Poppy. Poppy! "Where are we going?" I ask. She glances back over her shoulder at me. "I told you, I don't know yet. Just...out." I HATE PEOPLE. I NEVER USED TO. HELL, THERE'S A LOT OF THINGS I NEVER USED TO DO, NEVER USED TO dislike. Now though, crowds are an issue. Poppy is sitting next to me, throwing nervous glances my way as the tube fires along the tracks. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to regulate my breathing. The walls of the metal tube feel like they are pressing in on me, no doubt, because it’s buried beneath the weight of an entire fucking city. "You alright?" she asks. "Yep," I say quickly. My fists clench so hard that my knuckles ache and I can feel my shirt starting to stick to my back from the sweat. She grabs my hand, prying my fingers apart. Slowly, she rubs her thumb over the crease of my sweat slicked palm. "It's alright..." she whispers. This shouldn't even be an issue. People do this shit every day, but everything is on high alert. Every instinct I have constantly scans for threats, needing an escape route. The human drive to survive is all consuming, and when you've been in the kind of places I have, that instinct goes into overdrive. Everyone becomes a threat. The most normal situations pose the ability to become hostile in an instant, and the world as you know it becomes one big test of survival. Only, this isn't war. And it doesn't matter how many times I tell myself that, my mind can't over-ride instinct. My body can't forget the trauma. The second the tube stops at Knightsbridge, I push to my feet, tearing my hand away from Poppy and shouldering through the crowd. People shout and curse, but I don't give a fuck. I don't stop until I reach the street level. The smog of the city air has never felt so enticing. "Brandon..." Poppy calls from behind me somewhere. By the time she's caught up to me, she's out of breath. I smirk at her. "You need to go to the gym." "Shut up." I snort. "Okay, you dragged me into this shit-hole city. Now what?" "Don't know. I'm just sick of that scummy apartment and filthy bar." "I'm good. " I glare at her. "You know, I have weed and whiskey at home..." Poppy scowls at me. "You need fresh air." She says this just as a double-decker bus sputters past, the thick smell of exhaust filling the air. "So fucking fresh," I grumble. "Carbon monoxide poisoning...just what I always

fucking wanted." "There's carbon monoxide in your weed, too, dumbass." She laughs. "That's the good kind." I huff, glancing up and down the bustling street. "Uh-huh. So, what are we doing?" "Jesus, woman. You're the one who dragged my arse out here." There’s a metal bench beside the railings that lead down to the subway, and I plop my arse right down on it. "I'm just going to sit here until you make up your mind." "You really want to leave that decision up to me?" A wry smile works over her lips. "Tell you what, you make a decision and I'll tell you whether I'm coming with or fucking going home." "Tower of London, then Madame Tussaud’s, and The London Eye." "I'm going home." I stand up. She grabs my arm and laughs. "You can't leave me here," she says, putting on that sad face she's so damn good at. "Watch me." "Would a father possum leave his little wee possum behind in the big, scary city where other mean possums could get her?" She fights a laugh. I point at her. "I'm not doing the tourist shit. Do I look like a small Japanese man?" She cocks her head to the side and places a finger to her chin, tapping. "I mean..." She squints. "Kinda..." "And I'm not fucking carrying you around." "I didn't ask you to, now did I?" She takes my hand and begins tugging on me. "I've heard that shit before." I swear I spent half my childhood carrying Poppy around. My feet hurt. My legs are tired... She was annoying but damn, I could never tell her no. And I was always twice the size of Connor...and he was fat. Maybe I should have made him carry her, he'd have lost a few pounds. "Come on, we've not gone and done this stuff since we were kids in school." "Fine. But not the wax shit. No one needs to see a still life of Britney Spears." "Oh, but that's the best. I hear they have Justin Bieber now, all covered in a waxy sweat." "I'd rather wipe a ghost chili on my ball bag." She frowns. "What is ghost chili?" "You need to watch more YouTube. Hottest chili in the world." Rolling her eyes, she sighs. "Ghost pepper. It's called ghost pepper." She drags me down the sidewalk, weaving between all the fucking tourists standing around with maps in their faces. "Peppers are sweet. Chili burns. It's a fucking chili." "Pepper." "I'll buy you some, and you can tell me if you think it's a chili or a pepper. One of the guys ordered some when we were last in Bastian, as a joke. I shat through the eye of a needle for fucking days.”

"You’re disgusting, you know it?” I nod. We come to a zebra crossing and I feel a light jab on the shoulder. When I turn around, there’s a small Asian man making strange hand gestures and holding his camera up in front of me. "See, this is why you don't come to central London." I sigh. Poppy elbows me in the side and smiles down at him. "You want us to take your picture?" The man just stares at her and I throw my head back, letting out an exasperated groan as I stare at the sky. "Okay," Poppy takes the camera. "Now just, step back a little. You’ll want the Harrod's sign in the picture and I can't quite get it all." He says something. I have no idea what it is, and Poppy just smiles and nods. "Okay, um...." And this goes on for ages and ages and ages. Poppy, being Poppy, spends the next fifteen minutes trying to communicate with a man who has no fucking clue what she's on about, no matter how many hand gestures she makes or how loudly she speaks. Fuck my life. He stands against the window and she snaps fivefucking-hundred pictures. When she hands the camera back, he smiles and motions her in. Then he hugs her. He glances at me, then to his camera before shuffling toward me. I take a few steps back. "Here. You take..." He starts opening and closing his hands. He either wants me to take a picture, or he's doing a rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”. I sigh and take the camera from him, snapping one picture when Poppy still has her mouth open before I hand it back to him and grab her arm, dragging her away. "He was nice," she says. "Weren't you ever taught stranger danger? Jesus, you'll talk to bloody anyone." I start walking down the street and cross the road at the zebra crossing. "The Tower of London is that way..." "I'm not fucking going to the Tower of London and doing the tourist bullshit. I'll do the Natural History Museum." "You want to go to a museum?" "I like the dinosaur," I grumble. She laughs and loops her arm through mine. "Okay. Dinosaurs it is." By the time we walk the mile or so to the museum, her cheeks have flushed a rosy red from the cold autumn wind. I pay the admission to get in, and then we're standing in front of a massive dinosaur skeleton. We once came on a school trip here, and another time, Connor's parents visited London for a long weekend and brought me along to keep him company. Whenever we came here there was always something so grand about it. I can't really explain it, but when you're standing in front of the remnants of a creature that is millions of years old and probably five times the size of an elephant, you suddenly feel very small. So incredibly inconsequential. I guess it's humbling. Either way, I was always

fascinated by this place. A screaming child goes hurtling past me, a balloon trailing in its wake as a stressed looking guy runs after it. Poppy smiles as she watches the kid run circles around the poor man. "I miss being that little sometimes, you know?" Poppy says, her gaze still glued to the kid. "Yep. No responsibilities, free food, and you can even shit yourself and someone else will clean it up for you." I smirk. She rolls her eyes. "You are such a boy." I cock a brow. "All man, sweetheart." "Oh my god, come on." She marches away from me and I follow after her, laughing...and staring at her arse. I need to stop doing that. She aimlessly wanders around the room until she finally stops in front of the butterfly display. "Kind of harsh," I say, looking at all of them lifelessly pinned to a board and encased behind glass, all so that people can admire their pretty wings. Hundreds of them all lined up in rows. Poppy shrugs. "It is, but then again, life is harsh, isn't it?" "Yeah, but it's not supposed to be for a butterfly. Damn. Don't they only get a few months anyway? And before that they're a gross caterpillar." I shrug. "Maybe months are years to butterflies, who knows. Quality of life not quantity anyway…" She turns from the case, stopping to turn and look at me. "Come on then," she says and holds out her hand. I stare at it for a second before tentatively threading my fingers through hers. It feels strange, and yet, the simple touch grounds me. The crowds around me seem a little less threatening, the noises quieter. She brings me back to the here and now, physically forcing everything else from my mind. It seems impossible, and yet, here we are.

Chapter Twenty One POPPY

“Fear” – Blue October THE CAB SPUTTERS TO A STOP IN FRONT OF HIS FLAT. "It'll be thirty-five quid," the driver says. I take money from my purse and go to slide it through the partition, but Brandon grabs onto my shoulder. He hands money to the driver, shoots me a smile, and then we both climb out onto the sidewalk. A passing car honks at the black cab as it pulls back onto the road. "You know, we could have taken the tube," he says. "I wanted to take a cab. Stranger danger and all." I smile as we make our way to the front door. Today was the first time I've seen Brandon out in public, out of the comfort zone of his flat and that rundown bar. Being surrounded by that many people bothered him, I could see it in his expression, his body posture. His shoulders stayed rigid, his jaw tense. Any little movement from someone next to him caused his eyes to wander. He was on edge. Like his flight or fight response was in overdrive, and it made me feel guilty for insisting he go out. There was no way in hell I'd force him back on that tube, but, I didn't want him to know I realized he was uneasy. I don't know why, but I think it may embarrass him. It shouldn't, but Brandon never could handle anyone thinking he had a weakness. I follow him up to the apartment door. He puts the key in the lock. The door swings open. Everything is fine. It's fine until the second that door closes behind us and we're standing in his living room. Alone. No Hope. No Kyan. No small Japanese man. Just him and me. And that ever-present pull… He rubs his hand over the back of his neck. "Do you want to watch a film?" "Sure." I nod, throw my purse onto the floor, then fall back onto the couch, trying my hardest to pretend like this is all okay. This is normal. It was normal… He takes his phone out and hands it to me with the Netflix app on the screen. "Pick something," he says before walking into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and takes out a beer, popping the top with his teeth as he comes back into the room. He holds the bottle out to me. I shake my head and turn my attention to the phone in

my hand, scrolling through the selection. Stardust, Pirates of the Caribbean, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and... "Hey, Brandon?" "Yeah." "How do you feel about a classic?" "Yeah, sure." He shrugs, tipping the beer bottle back and swallowing. My eyes focus on the slight stubble covering his throat, his Adam's Apple moving as he chugs his drink. My eyes widen when he catches me staring at him. He wipes the beer from his mouth with the back of his hand as he walks over to the couch and plops down, kicking his heels up onto the edge of the coffee table. I select Titanic from the menu, giggling to myself as I wait for the movie to start. The soft crooning of the woman humming the song "My Heart Will Go On" accompanies the sepia- colored film of people waving as a large ship comes into view. "Oh, fuck, no. Anything but this," he groans. "Oh, come on now. You never would watch this when we were younger." "Yeah, because I'd rather spend intimate time with that fucking ghost pepper...again." "Really?" I scowl at him. "It's an epic love story, who doesn't love an epic love story? It's this or The Notebook because I am not watching Die Hard." "Leonardo-fucking-Dicaprio, or Bruce Willis. No comparison." "You told me I could pick..." "You picked this because you know I hate it." "I went to see the dinosaurs for you." "Fuck me. Fine, but if I fall asleep halfway through it's because you want to watch an entire fucking film about a boat sinking. A. Boat. Sinking. It's not even like it got blown up. Some guy just drove into an iceberg." He shakes his head. "It's tragic." I smile as I pat him on the knee. "It's history." "Tragic waste of my time," he grumbles, sipping on his beer. "Shhh." I press my finger over his lips and he glares at me. And here we sit, watching a movie I've seen fifty times. This is not unlike anything we've done before, but it is different. There's that tension. Every so often he moves, his hand brushing against my side or my leg. I inch a little closer than I should. There's a mixture of excitement and fear and guilt. I can remember countless nights spent on the sofa watching films with Connor. He would hold me, and I never thought anything of it. But isn't that the way we feel about most things we take for granted? I never truly appreciated how special it was until now, because now I miss it. I miss that easiness of just being with someone, of being held and touched. And Brandon makes me want that—in what capacity, I'm not sure. I'm trying my best to focus on the screen, watching as Jack and Rose wade through the rising waters of the sinking ship. "She says his name too much," I say. "We can watch Die Hard." "Nope. I consider this an accomplishment, forcing you to watch this." "Fine." He grabs me under the arms and yanks me across the couch like a child,

settling me between his thighs. His chin rests on my head, and for a moment, I remain tense, but he's so warm and big and just...Brandon. I relax against his solid chest, and even though I'm looking at the screen, my entire focus is on him. I listen to every breath. In and out. I feel the steady beat of his heart against my back. I allow myself to become immersed in him until I feel like nothing outside of this can touch me. And the pain and the grief and the hurt—it all just drifts away. Brandon is my own personal cocoon, and I want him to turn me from an ugly caterpillar into something beautiful and free. By the end of the movie, I'm sobbing. I sit up and wipe the tears from my face while Brandon stares at me like I'm some animal in a zoo. "You are actually crying over that?" he asks with a smirk on his face. "Yes. It's terrible." "Yet…you want to watch it?" That smirks morphs into a grin. "It's good." "She could have given him half of that door you know." "True." "Kinda dumb if you ask me," he says as he stands from the couch and stretches. "The door would have sunk had he climbed on there. It would have been too much weight." "He dies." "He sacrificed his life for her." I glare at him. "Had they both lived, it wouldn't have been an epic love story. Someone always dies in epic love stories, Brandon. Don't question it." He holds up his hands like he's surrendering. "Fine, poss. Whatever you want to believe." He starts down the hall to the bathroom. I stand and make my way to the bedroom, leaving the door open. I quickly change into a t-shirt, climb into the bed, and sink underneath the blankets. The toilet flushes, the taps turn. My heart bangs against my ribs. My palms grow sweaty. The hinges to the bathroom door creak and his shadow stretches across the hallway. "Brandon?" He steps to the door of the bedroom and the light silhouettes his frame. "Yeah?" "Can you..." I hesitate. "Just come lay in here with me for a little while?" He takes a deep breath and rubs his hand over his face, tilting his head back. There’s a long moment of silence before he lowers his head, his gaze meeting mine. "What are we doing, Poppy?" Sitting up, I wrap my arms around my shins. What am I doing? I honestly don't know. All I know is, in some ways this feels wrong, but in so many others it's right. And I don't want to overthink the consequences or the implications. "I don't know," I whisper. He props his arms against either side of the door frame. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his thick chest and I can’t seem to drag my eyes away from him. "You don't want me sleeping with you, poss," he says, a hint of sadness lacing his

voice. "Please?" There's a beat of silence before he nods slowly and steps into the room. A fissure of unease crawls through my stomach as he strips out of his shirt and lies on top of the comforter. Spreading his arms wide, he pulls me against his chest and I go willingly, his scent engulfing me. "Just for a little while," he whispers into my hair. "Just for a little while..." His warm hand cups my face. His chest rises and falls in uneven swells beneath my cheek. This isn't complicated. It's simple need—the need to have someone, to be loved, even in the most innocent of ways.

Chapter Twenty Two BRANDON

“Open Your Eyes” – Snow Patrol ALL I CAN HEAR AROUND ME IS THE THUNDER OF GUNFIRE, THE SNAPPING OF BULLETS CRACKING THROUGH the air. There's a hoarse cry beside me. I glance to my left just as my Sargent hits the ground clutching his thigh. Blood wells around his fingers. Gritting his teeth, he throws his head back against the mound of mud we're using for cover. My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I can barely breathe. Someone behind me is shouting, radioing for air support. I manage to tie a tourniquet around the top of Serg's thigh, and once it's secure, I pop up, staring down the sights of my rifle. There's a small cluster of buildings about a hundred yards away, and it's there that the enemy are taking cover. We're firing blind. I hear the rumble of the jet on the horizon long before I see it. And it's then that I see a woman run out of a house, a child clutched in her arms. She ducks behind a building, but I already know it's too late for her. The sound of the pilot's voice crackles over the radio, and then the jet splits the air overhead at the exact time as the entire area erupts into a ball of fire. I drop down beside the Serg just as the heat wave ripples over us. And then there's nothing but the sound of fire and destruction and the screaming inside my own mind. I gasp awake, sitting bolt upright as I drag air into my lungs. It takes me a second to focus properly, but when I do, I see Poppy sitting up, huddled on the edge of the mattress and staring at me. My pulse clangs against my eardrums. My muscles tremble under false stress. Even though the sheets beneath me are soaked in sweat, a shiver works over my damp skin. "You okay?" she asks. I give her a jerky nod and swipe my hand through my hair. "Did I hurt you?" My voice is barely above a whisper because I'm terrified of the answer. All I can think about is that first night she found me, when I woke up with my arm across her throat. "No..." She pauses. "You scared me." She hangs her head forward and, when

she does, a stray piece of hair falls in front of her face. I catch myself wanting to push that strand behind her ear. We sit in silence, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I try to shake the last remnants of the dream. "Brandon." Her fingertips brush along my jaw. I open my eyes, and she's sitting in front of me on her knees, her hand cupping my cheek. The street light outside casts an orange glow over her face, making the grey of her eyes appear to smolder. "Are you okay?" she repeats. A small frown line sinks into her forehead as her eyes search mine. "Come here.” She lies back on the bed, taking me down with her until my head is resting on her stomach. I inhale the scent of her: vanilla mixed with something floral. It's just Poppy. "It's okay," she whispers, and the softness of her voice makes me want to believe her. I want to believe that there will be an end to this, that eventually I will be able to stop reliving the same fucking war every night. "Do you remember that time when we went shrimping in the harbor and I fell in?" I laugh. "Yeah." She fell off the old jetty because the wood was rotted. Honestly, it was dangerous as fuck, but we were fourteen, we didn't care. We'd snuck out, and it was almost midnight. The water was pitch black and Jesus, she fucking screamed when she went in. I thought she was hurt until she started shrieking that the shrimp were going to get her. Connor and I laughed so hard we couldn't even help her. She was savage. "You were always the one to rescue me when I needed it." She slowly rakes her fingers through my hair, her touch so soothing I have no choice but to close my eyes. "Wasn't Con's fault he was fat." I smirk. "He was just well padded," she says, a smile in her voice. Connor was the chubby kid that none of the girls ever looked at. Poppy though, she adored him because he was kind to her when no one else was. But I was always the one to rescue her. I beat the shit out of Davie Logan when he pulled her hair and made her cry one time. I warned off half of my friends on the rugby team who were forever making eyes at her. For years, she was like my little sister...until suddenly, she wasn't. Far from it. She's still the girl that's too good for me though and still my best friend. So, I let her stroke my hair. I let her hold me, because it's what Poppy does, she comforts and soothes. She takes in little birds with broken wings and tries to fix them and when she can't, she cries. And I hate it when she cries, so for a moment, I'll pretend that she can fix me, that she can make me fly again, even though we both know she can't.

Chapter Twenty Three POPPY

“God of Wine” – Third Eye Blind TWO WEEKS LATER…

CONNOR'S FINGERS SKIM MY WAIST, DANCING UNDERNEATH MY SHIRT. I SMILE. I'VE MISSED HIM. THIS touch. The way this feels. It's just a dream, Poppy. His warm lips kiss the crook of my neck and his arm wraps around my waist, tugging my body flush with his. My eyes flutter and I fight to remain asleep. I don't want to let that dream go, it feels so real. So right. So needed. I can still feel his hands on me, his lips... My eyes pop open just as Brandon groans against my throat. He shifts in the bed, his hold on me tightening. "Don't," he mumbles, his breathing is deep and uneven with sleep. "Don't leave me..." he whispers before his lips press against the top of my shoulders. Nothing has happened between us since the day I went to get my nails done with Hope. The tension has been nearly unbearable, awkward at times, but he and I both know what it's like to cross that line. Sometimes it's better to wonder what something would be like than to know... But I long for that connection. I’m starved of it. Sex. Attraction. Need. A deep breath rustles through Brandon's lips, blowing across my skin. Chill bumps scatter over my body, that undeniable urge settling between my thighs. Guilt perches on my chest. And here I am, uncertain of what exactly it is I should feel the guiltiest about: dreaming of Connor while lying in Brandon's bed, or lying in Brandon's bed and dreaming of Connor. I love them both. I always have. Hope says Connor is dead as though that should somehow justify my feelings for Brandon, alleviate the guilt, but it doesn't. If anything, death simply immortalizes a person. It takes everything they were and preserves it in stone, leaving them untouchable and incomparable for eternity. But Brandon and I are not frozen in stone. We're here, living, breathing. We're what's left.

I bite down on my lip, turning in the bed to face him. The smallest amount of light from the streetlamp trickles in through the window and, for a moment, I just watch Brandon sleep. There's something intimate about watching someone you care so deeply for sleep. His eyelids flutter. His nostrils flare, and he quickly rolls onto his back. His chest peaks and dips unevenly. I can literally see him fighting those dreams that seem to haunt him more nights than not. And all I want to do is take that away from him. His face flinches, and I'm torn with whether to wake him or not. He looks so innocent and vulnerable, and the way the shadows settle over his face, over the indentation of his chest...I swallow, inching closer to him. I just want to touch him…just for a moment. I trail my fingertips over his warm arm, along his side, over his possum tattoo as I lean over his face. "I love you," I whisper because I want him to know, but only in his subconscious, and that's where he is right now...lost within the realm of his subconscious. I’m so close to him, the heat of his skin ripping into me so deep that I can’t resist but to press my lips gently over his, my hand sweeping along his jaw. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm scared and confused. Uncertain. And just as that fear grips me by the throat, just when I'm about to move away from him, his hand flies to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as his lips part beneath mine, his hot breath rushing over me. He tugs me close, one arm winding tightly around my waist as he pulls me flush against his solid body. My mind and body go to war, rationality battling against a basic primal need. In this moment, I need the way he's making me feel. His fingers slide beneath my shirt, splaying across the small of my back. Heat seeps from his palm into my skin and I drag a desperate breath into my lungs. The second my lips part, his tongue sweeps against mine, igniting something raw, something that has been glaringly absent since the last time he kissed me. It's as though he wraps himself around my lonely soul and nurses it back to life with the splintered remnants of his own. He tilts my head back and kisses me until I don't know where he starts and I begin, and I don't want him to stop. I want to hold onto this warmth, to him, but can I really? Is he really a man any one can hold onto? I breathlessly rip my lips away from his, but I’m still pressed against him. And through the darkness, we stare at each other. "Brandon, I..." "Shush, poss." He drags me down onto his chest and places his palm against my cheek, holding me so tight. I feel his lips brush my hair and his arm around my waist tightens before he relaxes beneath me. A few minutes later, and his breathing evens out. He's fallen asleep, leaving me very much awake. And here I lie, in the still and quiet, my fingers tracing over his tattoos, and all that I can think is how much I want to love him. "AND

ONCE THEY ARE DISCHARGED, YOU JUST FILL THIS OUT HERE..."

I

WATCH

DORIS

TYPE A NOTE INTO

the bottom of the record. "Then you hit submit and you're done." She glances up from the computer and smiles. My feet are killing me from running around Headley Court all day. Today was my second day, and I already know about Doris’ three estranged husbands, two children, and more than I need to know about her fantasies regarding Tom Hardy. I'm glad to be working again, thankful for the sense of purpose, but it's going to be an adjustment. So many of the guys that come in here remind me of Brandon. Wounded, hurting, angry. You'd be surprised at the number PTSD can do on a person. It changes their temperament, their personality. So many of those men have gone through a divorce because their wives can't manage it. And it makes me feel bad for them. From living with Brandon the short time I have, I do understand the strain. The worry. The fear... Sometimes Brandon's up and I think maybe, maybe this will be the day everything changes. Maybe he's snapped out of it. He's the old Brandon and that damned war has relinquished its hold on him, but then he goes down. And hard. And at those times, I see no way out. The darkness is all consuming, the nightmares, the anger. It's a whirlwind of emotions, a pendulum of moods. Back and forth. And it can take its toll on a person. "Not too bad, huh?" Doris asks, grinning. "No, pretty straight forward." She glances at her watch. "Well, time for you to go, dear, unless you want to go play Bingo with me and Mary tonight?" I log off the computer and grab my purse from behind the desk. "Thanks, but I’ll take a raincheck." She waves me off. "You're a young girl. Got much better things to do than play bingo with a lot of old birds." "Doris..." She winks at me. "Besides," she grabs her handbag and pulls out a shiny silver flask, "I like to hit the bottle hard on a Friday night. I get a bit rowdy. Don't know if you're ready for all that yet. Now, Tom Hardy on the other hand…" a wild grin stretches across her face. I laugh, waving as I head out into the hallway. The sun's starting to go down and the overcast sky has done little to warm the day up at all. A small shiver works over me as I wrap my arms around my waist and walk along the sidewalk, my mind going over the patients I met today—especially David Brighton. So much of his story reminds me of Brandon. Mr. Brighton lost his best friend to a roadside bomb. He was the one survivor. And he is angry. He shouted at one of the nurses today because she "glared" at him. Doris said everyone hates when he comes in because he's so grumpy, but to me, I see something underneath all that anger and sadness. Maybe it's because I see Brandon deep in there somewhere, I don't know. But I'm determined to make that man smile at some point. I think, maybe I'll see if Brandon wants to go out to eat tonight. Maybe invite Hope, just to watch the two of them go at it, but the second I open the door to the

apartment, all I can feel is tension. Brandon sits on the sofa, staring at the ground with his legs spread and elbows resting on his thighs. A bottle of whiskey is clutched in one hand. He doesn't even spare me a glance, not when I close the door, or when I drop my keys loudly on the counter. I clear my throat. Still nothing. "Brandon." He lifts his head and glares at me. There’s a small gash on his cheek, blood seeping from the fresh wound. His cold, flat eyes remain locked with mine as he lifts the whiskey to his lips and swallows back several heavy gulps. He drops the bottle on the table and it topples over. "Hey, poss," he slurs, falling back into the couch cushions. And this...is down. Way down. He's drank most of that bottle. I can tell by the glazed over look in his eyes he's more than drunk. And judging by the state of his face, he’s just home from a fight. Every single time he comes back from a fight he's angry and he drinks. And when he gets like this, there is nothing that can shake that rage from him. It hangs around his shoulders like a heavy wool cloak. And, dare I say, at times I believe he basks in it. I've tiptoed around this topic as long as I can. Those fights are no good for him. It only makes his situation, whatever that is, worse. I snag the bottle of whiskey from the table and scowl at him before heading into the kitchen and tossing the bottle into the trash. I can feel him watching me. When I come out of the kitchen his eyes narrow. "That's real fucking helpful," he says, laughing humorlessly. "Brandon, please tell me you realize you have a problem? That—" I point to the trashcan—"is helpful." "Jesus, Poppy." He throws his head back and drags a hand over his face. "All you do is fucking bitch." "Because I care about you, Brandon. And this....this has got to stop." "This is a one-way road, possum." He pushes off the sofa, walking straight past me without as much as a backward glance. From here, I can just make out the grin sneaking over his face when he opens the kitchen drawer—the one where he keeps his weed. “Nope. Nope. Nope.” I storm into the kitchen, grab the collar of his shirt, and yank him away from the counter, slamming my hip against the drawer and nearly closing his hand in it. "You don't need it." There's a spark of anger in his eyes a second too late. He takes a step forward, grabbing me by the waist and slamming me against the fridge. It rocks back, everything inside jostling when it hits the wall then settles on the floor again with a bang. I brace my palm against his chest, his quickened heartbeats pounding against my hand. My breath falters in my lungs and my pulse thrums in my temples. I can feel the tension ingraining itself in every one of his muscles. "Brandon, let me go," I whisper. "Please." I swallow, trying to still my racing heart, but in the back of my mind there's that dark voice whispering that this is

that part of Brandon I do not know. A part of him I can't fully trust. A part of him that actually scares me. That wry smile touches his lips, and for a split moment, he's almost the Brandon I recognize, but he's buried beneath so much anger and hatred that it's so hard to see him. He leans close enough that his warm breaths blow across my neck, his lips brush my earlobe. "Isn't this what you want, Poppy?" There's a cruel edge to his words that I hate, and although I don't believe for a second that he would hurt me, he's making me nervous. My heart slams violently against my ribs, and as much as I don't want to say it, I must. "You're scaring me, Brandon." His gaze narrows as his eyes search mine. After a moment, a hard breath blows through his nose. To me, it's obvious he's having to make a conscious effort to loosen his grip on me. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drops his chin. Neither of us move. And when he finally lifts his face and looks at me, his eyes are swirling with a storm of emotions just waiting to hit. But that storm is one that I have no idea of when or where it will strike. His forehead touches mine and he holds my cheek in his hand, breathing me in as though I'm the very oxygen he needs to survive, and then, he kisses me. I expect his violence and his anger, his hate and fury to transfer with this kiss, but it doesn't. This kiss is almost reverent, forcing me to feel as though I'm everything to him. "I'm sorry," he whispers against my lips, his hands trembling as they stroke over my cheeks and down the column of my throat. I search his eyes for something, for some answer as to why everything has become such a mess, so difficult. "It's okay..." I swallow, my gaze drifting down to his lips. I find myself wanting him to kiss me again because I want the comfort I find in him. I want Brandon to make me forget everything that isn't this exact moment. Just him and me. And even if my mind is screaming at me that it's wrong, my heart knows Brandon, my soul recognizes him as a part of me that I so desperately need. And that is why I now find myself inching toward him, my lips brushing against his, kissing him. His fingers dig into my waist and he lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around his hips. The kiss grows more intense, more passionate. His fingers tangle in my hair and we bump into the wall as he carries me down the hallway, our lips never parting. We bang into the door frame of his bedroom, and shortly after that, I land on his bed, the springs to the mattress squeaking when he falls on top of me. Brandon tears his mouth away from mine, staring intensely at me as he cages me in with his massive arms. The muscles in his jaw tense as his expression grows torn. He closes his eyes and hangs his head. "Not like this," he says on a pained groan. Shame washes over me. I attempt to shove him off me, but he doesn't budge, only lowers his face inches from mine, his eyes still closed. "I want you more than I

have ever wanted anything or anyone in my life. But you deserve better than my drunk arse. Not like this," he growls the words. I don’t care that he’s drunk. I just want to be his sanctuary, the place he goes when the demons get too real. Whatever this is, it's powerful in ways that cannot be explained or rationalized. He's drunk and haunted, and I want him to take me down with him. "I want you." It's all I can say. He grits his teeth and when his eyes flash open, the storm has arrived. I want to be swept up in his winds. I want his destruction and his volatile wrath. I crave it. "Say it again," he tells me as he takes the bottom of my shirt in his hand. "I want you..." Slowly, he lifts the material, his fingers skimming my skin and leaving tingles in their wake. I lift my head as he pulls the shirt over it and throws it to the side of the room, and I lie here, the darkness swirling around me. A nearly silent groan slips through his lips as his eyes glide over my half naked body. Although there's something so reverent in the way he's looking at me, there's an undercurrent of primal need and brutality swimming between us. That pull is so strong it nearly makes me drunk, and I find myself unable to breathe, my chest rising in ragged swells. His fingers trail along my waist and he leans down, brushing his lips over my neck so gently that I shiver. I want to feel the warmth of his skin against mine, the steady beat of his heart. I want the way his body feels to be ingrained within mine. And yet, there is this hesitation and fear of what this will do to us. "You're so fucking beautiful," he breathes against my mouth. And in this moment, there is no stopping this. This dam will break. He grips my face, kissing me with this type of tragic violence, a desperation. And I grab onto him, my fingers scratching through his thick hair, holding onto him for dear life because this is us drowning. Right here. Right now. My hand slips beneath his shirt, his warm skin searing through my palm before I tear his shirt over his head. With each passing second, we slip farther, losing ourselves within each other's embrace. Brandon's hand roughly roams over my body, down my sides, until he's gripping the top of my jeans in his hands, ripping them down my thighs as he sits up in the bed. And the moment I'm completely naked in front of him, he draws in a deep breath. This is a struggle. A moral war that has waged between the two of us for as long as I can remember. I inhale, my eyes locking on his as I allow my legs to slowly fall open. And then, the incredible weight and warmth of his body covers me. Skin to skin. His mouth hovers over mine, a long, desperate breath blowing from his lips as I feel him press against me. I'm desperate for this, for this connection, for this need to be filled, and at the same time, I'm terrified. Grabbing onto his shoulders, I push down, forcing him inside of me with one of the most slow, torturous movements I've ever experienced.

He hangs his head on a groan, his fingers digging into my hips. My fingers claw against his shoulders and I pull him deeper inside of me, and now, everything has changed. The emotion, the raw need to belong to someone consumes us both and we tumble. We fall. And I'd be lying if I said it wasn't heartbreakingly beautiful. Two people who shouldn't belong together, through death, now could not belong to anyone else. His fingers circle around my wrists and he pins my arms above my head. All I can do is watch him. His face. His expressions growing more strained by the second. Each breath. Every last touch and kiss, each groan ingrains itself within me until there is nothing more than me and him, clinging to one another, drowning within this tragic bliss, expressing the inexpressible through the movements of our bodies. And once we're both slicked with sweat, breathless, and nothing but useless heaps on the mattress, we lie next to each other, my head on his chest, his fingers raking through my damp hair. If I'm honest, I want to just stay here. Right here. In this moment. In the dark of night because right now we are okay. At this very moment, we're both whole, but I know it will never stay this way.

Chapter Twenty Four BRANDON

“Wake Up Call” – Nothing But Thieves I LIE IN THE DARK LISTENING TO POPPY'S SOFT BREATHS. HER CHEEK IS PRESSED TO MY CHEST, HER SMALL body nestled against my side, every naked inch of her touching me. I have fucked countless women and drunk enough whiskey to drown a small town all in a bid to forget. And the irony is, she is the only thing that makes me forget, yet she's the very thing that should remind me of all the things that haunt me. When she touches me, all I see is her. I've never felt like I needed anyone the way I need her. At times, she's the only thing that keeps me grounded, the only thing that makes sense to me. And yet, she's also my biggest source of conflict. Because she's not mine, and the second I step back, the second I get some perspective, I remember that fact. I crave the sense of peace that she brings me, even when I have no right to. I close my eyes and an image of her and Connor on their wedding day flashes through my mind. They were so happy, and she looked at him like the world started and ended with him. Perhaps it did, and now we're living in some post-apocalyptic replica of a time when Connor made everything seamlessly better. The guilt is warring with my basic fucking instinct to survive because I'm no longer deluded enough to think that I can do this without her. It's too dark, too fucking bottomless. She is my only source of hope, my light at the end of the tunnel. And as awful as I feel about betraying Connor, as much as I loved him, I can't quite make myself let go of that light. I WAKE UP AND SUNLIGHT IS POURING THROUGH THE PALE CREAM CURTAINS. IT'S MORNING. I SLEPT through the night. No nightmares. No sweating. Sometimes sex helps me sleep better, but I can't remember the last time I slept right through the night without a serious dose of whiskey or weed. Poppy is lying next to me on her side, the duvet skimming her hips and exposing her naked back. I want to run my fingers along the curve of her waist, drop my hand

beneath that duvet...my dick stirs, but I force myself to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. I just need some perspective, a moment. I stare at my bruised face in the bathroom mirror. The cut on my cheek has scabbed over, and there’s dried blood on my face. I can barely look at myself, and it has nothing to do with my exterior injuries. I climb into the shower and allow the hot water to soothe my aching muscles. Bracing my forearms against the tile, I drop my head forward and rest my forehead against the cold tile. This is a cluster fuck of epic proportions. I don't even know what I think or feel anymore, but the ever-present band of panic is tightening around my chest, squeezing me. The thought of facing her is too much. I need air. I need time. I finish my shower and dry off, grabbing some gym clothes from the bathroom floor. Praying she doesn't wake up, I head to the living room, shove my shoes on, and walk straight out the front door like my arse is on fire.

Chapter Twenty Five POPPY

“Someone to Die For” - Hurts MY EYES POP OPEN AT THE THOUGHT OF WHAT I DID LAST NIGHT. I STARE BLANKLY AT THE WALL FOR A moment before I roll over in bed to find him gone. I glance at the clock. 9:10 AM. Brandon's never up before midday. Dragging my hands down my face, I take a deep breath and smell coffee. I'll just stay in here as long as I can. Avoid the situation...because that's what a mature, rational woman would do in this situation. I lie here for a few minutes before I groan, toss the covers off, and plant my feet firmly on the ground. My heart sits in an uneasy lump in my throat as I make my way to the kitchen. He's going to look at me and then what? What do I say to him? So, we had sex...again... I shake my head just as I round the doorway to the empty kitchen. Half of the pot of coffee is gone, a dirty mug on the counter next to it. He left. He had nowhere to go this morning, he left because of me. Dropping my chin to my chest, I exhale. This is what Brandon does when things get to be too much: he runs. He did it with the army and he did this exact same thing to me before. Funny how you can close your eyes and be right back in a moment. Right now, when I close my eyes, I can still feel the warmth of that bed all these years later. I remember waking with the thought that everything would be how it should be, that since we'd crossed that line we would no longer be just friends. How could we? Those were the hopeful, naïve thoughts of a seventeen-year-old who believed a little too much in fairytales. Brandon and I had slept together, which to a tender, young heart meant that he must care about me. I foolishly thought everything would be exactly how I'd always wanted ever since the day I met him. And then, that next morning, I rolled over to an empty bed. He ran...at least I thought he did, and honestly, I think I may have preferred that. I close my eyes and allow my memory to wander down that road, back to a much younger me and a much less damaged Brandon. Back before life tore us down... back to the moment I realized friends could, in fact, break your heart.

BRANDON AND CONNOR ARE AHEAD OF ME, LAWN CHAIRS SLUNG OVER THEIR SHOULDERS AND COOLERS IN tow. From here I can just see the shore of the lake. Hope's walking beside me, watching me. I told her what happened with Brandon, and she was shocked to say the least. "He's acting like a ripe cunt," she whispers. He is and I know it. He's barely looked at me since Hope and I pulled up. It terrifies me. I'm too afraid to say anything, so I just shrug. She shoves me. "Fucking say something to him before I do." "Hope..." "I'll punch him in his pretty playboy face, I mean it, Poppy. He took your V card for Christ's sake. That's a big deal. Huge!" "Hope..." "Ugh, I want to shove a porcupine up his arsehole right now." She arches a brow. "Will Nelson has a pet porcupine. I bet he'd let me borrow him for a while." "I need to talk to him." "You think?" She snorts and struts off toward Connor, looping her arm through his elbow and pulling him toward the lake. "Walk with me, Milky Bar Kid." I would smile if my stomach wasn't bundled in knots. "Brandon?" I call after him, but he ignores me. "The porcupine's name is Wilbur," Hope calls over her shoulder. Sighing, I jog to catch up with him. "Brandon." I grab his arm and he stops walking. His dark eyes lock with mine, and I want to shrink under his gaze. I've watched him be an arse to other people. I've watched girls fall all over him only to be dropped the next day, but I've never been anything but his best friend. I thought I hated that title, until now. Now, I'd do anything not to feel like the girl from the night before. But I suck it up and loop my arm through his—like I have a thousand times before, but this time, it feels so different and foreign. Brandon stiffens and then pulls his arm away from mine, covering his mouth as he fakes a cough. Heat drowns me. "Really? You are an asshole," I say. He drags a hand through his hair and tilts his face back toward the sky. "Look, Poppy..." Poppy. He never calls me Poppy. "I was really drunk last night." He focuses on the ground, refusing to look at me. "Whatever happened, I'm so sorry." I stop midstride. I can feel the tears welling in my eyes, so I close them. "Whatever happened..." I whisper. "Shit." He pulls me into his arms, crushing me against his broad chest. "I'm an arsehole. Please don't hate me. You're my best friend, poss." I bite down on my lip, my nostrils flaring as I fight the urge to cry and scream. Best friend. I let that comment set in for a minute, and with every breath I drag into my lungs, all I smell is Brandon. Clenching my jaw, I shove away from him. "I'm glad I'm your best friend, Brandon, really I am." I take a step back, my vision blurring behind pathetic tears. "Meanwhile, you're the guy who took my virginity

and doesn't even remember it, you fucking dick!" And I run off, the leaves crunching beneath my feet as I make my way back to the path. "Poppy!" Hope shouts as she runs after me. Moments later, I hear Connor yelling at Brandon: "What did you do to her, you fucking ballbag?" And that was the moment everything changed. That was the moment Brandon stopped saving me and Connor did. I cried on Connor’s shoulder for an hour, not telling him why. And I never told him why. That has always been my deepest, darkest secret, the fact that I lost my virginity to my husband's best friend. I've always felt guilty about Brandon when it came to Connor because he never knew.

You okay? I PRESS SEND AND THE TEXT IS OFF TO BRANDON. HERE I SIT WITH A LEAD BALL IN MY STOMACH. Hope stares across the restaurant table at me, her hands clasping her coffee cup, one brow arched. "Was it any good?" One of the busboys drops the tub of dishes. The loud clattering of plates breaking echoes through the small restaurant. How does Hope always know these things? I haven't said a word about Brandon...yet, she always knows when something is off with me. Honestly, it's unnerving. "Was what any good?" I ask. "Don't lie to me. I know you did it," she says with a slight nod. "You fucked him." "What...no." My cheeks sting with heat. I swallow and feign a laugh as I reach for a packet of sugar and dump it into my coffee. "Don't be ridiculous, Hope." "Liar!" She points her finger at me. "You are lying. I know you. I know you are lying. I know you slept with him." Her eyebrow arches ever so slightly. "Stand up then." "What?" "Stand up. If you didn't sleep with him, stand up." A wry smile works its way across her lips and I remain seated. "Just what I thought." Her smile deepens. "What are you talking about?" "Stand up and I'll drop it." "Fine!" I push my cup to the side and stand, tossing my hands in the air as I glare at her. "I'm standing." "Hmph." Shrugging, she lifts her cup to her mouth and takes a sip. "Fine." I sit down, and when I do, a jolt of pain shoots from between my thighs and I wince. "Guilty!" she shouts, slamming her palm down on the table like a judge with a gavel. "The wince. You fucked him." I prop my elbows on the table, cover my face with my hands, and sigh.

"It's fine." My phone dings with a text. I shake my head before I glance at it through the slit between my fingers, reading his one word response: Yep "Look at it this way, it's not like you're a first-time offender." She reaches across the table and yanks my hand away from my face. "Shit happens." Shit happens. It sure does. I type out another text. We need to talk. And he gives me another one word response. Yep The thing is, Brandon hates when people send him one word responses. It irritates him to no end, so the fact that he’s doing it to me…well, it hurts my heart a little. I stare down into my coffee cup, thinking. I can't get the image of him on top of me, the feel of his hands all over me, his lips, the way he left me nothing but a puddle on his mattress—I can't get those thoughts out of my head. The what ifs, the thought that it was something more than simple fucking. The fact that it is— that he is—something I need and crave. Another ding from my phone. It was a mistake. More than one word that time…And my heart plummets, my cheeks stinging with heat. I look up at Hope. "I need to stay with you." The smile from her face fades. "Of course, Poppy." She reaches across the table and takes my hand in hers. "You know I'm always here for you." I smile and inhale. I just need to get out of the middle of whatever that is so I can think clearly because obviously, when I'm around him, rationale is nowhere to be found. "WINE." HOPE SETS A GLASS ON THE PATIO TABLE. "I don't want any..." She shrugs. "Okay. Whatever you want." She takes a seat on the wrought iron chair, kicking her feet up onto the patio railing. The breeze whirls around the corner, scattering a few dry leaves over the concrete. The sun slowly sinks below

the horizon and I watch it for a moment before I glance across the street at the red brick townhouses. "You like the flat?" Hope asks. "Yeah, it's nice." I watch as a Land Rover parallel parks on the side-street and a man in a business suit clamors out, roses in hand. This high-end, Chelsea neighborhood is one most people only dream of living in, and Hope's father signed the lease on it just because Hope wanted it. That's how her life has always gone. Whatever Hope wants, if money can possibly buy it, it's hers. "I made sure it had two bedrooms, you know, in case you decided you want to stay here." "I can't believe your father bought this for you." She shrugs and tips her glass back. "Tax write off somehow, I'm sure. Besides, if I'm here, I'm not there drinking it up at his social events and flirting with his business partners." She smirks around the rim of her glass. "Win for everyone, right?" I laugh. "After that last debacle you had with that Reginald Rutherford..." I lean back in my chair and blow out a cleansing breath, "I'm sure he's glad to have you outta Ireland for a bit." "Hey," she sets her glass on the table. "Old Reggie should have known better." "Hope, he's twice your age and that picture of his hand up your skirt at the gallery was plastered all over the internet." "Again, like I've said a thousand times, shit happens." "You need a shirt that says that or something." "I know a guy that does those custom-made shirts. Gave him a blowie once or twice." She winks. "Jesus..." My gaze once again drifts to the houses across the street. One of the windows lights up, catching my attention. I watch as the man with the roses crosses the living room of that flat. A woman comes out from the other side of the room, meeting him halfway. He hands her the roses before he wraps his arms around her delicate waist and nuzzles his face against her neck. I find myself thinking of Brandon—not Connor—and a knot forms in the pit of my stomach, slipping like a snake coiled around itself. Exhaling, I reach for the wine, but stop. "Go ahead. Drink it," Hope says, her attention also locked on the couple in the window across the street. "Trust me, sometimes you just need it." "I don't want to need anything." "Ah, but that's a problem. We all need something, don't we?" Hope releases a long sigh. "Poppy, I know you're confused about the whole Brandon thing, but stop beating yourself up." "I can't lose him." She nods, staring down into her near empty glass. But the thing is, while I am worried about losing Brandon, I'm most worried about losing the memory of Connor. What kind of person does something like I’ve

done—sleeping with her dead husband's best friend, our best friend? And, the way my first thought when watching that happy couple across the street went to Brandon instead of Connor—the guilt nearly swallows me. I loved Connor, but I loved Brandon first. I am a horrible person. "The thing is, Poppy," Hope says, "Connor is gone and nothing is going to bring him back. Life goes on, you know?" Life goes on. I hate that phrase because it does and doesn't that seem so wrong? It seems disrespectful to carry on, to laugh and smile and find your own happiness when you've lost someone you love. It seems like you're just letting them go, like they never mattered. "But I don't want to forget him," I whisper. "I'm scared I'll forget." "You won't." She stands, grabbing her glass of wine from the table to refill it. "I know I told you fucking around with Brandon would ruin everything...And, it may, but sometimes in life, you have to take risks or you'll never live. The regret of not doing something is sometimes far worse than the regret of what you did." And that's just the thing, I feel trapped. Either way, I will regret something. "B-4.” THE ANNOUNCER COUGHS INTO THE MICROPHONE. “B-4." Hope has about ten bingo cards spread out in front of her, the little stamper hovering over them as she searches for the number called. She pounds it over one of the cards. "That's right motherfucker. I just made B-4 my bitch." Doris glances over at me, grinning as she lifts the flask to her mouth. "I like her." I nod. "She's uh, something, that's for sure." "Aw, I'm a little fond of you, too, Doris." She eyes the flask. "What's in there?" "Whiskey." Doris passes the flask to Hope. "Spirit animals, Doris, we are spirit animals." She tips the flask back just as the announcer calls out another space. "G-45. G-45." I stamp the spot on my one card. And the next thing I know, the silver flask is shaking right in front of my face. I glance over at Hope. "You're sad," she says. "Whiskey makes people happy." "So, basically, you want me to be a drunk?" "No. Just be like an Irishman." "Again, a drunk?" "Look, I'm pretty sure the Irish have the lowest rate of depression in the world." "They do not." "Sure they do. You can't be sad when you're drunk." I stare at Hope, shaking my head. "You're crazy, you know that?" "The next space is N-12. N-12." Hope jumps up from the table, knocking over her chair and scaring awake the

elderly woman who nodded off on the other side of her. "Bingo!" She waves one of her cards around. "Fucking bingo!" Hope places a foot on the metal folding chair, grinding the air as she sings out: "Bingo. B-I-N-fucking-G-O." Everyone's staring. Doris is clapping and laughing, and I just sink into my chair and cover my face with my hands. Why I can't pick normal people to be friends with is beyond me. "Damn, that was the last game," Doris says, tipping the flask back again. "Alright." I gather the bingo cards and stack them together. "Well, thanks for inviting us, Doris." She nods. Hope grins. "Yep, I think I've found a new hobby." "Great, so your list is drinking, screwing, and bingo?" "Basically. Sounds legit." My phone dings with a text. I pull it from my purse while Hope walks to the front of the room to collect her prize: A heated neck massager. I stare at the text, my chest going all tight. I told you you'd hate me. Sorry, Poss. Like a child, he's ignored my texts and calls for the past day. And then he sends me this crap. Brandon is an emotional rollercoaster, one storm after another, and even though that should be enough to make me run in the opposite direction, he is something my heart and soul desperately need. "A heated neck massager. Amazing!" Hope holds the bright pink object up and smiles. "Perfect for a rainy day, huh?" "Yep." "Hotline Bling" blares over Hope's phone and her lips pull into a wry smile. "Well, I know what that one wants." She digs her phone from her purse, touches the screen, and places it to her ear. "Hey, hot stuff." She pauses for a second. Her smile slowly fades and she shoots an annoyed look in my direction. "Fine. Fine. I'll send her over." She hangs up the phone and tosses it back inside her oversized leather purse. "Lucky you, duty calls." "What?" "Your reasoning for being in London..." I stare at her with a blank expression. "Brandon got shitfaced and evidently needs you. Kyan said he's done babysitting him." Sighing, I bury my face in my hands. "Great…" THE TV'S SO LOUD I CAN HEAR IT THROUGH THE DOOR. THE SECOND I WALK INTO BRANDON'S FLAT, I roll my eyes. The living room is a disaster. Clothes and empty beer cans are everywhere. Kyan's sitting at the end of the sofa, a beer in his hand. And Brandon

—Brandon's hanging halfway off the couch, swatting at a bottle of whiskey on the table. Kyan grabs the bottle and hands it to Brandon, although his gaze is glued to me. "Well, 'bout time you came back." "I'm sorry?" "He's been like this for twenty-four-fucking hours. Missed his fight." He stands up and stretches. "What the hell have you done to him, woman? He's a mess." I glance back at Brandon, and yes, slobbering mess is pretty much right. "Brandon," I say. He slowly turns his head toward me, squinting his bloodshot eyes. "Possum. You're here." He lifts the bottle to me. "Come have a drink." "Possum?" Kyan says, laughing as he slaps a hand over his forehead. "Fuck me." I glare at Kyan and he shrinks back a step. "I don't want a drink," I say. "What the hell are you doing, huh?" Brandon’s eyebrows pull together in a frown. "Drinking," he says as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Okay, yes, I can clearly see that. But, why have you been drunk for twenty-four hours?" The frown deepens and he lifts the bottle to his lips, turning it up. The whiskey sloshes around in the bottle before he drops it to his side. He swipes his mouth with the back of his hand and his eyelids start to droop. “For the love of…” Huffing, I cross the room, turning around when I reach the couch to point at Kyan. "And really? You’ve been sitting here feeding him alcohol, because that seems like a good idea?" Kyan shrugs. "God, you are an idiot," I mumble. "Just get out of here. Go stick your dick in some girl down at the pub or something for fuck's sake." Brandon laughs, half attempting to sit up as he looks at Kyan. "See, don't let her fool you, she's got a filthy fucking mouth." He grabs his crotch. "Makes my dick hard." Kyan snorts, but quickly ducks his head to hide it. It's like dealing with sixteenyear old boys. I clench my jaw. "You are...there are no words." I take several steps toward Kyan, placing my hands on his shoulders and spinning him around before I grab his beer and hand it to him. "Go." "Hey, hey! He's got a fight in eight hours, you may want to try and," Kyan chuckles, "sober him up a bit." "Get. Out! He's not fighting." "Oh, like hell he's not. He missed his fight last night, Larry'll have him by the balls if he no shows again." My face heats, my nostrils flare, and I push up on my tiptoes as I inch toward Kyan's face. "Tell Larry if he thinks Brandon’s fighting, I'll have him by the balls."

Kyan's brow arches, one side of his lip curling. "You got a bit of feist in you yet, don't you?" I shove him one good time and he stumbles toward the door. "Alright then, I'll see you later, Brandon." And Kyan leaves the flat. When I turn around Brandon’s attempting to pull his shirt over his head, but failing miserably. "God, you are like a child sometimes," I say as I lean down and yank his shirt over his head. "Thanks." "Look at me." His chin drops and I grab it, raising his head back up. "Brandon, look at me. What the hell are you doing? Why are you drunk? I mean, you're drunk a lot, but this..." I let go of his chin. His face drops forward and he laughs. "You left, poss," he slurs. "I went to Hope's. I didn't leave." "Left me," he mumbles without lifting his head. Sighing, I flop down on the couch next to him and comb my fingers through his hair. He looks up through his lashes and I notice his cheekbone is swollen and bruised. "So, if you didn't fight, why is your cheek all banged up?" He reaches up and rubs his hand over his cheek. "My cheek?" "You wear me out." "I can wear you out if you like?" He grins, even though he can barely open his eyes. I glare down at him, fighting a laugh, fighting this little desire to let him wear me out. "Really? Wow, how romantic are you?" He lifts his hand, trying to stroke my hair, but instead he ends up awkwardly petting my cheek. "I'm sorry," he blurts. "Yep." And how many times am I going to hear that? This is what I am setting myself up for, a lifetime of apologies. A constant Tilt-a-whirl of emotions, and while I know this is in no way ideal, I crave it. I just want to make us both better. That's all. "You can't do things like this though, Brandon,” I say. “You have to take better care of yourself." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry I fucked you." My heart skips a few beats and I bite down on my lip. I can't look at him right now. He regrets it and I long for it, and how screwed up is this? This is why you can't cross that line, because someone will take it to mean something more. Someone will get hurt. Twice, I've made that mistake with him. "Now you hate me," he mumbles. "Please don't hate me. Just forget it happened. And we can be Brandon and Possum again." He nods to himself. "Brandon and Possum." His brow wrinkles and he looks so genuinely distressed that I have the urge to smooth out the deep-set lines. Part of me wants to tell him I will forget it happened, but that would be a lie. Right now, I can still feel that it happened. "I don't hate you,” I whisper. “And we'll always be Brandon and Possum. Nothing can change that." A flicker of a smile touches his lips, but quickly fades, his eyes going distant.

"He would hate me." "Damn it." I feel my chest tighten. My blood pressure rises, not from anger, but from how pathetic the two of us actually are. "Stop it. Just stop it. He is gone, Brandon. He. Is. Gone. And if he were alive we wouldn't be here, but we are. What the hell are we supposed to do about it now? Wallow in it? Just...stop." I exhale and drop my chin to my chest. "Just stop it!" "You know, he made me promise? We were in this shithole hut in the middle of the fucking desert. There was a goat. And bullets, lots of fucking bullets. He made me promise him that if he karked it, I'd look after you.” He draws circles on my arm with his fingers. “That goat was cool as shit." "A goat..." I shake my head. "In his grave letter he asked me to look after you. So, here we are, looking after each other." I trail my fingertips along his jawline, his stubble tickling my fingers. He huffs a laugh. "Of course he did. And that's exactly why Connor was always so fucking worthy of you." Worthy of me... I narrow my gaze, locking my eyes with his. "Don't say things like that." "Okay.” His fingers tightly grip at my shirt. “Please don't leave me." I lean down, placing my face right in front of his. "I'm not leaving you." And I want to kiss him so badly that I find myself closing my eyes. I take a breath, warring with myself. "Friends no matter what, remember? I promised." "I don't want to just be your friend," he whispers, brushing a finger over my bottom lip. "And I feel like a fucking arsehole for it." My heart clangs against my ribs and I find a smile working its way across my face. Part of me wants to tell him that I'm not just his friend...that I don't know if we've ever really been just friends, but that conversation needs to happen when he's sober—whenever the hell that is. Brandon may be a train wreck, but he's my train wreck. "This isn't a choice, poss. It's survival." And it really is. It really is.

Chapter Twenty Six BRANDON

“No One Will Ever Replace Us” - Courteeners I WAKE UP, GROANING FROM THE SUNLIGHT SCORCHING MY RETINAS. MY HEAD IS POUNDING AND MY mouth tastes like something curled up and died in it. I put my hand over my eyes to block out the light. The bed shifts beside me and I glance across at Poppy. Her back is to me, her dark hair spilling across the pillow. Sighing, I drag my hands over my face. I can't remember shit past the fact that she didn't come home the night before last, and I started drinking. Whatever this is between us, it's fucking dangerous to me because it's so damn vital. I crawl out of bed, go to the bathroom, and stumble into the shower. It feels like a marching band has taken up residence inside my head, and despite the fact that I have a thousand thoughts running through my mind, it hurts to think. By the time I get out of the shower, Poppy's no longer in the bedroom. I throw on a shirt along with a pair of tracksuit bottoms and brace myself before I go into the kitchen. She turns to face me as soon as I walk in, her eyes crashing into mine. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest and I want to kick myself for it. "Hey," I mumble. "How's your head?" She smirks. "Been better." She pours a cup of coffee then opens the cabinet, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and dumping in a shot. Smiling, she passes it to me. "What do you call that?” she asks. “Hair of the dog or something?" I snort. "And you call yourself fucking Irish, woman?" I pick up the mug and swallow a mouthful of the hot liquid. A low laugh seeps from her lips. "But I'm not Irish, Brandon...remember?" "Oh, I know,” I smirk, “Meascach.” "Asshole. I'm American not a damn half breed.” Her eyes narrow. “At least I'm not a pikey." I hadn't realised how much I need this, to have her talk to me normally, insult me the same way she always does. "Don't pretend you don't have a thing for pikey lads," I say. She was always

hanging around the traveler's camp with Connor and me. She loved the dogs and the horses. Hell, my ma tried to give her a dog every damn time she came around. "Never did until you." She inhales, her eyes studying me. "Did you never realize I was in love with you for all those years, Brandon? And don't lie to me." I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the edge of the kitchen island. "Don't say that," I whisper. "Answer my question." "He loved you. And that was all that mattered." "And I loved you first. And for years, that was all that mattered to me." I slam my palm over the worktop. "Fuck, Poppy. What do you want me to say? Yes, I knew you had a crush on me. Yes, I fucking wanted you, but I was no good. I am no good. Connor...Connor was good. He deserved you." This has lingered between us for years, unspoken but ever present. Connor buffered it because I would always put his happiness before my own. Every damn time. He was my brother and I would have given him the world. This is the first time we've put voice to the fucking great, pink elephant that has always been just in the periphery. "Is that what it was...all those years?" Her face crumples for the briefest of moments. "About what you thought I deserved?" Her jaw ticks and she pulls in a breath. "Because I'll tell you what I think I deserved was to be loved by the boy I was in love with, to have him acknowledge that he took my virginity, for him to treat me like I was more than just a fucking friend." I drag a hand through my hair. "I would have destroyed you, Poppy." "Brandon, do you not realize you did anyway?" She shakes her head. "You did anyway." "And Connor was there to wipe away the tears, to love you." Her eyes are quickly filling with tears, her cheeks turning a deep red. "He was." She nods. "But what about now? Who puts me back together now, Brandon?" I release a long breath and stare at a spot on the floor. "I love you, Poppy. More than anyone or anything. But I won't watch you spiral down with me. You're all I have left." She makes me want something more. She makes me hope, and hope is dangerous to a guy like me because when it's gone, it seems like there's nothing left. And if we do this, one day she will leave, because I will break her the way I do everything and everyone. I'm just trying to prolong the inevitable, keep her at arm’s length for as long as I possibly can. “You…” She takes a step toward me, her face angry, nostrils flaring, “don't have a fucking choice." I can't help but smirk. Little Poppy Turner, so sweet and yet so fierce. "Is that so?" She takes another step and grabs my t-shirt, jerking me down to her. "I love you. There is no choice, Brandon." My heart thuds unevenly in my chest and that age old longing creeps up. It's

selfish and shitty of me, but I'm starting to lose sight of all the reasons that I should stay away from her. I cup her cheek, touching my forehead to hers. "There are only so many times I can do the selfless thing when it comes to you." I tilt my chin up, brushing my lips across hers. She tastes of coffee and Poppy. I crave it like my own personal brand of crack. "It's always been you," I breathe the words I can't fight anymore. I'm already trapped in my own personal war and I need her beside me, not standing across the battle lines from me. I can't help but feel as though this was always inevitable, me and her. No matter how many women I fucked or how perfect Connor was for her, this has always been a twisted form of fate. Poppy’s fingers wind into my hair and she pushes up onto her tiptoes, pressing her small body against mine. I wrap my arms around her waist and touch my lips to hers, breathing her in. And damn, she feels like home. POPPY IS SITTING ON THE METAL BENCH TO THE SIDE OF THE ROOM WHILE I GET CHANGED FOR THE FIGHT. It's a big fight tonight and the pub is packed. The roar from the crowd is constant in the background. I yank my shorts over my hips and swipe a hand through my hair. Poppy's eyes linger on my bare torso before flicking up to meet mine. A blush touches her cheeks when she realises she's been caught looking. It's so damn cute. "You know that I hate that you do this," she says, standing and walking over to me. I smirk. "Easiest money I ever made, poss." "Yeah, I'm pretty sure drug dealers make 'easy' money too...doesn't mean you should do it." She glares at me and I can't help but see that little girl she once was sulking because she didn't get her way. "I mean, if he beats your ass, fine, but don't let him hit you just because you like it. That's so Neanderthal, Jesus." "It's manly. I'm just making him feel better about himself anyway." "It's idiotic." "You concerned about the preservation of my dashing good looks?" "Really?" She rolls her eyes. Smiling, I lean in and brush my lips across her jaw, placing a kiss just below her ear. It's strange being able to touch her. I've always loved her, always wanted her, but from afar. She was like the sun, beautiful and so damn unattainable, and now that I have her I can't quite believe that she won't burn me. "I won't let him 'beat my ass'," I say in a poor imitation of her American twang. I feel the tension in her body relax. I wrap my fingers around her jaw and nip at her bottom lip. "Don't move." I kiss her once more and walk away, heading to the exit. The second I open the door, the noise from outside becomes deafening: Breaker, Breaker, Breaker. "You let him hit you, I'm flushing your weed down the toilet," she threatens, her soft voice just carrying over the cries from the crowd outside. I glance over my shoulder and wink at her before I step through the door. I told her not to watch the fight. I don't want her out here amongst this lot. It's

distracting. I duck down, sliding between the ropes lining the ring. Larry is standing in the middle clutching a microphone in hand as he riles up the crowd, encouraging them to spend more of their money. "It's Brandon 'The Breaker' Blaine!" The crowd goes crazy. I remain in the corner, my hands loose at my sides. "He is undefeated ladies and gents. A legend in this here ring." More cheers. "And fighting him tonight is a monster, a rebel, the undisputed bad boy of the professional middle-weight world, Ronnie 'Wreckage' Sanders!" My opponent climbs through the ropes with his head held so fucking high it makes me smile. The crowd boos him the way they do every outside contestant. The thing about The Pit.... they support their own. And given that Larry loves to big up the whole ex-military shit, they're all about supporting Larry's guys. Of course, that means they bet on us, and that's no good, so Larry keeps trying to bring in bigger and badder fighters in an attempt to make some money. Ronnie Sanders is just such a guy. He's banned from professional boxing because he half ripped a guy’s ear off with his bloody teeth. The guy has issues, and Poppy asked me not to get hit, so I'm not fucking around with him. Larry steps out of the ring and the bell rings over the backing noise of the cheering crowd. Ronnie Wreckage grins at me as if he's about to slaughter me. Here in this ring, everything outside of it ceases to exist. Something in me shifts. I allow myself to morph into nothing but raw aggression and lethal instinct, because, to be a fighter—a good fighter—you have to stop thinking and simply react. I take the few steps towards him. His smile drops a fraction, his eyes narrowing as he studies my approach. I feint left and he lifts his guard, defending his face. I drive my fist into his gut hard enough that I know he'll be winded, but he takes the opportunity to swing at me. Usually I'd stand here and take it, hell, I'd even be excited at the prospect of being hit by a guy with his kind of reputation, but I force myself to think through the simple blood lust and remember Poppy. I duck and pop up, pulling my fist back and using all the strength I have when I drive my fist into his temple. I feel my knuckles crack under the pressure, and a dull ache explodes across my hand. He staggers back on his feet for a second before he falls to his knees in front of me and then he goes down like a felled tree. The shouting and clapping shoots to a deafening level. I glance to the side of the ring where Larry stands flanked by Finn and Kyan and Larry looks pissed. Finn has a small smile on his face and Kyan, well, he's got his arm around some blonde in a tight dress, grinning at her as he stares at her cleavage. I turn around and step out of the ring. People part like the red sea, scampering away from me as I make my way to the door in the corner of the room. I grip the door handle, pause, and take a deep breath. It doesn't matter how calm I try to be, fighting does something to me, forcing something primal and aggressive to the surface. My blood rushes through my veins, sending my heart beat into overdrive. I close my eyes for a second as I try to force the rage back into that place where it

sits, waiting to break free at the slightest provocation. No sooner do I step into the small corridor than Poppy appears in the doorway of the storeroom, her arms folded around herself. Her eyes search my face and I know she must see a bomb waiting to go off. I remain where I am, not wanting to get too close to her because honestly, I don't trust myself. It's here, when I'm in this place, that the line between reality and nightmare becomes so very thin. Being in that ring is a dulled down version of war. There are no bullets, and you're probably not going to die, but it still brings out that reflexive survival instinct. Poppy watches me for a moment. I'm fairly certain she's unsure of how to handle me like this, and I don't blame her. Not one bit. "You okay?" she asks. I nod stiffly. "Just...give me a second." She frowns, offering me a small smile as concern fills her eyes. She calls to the lost fragments of my soul that are buried in shadows so thick and black, I can barely see out. I try to resist her, I do, but it's futile. Before I know it, I'm storming across the space that separates us. Her eyes widen, and she takes a trembling step back before my hands land on her waist and my lips slam over hers. She goes rigid before her body softens against mine. She’s so trusting. Her lips part and I groan as her tongue brushes mine. Her small hands wind around my neck as she submits to me completely. Everything about her washes over me, calming everything in its wake. She bridles the rage. I lift her and her thighs part, wrapping around my hips. I slam her against the wall and she tears her lips from mine, her breaths ragged. I trace my nose down the side of her throat, smiling as I breath her in. Bam. The door to the locker room bangs against the breezeblock wall, Larry shoving his way through. Poppy stiffens again. Sighing, I drop her back to her feet. "What the hell was that shit out there, huh?" Larry’s face is red, his eyes wild as he thumbs back in the direction of the ring. "Shit like that ain't gonna win me no money, son. You pull stunts like that one and no jackass is gonna fight you. Jesus." I grip Poppy's hips and gently move her to the side. I move in front of her, blocking Larry's view of her. "I've told you before old man, I fight the way I fight, and I win." I shrug before folding my arms over my chest. "And I've told you before that if you can't at least make it entertaining, I ain't got no need for you." His left eye twitches a little. "Shit-fire, I mean I like you and all, but a business is a business." Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, he sighs. "I'm your best fighter, Larry." I cock a brow, keeping my expression stony. "You know it. I know it. Half this crowd only came here for me, so take it or fucking leave it." "You may be my best fighter, only 'cause you're half looney as a fucking schizophrenic wombat, but shit, no one wants to watch you knock the bastard out first go." "Plenty of illegal fight rings in London, Larry. I can walk into any-fucking-one

of them tomorrow. You just say the word." I don't want to be an arsehole. I like Larry. He gave me a means of making money and, to a degree, a sense of belonging that I hadn't felt in a long time, but I'm not a fucking puppet. I'm not about to go in there and fight to orders. These fights may be illegal, but they sure as shit don't need to be fucking fixed. His expression falls blank. "None of those other fuckers are gonna put up with your shit, boy. How many times have I had to come drag your drunk ass outta your apartment and sober you up? How many times have I pulled you outta some bullshit bar fight before the cops get called and your AWOL ass really gets into trouble? You think anyone else is gonna put up with that mess?" His gaze falls behind me onto Poppy. "Besides her, huh?" I take half a step forward and open my mouth to respond when Poppy shoulders past me and practically squares up to Larry. Towering over her, he stares down at her tiny frame, his eyebrows raised. "You know what, Larry?" She tilts her head back to glare at him. "You are part of his problem. Have you ever paid attention to how angry he is when he leaves? Maybe instead of dragging his drunk ass out of his flat, you should have tried to send him to get help. Don't act like a martyr, because you're not." I stand here, unable to move or interfere. "A martyr? Who said any—" "If you cared about him, you would get him help." "That's what the fighting's for to—" "Oh, shut it with that bullshit, would you? Look at him." She points at me. "Does he look like you've helped him?" She shakes her head. "I think you may have meant well, Larry, but really, you should be ashamed of yourself." He hangs his head and takes in a deep breath. "Poss, let me handle it," I say, stepping forward and wrapping my fingers around her arm as I pull her to my side. "Oh, yes, by all means, go ahead, Brandon. Handle it." She crosses her arms in front of her chest and taps her foot over the floor. I can literally see the steam swirling up from the top of her head. "Take it or leave it, Larry,” I say. “You want me to take a punch? Get better fighters.” I pick up my bag and place my arm around Poppy's shoulders, basically dragging her from the room. She turns her head to no doubt glare at Larry as we go. Damn, she's like a dog with a bone when she's mad. I haven't seen that side of her in so long, I'd almost forgotten it existed. I shoulder people out of the way as I push through the crowd and up the stairs to the pub. A high-pitched wolf whistle sounds from the bar, and I look up to see Kyan on a bar stool, his fingers in his mouth. "Yes, take it all off, you sexy bastard!" he shouts across the bar, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Poppy glances at my bare chest. There's a small smile on her lips. "You should probably put a shirt on."

I take my hoody from my bag and pull it over my head. "Aw, all those muscles were making me come over all unnecessary." Kyan grins, fanning himself. "You better run, Brandon." Haven comes sauntering around the bar, beer in hand. "Kyan's a big enough slut he may try to take you next." Kyan smirks at her, dragging his eyes over her body. Haven is exactly the kind of girl that most guys can't help but look at, and well, Kyan has a lot less restraint than most. She flicks her long, blonde hair over her shoulder, smiling as she playfully hugs Kyan. He wraps her in his arms, and when he does, her short top rides up. I watch as he sweeps his fingers over her bare skin and winks over his shoulder at me. I sigh and rest against the bar. "Oh, dear God," Poppy leans in and whispers in my ear. "Tell me Haven is smarter than to go there." I shrug. "If Larry sees him look at her like that he's a dead man walking." Kyan pushes away from the bar, dragging Haven with him as he steps over to me. "I had two grand on your beautiful fucking arse tonight," Kyan says. "Glad someone's happy." "Did Larry give you shit?" Finn asks quickly, pulling my attention from Kyan. I glance at him. "What do you think?" He huffs a small laugh. "You know Larry and money." Yeah, I fucking do. Poppy's fingers wind through mine and she steps back, pulling me away from the bar. "We should be going." She eyes me meaningfully. "Yeah, catch you later guys." I wave as we head towards the door.

Chapter Twenty Seven POPPY

“I Think I’m In Love”- Andie Case "COME ON. IT'S TEN MINUTES AWAY," BRANDON SAYS WITH WAY TOO MUCH ENTHUSIASM. "I don't understand why we can't just drive." I dangle car keys from my finger. He snatches them away and tosses them onto the coffee table. Ten minutes, he says, but with him that means it's most likely a fifty-mile hike. "The fresh air will do you good,” he says, slapping my ass. "Oh, yes, because London air is so refreshing?" He grins. "Exactly." "Fine. Ten minutes," I say. "One minute over ten minutes and I am turning back around." He heads to the door and I follow him. "I don't like walking. It's cold and nasty and I know it's going to be more than ten minutes because you have no concept of time." "Whine, whine, fucking whine. Come on, woman." He holds the door open for me, waiting with his arm outstretched to usher me through. I give him one last glare before passing underneath his arm. "And it better be good Chinese food too." "Babe, please. It's better than sex." "Now, that's just an insult." He throws his head back and laughs as he locks the door. "You haven't tried their crispy seaweed. Me and that seaweed are going to go have a private moment in the bathroom together." I drag my hands down my face and shake my head. "I can't even with you, Brandon." He chuckles as he places his arm around my shoulder and kisses my temple. And that simple touch makes my heart flutter a little. Outside, the air is crisp and the ever-present sound of London traffic hums in the background. Autumn leaves skitter along the pavement in front of us. We pass in front of the bicycle shop and market, and then a man and woman explode out of a shop door. She looks annoyed. His face is beet red.

"Oh, someone's in the dog house," Brandon says, laughing. He nods toward the couple bickering. "Got caught staring at the shop assistant's chest I bet." I elbow him in the ribs and he grunts. "She should cut him some slack. I mean, she'd have to pull up her nightie for him to get a look." He laughs. "You are such a boy, you do realize this." I sigh as I glance at my watch. "And it's been three minutes." "You best hurry your slow arse up if you want to make that ten-minute marker," he teases. "My legs are short. Shut it." "Yeah,” he glances down at me, “you are stumpy as fuck." "You're an asshole." I shove him and he stumbles on the sidewalk, catching himself on a bike rack. His gaze falls to the metal rack then lifts back to me. "I don't need my knee caps or anything." Laughing, I shrug. I notice a sign for a China Wok and grab his arm. "Look, there's a Chinese place." I attempt to drag him toward the door but he keeps going. "Nope." He practically lifts me off my feet. "It's not the Chinese place." "Oh, my God. You're like a pregnant woman..." "Are you calling me fat?" I let my eyes drop to his stomach as I reach for the bottom of his shirt and slide my hands underneath, patting his skin with my cold hands. He squeals like a little girl and shoves me away from him. "I mean..." I laugh. "Okay, I really need my Chinese right now, but later..." he scowls at me, "later, you're going to pay for that." "Promises, promises." He smirks and picks up his pace, forcing me to practically jog to keep up with him.

TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES OF WALKING. TEN MINUTES OF STANDING IN LINE. TEN MINUTES OF WAITING FOR our order. By the time we leave, he's plugging his ears so he can't hear me complain any longer. Halfway through the trek back, he gives in, crouches down, and I climb on his back, smiling. Just like old times. "Oh my God," Brandon huffs, shifting me on his back as he follows the sidewalk to his flat. "I don't want to hear it. That was way over ten minutes." "No shit. I feel like a fucking packhorse." "No,” I giggle, “a possum." "That doesn't make it sound any more glamourous." "It is what it is." I kick at his side with my heels. "Now go." I laugh. "I swear to god, woman." He climbs the stairs to the first floor, stopping outside of his apartment. "You owe me." He snickers. "You owed me for making me walk. Now we're even."

"Pft, not even close. It's at least worth a blowie." Sometimes, I don't think Brandon has matured past the age of fifteen. "Thankfully, we have the Chinese that is better than sex. That should take care of you for the evening at least." I laugh as he unlocks the door. The take-out is hung around his wrist, making it difficult for him to pull the key from the lock. I hop off his back just as the door swings open. Brandon goes straight to the coffee table and drops the sack onto the middle before plopping down on the floor and leaning back against the sofa. "You know," I say as I sit next to him and stretch my legs out underneath the rickety table. "I really miss sitting at an actual table to have a meal." Brandon's already tearing through the bags, opening the Styrofoam containers and setting them out. Steam rises from the take-out food and he inhales it, letting out a low groan as he rubs his hands together and smiles. "Wow," I say, opening a pair of chopsticks. "I'm having a moment. Don't ruin it." "Uh-huh, okay." I grab the tub piled high with chicken and pinch a piece between the end of my chopsticks, cramming it inside my mouth. Brandon's watching me, waiting on my reaction. The food is good, amazing even, but I am not giving him the satisfaction of saying it's better than sex. I swallow and shrug, poking the chopsticks around in the container. "It's good." "It's wasted on you." He shoves noodles inside his mouth, still chewing as he picks up the box of his precious seaweed. When he opens it a salty smell wafts over to me. He digs some out of the container and thrusts it in my direction. "Try this." Snarling, I move away from the shredded green stuff hanging from his chopsticks. "No thanks." He rolls his eyes and grins. "You're such a fucking baby." "What? I just don't want your nasty seaweed, don't take personal offense to it." He pops it inside his mouth. "Now who's being the unhealthy one?" he says, raising his eyebrows. "Crispy, deep fried seaweed." I grin. "Yes, so heart healthy." "Closest I'm getting to green shit." He shrugs one shoulder, shoveling seaweed into his mouth as though it may run away. We sit on the floor of his flat, stuffing our faces until we’re both about to pop. We watch Die Hard, and once the credits start to roll across the screen, I go to take a shower. My gaze constantly veers to the door I intentionally left cracked, as I peel my clothes off. My heart pounds in my chest. I want him to come in here. I should just ask him, but I can't bring myself to. This is all so weird—to be so close to someone, yet so afraid. I turn the taps, still watching the door as I allow the water to heat up. When the steam begins to billow over the top of the shower, I climb in. The scalding water pummels down on me, the heat relieving the tension wound so tightly in my shoulders.

The hinges to the bathroom door creak and my pulse steadily picks up. I watch his shadow through the shower curtain as he pulls his shirt over his head. I hear the clink of his belt buckle when he drops his jeans to the floor. My stomach flits and flutters. My nerves are on edge. And seconds later, he pulls the curtain back, an irresistibly sexy smirk on his face. His eyes drag over my body so slowly that by the time they meet mine again, I'm burning up. I fight to keep my eyes on his face, but fail miserably, wondering why I'm so ashamed of my attraction to him. My gaze drifts over his chest, his tattoos, over his stomach, and I swallow. The only thought running through my head right now is one of him shoving me against the wall, trapping me between his hard body and the tile. I stand here, unable to move as he steps into the shower and closes the space between us. The second his hands grip my waist I’m forced to close my eyes because his touch feels that damn good. My fingers shake slightly as I trail them down his chest, slowly tracing over each bump of his abs. And I feel so weak for him. This is what Brandon’s always done to me: weakened me even when I wish I were strong. I follow the water as it cascades over his hard muscle. A small smirk that is all Brandon touches his lips and it has my heart violently hammering in my chest. He leans in and brushes his lips across the side of my neck and I tilt my chin back, resting my head against the cool tile. I am right where I want to be, trapped between the heat of his body and the cold wall. "Need help?" his deep voice rumbles in my ear as he nips at my neck. And before I even have a chance to answer, he's pinned my arms to the wall, his mouth over mine. And we fall into that state of bliss neither of us can deny.

Chapter Twenty Eight BRANDON

“Painkiller” – Nothing But Thieves IT'S BEEN A MONTH, A MONTH OF BEING WITH POPPY, A MONTH WHERE I'VE FOUND A FORM OF PEACE. Although I've accepted the fact that life goes on and all you can do is try to slog your way through the shit the best you can, I still feel guilty. I'm painfully aware of the shitty circumstances that I live in, and the fact that she's willingly joined me in this tiny apartment. She works in the day and I fight at night. Every time I fight, that little switch inside me flips. Sometimes I like it because it serves as an outlet for the rage. She hates it. She hates the fighting, and she hates Larry simply because he owns the fight ring, but what she doesn't see is that without it, I really am good for nothing. It's the only thing I'm good at anymore, and it pays the bills. It’s not the fight that’s the problem, it's the aftermath, the long moments where my mind goes into complete overdrive, survival mode. It feels like I'm right there in a war zone all over again, fighting, ruled purely by instinct. And it's in those times that I can't see Poppy clearly anymore. She slips into the background for a few moments, a secondary consideration to my desperate animal reflexes. I'm sitting on the couch holding a bag of frozen peas to my jaw when I hear her key in the lock. Fuck. I shove the peas behind a sofa cushion just in time for her to walk in, two plastic bags stuffed with food in her hands. "Hey." I get up and take the sacks from her, dumping them on the kitchen side. "Brandon?" My back is to her. I don't want to turn around. "Yeah?" I take shit out of bags, shoving it in cupboards. Hell, I have no idea where this crap even goes. "Why..." She grabs onto my shoulder and turns me around, her gaze narrowing on my throbbing cheek, "is your face red?" "Fight," I say as way of an explanation. I mean, shit, I do fight for a living. Rolling her eyes, she opens the cabinet I just closed, takes the carton of milk out, holds it up with an arched brow and opens the fridge, placing the milk in its rightful place. "I don't know why you let Larry bully you into getting hit."

Ah, fuck. "I don't," I say defensively. The truth is, I like getting hit, and although things are so much better with Poppy in my life, I will always seek out that small punishment. I will always like the pain, which makes me a prick because I know it upsets her. "He took my advice, got a better fighter." I shrug. She spins around and glares at me, those grey eyes of hers stormy as hell. "No one is a better fighter than you. Try again." She taps her foot over the floor and cocks her hip, a sign she's really getting pissed. I take a step towards her, smiling as I wrap my arms around her waist. "Babe, your faith in me is cute, but there is always someone better." "Okay, so, he hit you? You tried to block him and he got the upper hand? You let some other guy get the upper hand?" I lift my shirt, showcasing the blossoming purple bruise where I let the fucker nail me in the kidney. "Doubled me over and went for the face. The kids got skills." I trail my fingers over her cheek and her expression softens slightly. "You're sexy when you're mad." I smirk, leaning in to kiss her. She pulls back and covers my mouth with her hand. "You're lying to me, Brandon O’Kieffe." "I'm not..." I mumble beneath her palm. She presses her hand harder over my mouth as she inches her face toward mine. "Your left eye is twitching. It always does that when you lie. You may be skilled at a lot of things, lying is not one of them." A small smile flickers over her lips and she drops her hand from my mouth. "Oh, I'm skilled at a lot of useful things." I smirk, moving to kiss her again. She lets me, for about three seconds. "That's up for debate." She turns away from me, and I pick up the dishcloth, twisting it around in the air and flicking it at her arse. She yelps and starts backing away from me, her hands held out to ward me off. Her eyes flick up to my face, narrowing before she spins around and takes off running down the hall. I stride after her. I snag her around the waist when she reaches the bedroom and toss her face down onto the bed. I slap her arse again, hard enough that she squeals and rolls onto her back. Her face is flushed, a wide smile on her lips as she stares up at me. "You're an ass," she says breathlessly. "Don't pretend you don't like a little spanking." I grip her thighs, pulling them apart and settling between them. "And you owe me a proper kiss." Her warm breath touches my lips before I press my mouth to hers. And there it is, the calm, the overwhelming sense of peace, that feeling of something being so right it soothes your very soul. Her fingers glide up the back of my neck, her nails scratching over my scalp as she surrenders to the kiss. I kiss her until she's breathless, and then I sit up, pulling her with me until she's cradled in my lap. Her arms wind around my neck, her fingertips absentmindedly drawing circles over my back, sweeping along the numb area where my scar starts. "I have a surprise for you," I say.

She glares at me, a small smile inching over her lips. "I can only imagine." "Sorry to say, it doesn't involve me naked." I shrug one shoulder. "Oh, really? Then, what, pray tell, is it?" I lean over, pushing her back as I reach for the bedside table. Her arms tighten around my neck and her lips brush my throat as I open the drawer and take out the small object. "Close your eyes. Open your hand." She hesitates. "I swear to god, if it is a small animal or insect, I will have a heart attack and die..." "This is not primary school, and I'm not keeping a frog in the bedside table." I smirk. "Close your eyes." "Tell me again it's not a living creature." She stares at me. "I want to make sure that eyebrow of yours doesn't start twitching." "Poppy!" I say, exasperated. "No creatures." She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and unwraps her arms from around my neck, holding out her hand. I place the key in her hand. "Okay. Open your eyes." She stares down at her palm and picks up the miniature stuffed possum keychain, the key dangling from it. "Aww, a tiny stuffed rat to match your tattoo." She giggles. "What's the key for? If you tell me the pub..." "Firstly, it's a possum. In both instances." I point at the key ring and then at my chest. "Uh-huh." "And the key is for our new flat." The grin fades just a touch as her eyes fly back down to her palm. "New flat?" Her face scrunches with confusion. "But..." "Don't pretend this place isn't a shithole." Honestly, I'm nervous. Poppy living here is, well, a friend helping a friend I guess. Only we're not just friends anymore. Still...I'm basically making it official without even asking her. "Ours?" She swallows. Her eyes haven't moved away from the key in her hand. "Our flat." "Yep." I go for casual, trying to hide my anxiety. "Unless you....you know, if you were planning on getting your own place." I shrug. "I could do with a new place anyway." She finally looks up at me and she's chewing on her bottom lip. "No, it's...it's fine. It's great. It's really sweet of you." I hiss a breath through my teeth. "Sweet. Okay, not what I was going for, but..." Shaking her head, she sighs. "You know I suck with this stuff. You make me all vulnerable and just...Ugh. My only place is with you, Brandon, and you know it." "Good.” I push her back on the bed, kissing down the side of her jaw. “We move tomorrow." Her warm breath blows across my cheek before her fingers press against my lips, forcing me just a few inches away from her. I stare down at her and narrow my eyes at the small frown knitting her eyebrows together. "How much deposit did you have to put down?"

"Six months’ rent," I say, warily. "How much is the monthly rent?" "Don't worry about it.” I sigh. “I have money." She shoves me off her and sits up, wiping her hands down her face. "Brandon, I just..." She shakes her head before her eyes lock with mine. "You are more important to me than any flat." I flash her a small smile. "Babe, I make more money off one fight than most people make in a month." "It's not the money, well...I mean it is, but it's—it's not." Closing her eyes, she shakes her head again. "You are not the same person after a fight. Not at all. And I don't know how much longer you can keep going at that. How much longer I can..." She swallows. "How much longer you can what?” That familiar rage spikes, gripping me in its clutches. “Deal with your fucked-up fella?" I clench my fists as I fight back the anger. Anyone but her. It can come out around anyone, but not fucking her. "No, Brandon. I just..." She hesitates and I can tell there's something she is tiptoeing around. "I just don't want anything to happen to you." I frown at her, sitting back on the bed and propping my elbows on my knees. "What do you expect me to do, Poppy? I fight and I make money. How is it any worse than getting paid to shoot people in a war zone?" I sigh. It's the only thing I'm good for, the only thing I'm good at. I still have enough pride to earn money and pay my way, even if it is the pikey way. "You are still in a warzone. And that's what scares me." "I know. Trust me, I fucking know. But there's not a lot of opportunities for an AWOL soldier now, is there?" Her gaze veers off to someplace that's not here, and then she shakes her head. "I hate that you ever went into the fucking army. Hate it." "Can't change it. All you can do is survive." I get up and walk out of the room, heading for the kitchen. My hand lingers over the handle of the cupboard where I keep the whiskey. This shit is so fucking hard. I drop my hand and walk away, picking up a pair of fingerless gloves from the bookshelf in the corner. I strap them at the wrists and take to the bag that's hanging in the corner. The heavy chain creaks against the ceiling hook each time my fist connects with the worn, bloodstained canvas. "Brandon." I pause and glance over my shoulder just as Poppy places her arms around my waist. Her palms slide over my bare stomach. Her cheek presses over my back. I grip the bag and rest my forehead against it, breathing heavily. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "And thank you." I trail my fingers down her forearm, covering her hand with my own. Inhaling, I turn to face her. Her arms fall to her sides. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip as she looks up at me. "I just want you to be happy." "And that's the sweetest thing you've ever said."

A smile pulls at my lips. "How about, I love you?" "That goes without saying, now doesn't it?" "Getting cocky." I grip a handful of her hair and pull her up onto her tiptoes before kissing her to show her just how much I love her.

Chapter Twenty Nine POPPY

“Colors” Audien remix – Halsey BRANDON'S SPRAWLED OUT ON THE COUCH, GLARING AT HOPE. "What?" she says as she shoves an unpacked moving box out of the way with her foot. "It's bad luck not to have a housewarming party." He cocks a brow at her, and she glances at me. "I stick by the fact that he's a cunt, Poppy." She points her finger at him. "I mean, look at him. All sulking over a party." He drags both hands down his face, tossing his head back on an exasperated groan. Hope mumbles something under her breath on her way to the kitchen. Brandon looks up at me. I shrug. "You know how she is..." "A pain in my arse." I smile. "It's just some of the guys from The Pit. It'll be fun." He grumbles and flops back on the couch covering his face with a throw pillow. I hear the unmistakable pop of a champagne bottle, and Brandon jumps. Seconds later Hope's in the living room, shoving champagne flutes in our faces. I take mine and Brandon rolls his eyes. He stands and stumbles into the kitchen, coming back out with his bottle of whiskey. "Oh, Moet's not good enough for you, eh?" Hope says. "And, you know, I'm offended you drink that shite whiskey. What's wrong with McGrath Whiskey, you cunt?" "It's connected to you," he winks as he twists the cap from his bottle and takes a swig. There's a knock on the door. Brandon groans and mumbles a few swear words as he sets the bottle down and goes to open it. Kyan, Finn, and Haven are all huddled at the doorway. Brandon extends his arm, motioning them in. The second Haven steps inside, she shoves a bottle of whiskey and a pink blob into Brandon's arm. "What the..." "From Mum and Dad." "Yeah," Kyan laughs, "Lars said there's no better gift than whiskey and a bald

pussy." He snickers again. Haven shoves him and Finn just shakes his head. "A fucking cat?" Brandon says. He turns around holding a little pink kitten with the tiniest tuft of orange hair in the middle of his head. His big yellow eyes dart around the room. He's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. "What..." Hope steps forward and points at the cat. "Is that?" "It's a pussy cat with no hair," Kyan says. She gives an unimpressed look to Kyan. "It looks like it got into a fight with a lawnmower." "Yeah, well, Madame Wrinkles got it on with one of the pikey cats out in the back alley." He shrugs. "Poor little bastard is like a hairy, bald mix." Brandon shakes his head. "I'm not keeping a cat." He places the kitten on the floor and it backs up against his legs. "Aw, it's well cute, what with its little patch of hair." Hope crouches down, clicking her tongue to call it over. The kitten unwarily makes its way over to her and she grabs it, scooping it up in her arms as she turns to me. "What are you going to name it?" "It's not getting a name," Brandon says, grabbing his bottle of whiskey from the table. She holds the kitten up, touching her nose to its face. "He who shall not be named. Ah, bless it." Finn pats Brandon on the back as he walks past him, pulling a vape pen from his pocket as he takes a seat on the edge of the couch. "Okay, now everyone's here, along with newcomer, Voldemort." Hope hugs the kitten to her cheek. "Oh, good,” Brandon says with a clap, “she's attached to it. She can take it home." "Get a drink, we're going to play a game," Hope grins, ignoring him. Brandon throws his head back against the sofa cushions. "We best have more fucking whiskey in the house." "Brandon, you have two bottles..." I say. "Thank fuck." "Well, as always, he's a delight," Hope glares at Brandon as she pulls out a long, black box from her purse. I make my way over to the couch and perch myself on Brandon's lap. "Be nice." I run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw and kiss him on the cheek before I whisper, "I'll make it worth your while later." He scowls at me. "Fine. But we aren't keeping the cat." "You know,” Haven says, “people pay like two grand for those hairless cats. We sold the other kittens for eight hundred quid each and they're not even purebreds." "Well, fucking shit. Somebody hand the little fucker his balls and get him on it," Brandon mumbles. "Game, you said?" I'm done talking about the cat. Hope opens the box. "Cards Against Humanity." She glances at Brandon and

smiles. "It's called the game for horrible people. Right up your alley, you fucking pikey." "Well, you are a soulless ginger. And you did bring it..." "You do realise if it's just pure fact, it's not an insult, you twat." "The two of you are about to do my head in," I mumble. "Can we just play the game and have you two shut up?" I head to the kitchen and open the fridge while Hope explains the rules. I pop a few pizzas into the oven and pour myself another glass of champagne, and by the time I get back into the living room, everyone is in a laughing fit. "Okay.” Brandon holds up a card with a smile. "'And the Academy award for firing a rifle into the air while balls deep in a squealing hog goes to Mr. Clean, right behind you'." He tosses the cards onto the table. "That one has to be the winner." "Thank you," Kyan says, feigning a bow. Brandon pats Finn on the shoulder. "Finn, 'Being a motherfucking sorcerer and mouth herpes' was a close second." "What kind of game is this, Jesus?" Brandon glances up, smiling with Voldemort in his lap. "The game for horrible people, poss."

Chapter Thirty POPPY

“This Town” – Niall Horan "I'LL SEE YOU TOMORROW, DORIS." I WAVE AS I PULL MY COAT ON. Doris glances over the top of a patient file, her gaze drifting to Mr. Brighton on the other side of the room. "I'm walking him down on my way out, don't worry." "Mr. Grumpy." "He's not that bad," I whisper, as I swat her on the shoulder. "I guess not for you. You like 'em all rough and tumble. Shagging a fighter, best friends with that Irish girl." She giggles. Mr. Brighton walks to the door and holds it open for me. "After you, love," he says with a smile before he glances at Doris. "Have a lovely weekend, you old winch." "Same affection to you, you wanker." He chuckles and we head toward the front entrance. "Any big plans for the weekend?" he asks. "Not really." "Ah, come on now. Lover boy's not got plans for you?" I shrug. "He still fighting?" I turn just as Mr. Brighton pulls a cigarette from his coat pocket and sticks it to his lips. Cupping his hand, he flicks the lighter and takes a deep drag. "He is then," he says and smoke billows from his lips. Mr. Brighton is the only person outside of our group of friends I've told the truth about Brandon. And I'm not sure why, maybe because they are so alike in ways, maybe because I wanted someone who had been through a similar situation to tell me Brandon would be okay. "He says it's all he's good at." He nods knowingly as he takes another draw from the cigarette. "You know, Poppy, Hollywood...”—the smoke slowly leaks from his lips—"is a crock of shit, they paint this picture of war where it's all black and white...it's not. There's a

million shades of gray in there." Another swift drag. "I've not met many soldiers who actually wanted to kill someone." He's not really looking at me any longer, more like through me. It’s the same fogged-over look Brandon gets when he talks about the war. It’s like it drags them right back to that desert, holding them hostage in their own head. And though there is silence between us, I just stand here and wait to see when Mr. Brighton will come back. Squeezing his eyes closed, he lifts the cigarette to his lips, his hand slightly shaking as he puffs away. "Killing a person, it fucks with your head. It's not like in the movies, Poppy. Most of us aren't running out there in a battle cry with guns raised, bullets flying. No. Most of us, whether we will admit it or not, are scared shitless. And those horrors we live day in and day out, they don't ever go away. They haunt you. They whisper to you in your sleep." He hesitates for a moment. "Sometimes I think the guys who died were the lucky ones because they have peace, and that's a damn sight more than I can say for myself." The sound of the traffic on the road swirls around me and I feel as though I should say something, but, I'm at a loss. "Why do you think the fighting is so bad for him?" he asks. "It's uh, just the way he is after. He goes into this rage. He likes it when they hit him, and then he's just..." I shake my head and shrug. "Just down. He just gets so down. I don't know that part of him." "Well, I'll tell you what I think. I think the fighting doesn't matter much because the fighting's not the root cause of it, you know? He stops fighting, that war, those horrors," he taps his forefinger over his temple, "they'll still be there. Until he can learn how to ignore those ghosts clinging to his back, well..." Chill bumps rush over my skin and it feels like a stone just sank to the bottom of my stomach because doesn't it all sound so hopeless? "Hey, poss." Mr. Brighton glances over my shoulder and I turn around. Brandon's a few steps behind me, his hand shoved in his pockets. The bright blue shirt he's wearing is clinging to his chest. "Hey, babe." I smile when he stops beside me. "Brandon, this is Mr. Brighton. Mr Brighton, Brandon." The two men shake hands and there's a moment of awkward silence. Mr. Brighton clears his throat, locking his gaze on Brandon as he nods toward me. "Your Poppy is the ray of sunshine around here, you know it?" Brandon smiles. A cab pulls over to the curb and Mr. Brighton tosses the cigarette down. "You take care of her," he says, clasping his hand over Brandon's shoulder. "You take care of her." Then he turns to me. "You've got a good heart, love. And I thank you for that." A weary smile inches across his face as he heads toward the cab. "See you next week, Mr. Brighton," I say. He waves as he climbs into the cab.

"He's my favorite," I tell Brandon as we walk down the sidewalk. "He reminds me of you."

Chapter Thirty One BRANDON

“She is Love” - Parachute I TAKE POPPY'S HAND AND LEAD HER DOWN THE STEPS TO THE SUBWAY. "You know I can drive?" I shake my head. "We're going into the city." London at rush hour...we'll be there for hours. I can feel her eyes on me, watching. I'll be honest, the underground at rush hour is a personal brand of hell for me, but I want to do this for her. I want to show her some kind of normalcy and be able to give her a life. That involves doing shit outside of the apartment. So, I grip her hand as we fight our way through the commuters and squeeze onto a packed tube. I hate having people at my back, and my body locks up with tension as sweat trickles down my neck. Poppy subtly shifts, moving behind me and wrapping her arms around me as I grip the pole beside me. Her hand rests on my stomach. I place mine over it, threading our fingers together. My gaze darts around at the people pressing in on us, and the second we reach our stop, I'm dragging Poppy through the open doors. She never complains, simply jogs to keep up with me. When I reach the top of the steps I take a deep breath as the tightness in my chest evaporates. "Okay?" she asks. I nod. "Yeah, come on. We'll be late." "You still haven't told me what we're doing." "That's generally what a surprise entails, you not knowing." I smirk at her. We move through the crowded streets of central London until we're right by the river. It smells like silt, oil, and shit. Poppy shoots me a funny look when I lead her towards the London Eye. "You, the guy who refuses to do, in your own words, touristy shit, are going to the London Eye?" She puts a palm to my forehead. "Have you fallen ill, babe?" "Don't say I don't do romantic shit for you," I say, smiling. I lead her into the small ticket building and hand the guy behind the desk a piece of paper. He glances over it and smiles wide. “Mr. West, follow me."

"Mr. West…so...” She suspiciously lifts her brow at me, “now you're Finn?" "If the credit card fits." The guy lifts a little rope that I think is supposed to make this look a bit VIP. We wait a moment as pods pass us one at a time. "Ah, here you go.” An empty pod pulls up and he opens the door, sweeping his arm to the side. "All yours." We step inside and Poppy's eyes dart to the ice bucket and box of chocolates resting on the wooden bench in the centre of the pod. "Okay, now I know you must be ill," Poppy says, grinning ear to ear. I shrug. "You like this kind of shit." When we were kids, Poppy always used to draw pictures of her wedding like a proper girl. I used to tease her for it. Little did I know that she was secretly plotting to get me in that damn suit at the time. That kid crushed on me so hard. It was cute. "Well, aren't you romantic, Mr. West?" She giggles. "I'll be sure to pass that on to Finn." The pod starts to move, cruising at a snail’s pace. I kind of wish the thing would pick up some g-force. It would make it more interesting. Poppy lifts the bottle of champagne from the ice and reads the label. "Going overboard a bit?" she says under her breath. The top comes out with a pop, and instead of pouring a drink into one of the two glasses, she drinks straight from the bottle. "You always were a classy chick." I snort. She eyes me. "Says the pikey because he knows what class is?" "Hey, my ma had a top of the line caravan. She even had scatter cushions. That's like luxury, I'll have you know. The dog that was chained to it had a proper collar and everything. No bailing twine for Sean." "I did love that dog." She laughs. "And I think your dog was the only one who actually had a name. If that's not high-class pikey, I don't know what is." "Yeah, ma loved Sean Connery." I grin. "She was a classy bird." "She's the one who taught me to drink straight from the bottle, you know? Less dishes." She cracks a smile. Ah, fuck. Poppy's dad went mad because she came to my cousin's birthday party when she was fifteen and my ma got her drinking cider. I guess a few years across the pond and he forgot the fundamentals of being Irish. I had to practically carry Poppy home and deposit her on the doorstep. Me and Connor rang the bell and did a runner. "God, your dad fucking hated us." I laugh. "I thought he was going to shank me at the wedding." "He hated all guys, but especially you. He said you were a cesspool of disease, with love though. He said that with love." "Hey. That wasn't my fault. Slutty Suzie got knocked up and everyone thought it was me. I only let her blow me one time for fuck's sake." "This was sweet of you." Smiling, she pushes up on her tiptoes to give me a kiss. A short kiss—after I just dropped over three hundred quid on this pod—and then

she walks over to the window, looking out over the dirty city as the sun drops behind the horizon. I'm not one for a view, but then again, I could push her up against that glass and make this date really memorable. I walk towards her and place my hands on her hips, pulling her back against me. When I brush my lips over her neck, she tilts her head to the side to give me better access. The smell of her shampoo invades my senses, relaxing me like some kind of drug, and I smile against her skin. I glide my hand around her front and slip it beneath the material of her top. And then, she yanks away from me. "Really? This thing is nothing but windows." "And?" She rolls her eyes again. "You are such a guy." "But you just look so pretty standing there in the sunset." I smirk. "You'd look better naked though..." "No." She draws away from me and I step after her. "Brandon," she warns. She backs up to the glass and I cage her in, pressing my hands on either side of her head. "Possum," I breathe against her lips, waiting. Her body relaxes and a slow moan seeps from her lips. "Don't do this to me, you asshole." "I'm just standing here, babe." I smile, rolling my lips over hers. Her chin tips up a fraction and she presses her lips against mine. I grab her around the waist and lift her onto the hand rail that runs along the pod as I step between her thighs. Her lips part and I swipe my tongue against hers, kissing her until she breathlessly pulls away. "God, you are such..." she kisses me, "an asshole. I hate you, you know that right?" "Nah, babe. You love me. I mean, I did get you champagne." "I love you, but I hate you." "Oh, you're mean today." I kiss her again and she moans into my mouth. "I want to fuck you," she whispers. "That's why I hate you." "Done." I grab the bottom of my shirt and yank it over my head in two seconds flat. Fucking on the London Eye. I am down. Her eyes pop wide and she shakes her head, her eyes glued to my bare chest. "Put your shirt back on." "You sure about that, poss?" I whisper in her ear. Her teeth tear into her lip as her gaze drifts over my body. "Jail...we will go to jail." "Or end up on PornHub..." She buries her head in her hands, laughing. "We've already been on here ten minutes. We don't have enough time." "You give me too much credit, babe, you really do." She opens her mouth to say something but I pull her off the railing and spin around, laying her down on the bench. I trail my fingers up her thigh, her breath hitching as I slowly lift the skirt of

her dress. Her eyes lock with mine. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. When I pull her underwear to the side, a small whimper leaves her lips and I grin. "Brandon..." "Hmm." I drop my lips to the inside of her thigh, brushing them over her skin as I move upward inch by torturous inch until she's shaking. "I hate you," she says, her legs dropping to the side as she throws her head back on a groan. So much for her 'we don't have time.' Within seconds she's trembling from head to toe, a string of moans leaving her lips as her fingers wind in my hair. I slide her underwear back in place and she sits up, her cheeks flushed and her hair falling out of its ponytail. I check my watch. "Eight minutes to spare." She glares at me, and I shrug as I take the box of chocolate, remove the lid, and shovel a few truffles inside my mouth. "You and chocolate make a good mix." I wink at her. "Want one?" I ask, holding out the box. Sighing, she reaches in and grabs one, taking a small bite. "You're sweet, Brandon. Perverted, but sweet. I think I'll keep you." "Is that your way of saying I'm good at eating pussy? Because you're welcome." I smirk and go to take another handful of chocolates, but they're all gone. "The fuck? Who puts like five chocolates in a box?" "Dear God...it's not a box of Celebrations." She snatches the box away, staring inside before she chucks it to the floor. "I hope you throw up from that." "That's not nice."

Chapter Thirty Two POPPY

“Unsteady/So Alive” – Haley Klinkhammer I WATCH THE BOATS AS THEY DRIFT DOWN THE THAMES, THE LIGHTS SHINING FROM THE TOP OF THEIR masts. "I can't believe I let you do that to me on the London Eye," I say, tipping the bottle of cheap cider back. "Let?” He huffs a laugh. "I think you'll find my smooth moves were just too much for you." He takes a massive bite of his kebab, spreading garlic mayo and chili sauce all over his face. "Uh-huh." He takes another bite, this time a large chunk of meat falls to his lap with a splat. "I can't believe you like those disgusting things. It's most likely some plague riddled sewer rat they've skewered and fed to you for a few quid." "It's man food." "And it will give you man shits." He bobs his head to the side. "Worth it. Anyway, that shit,” he points at the bottle in my hand, “will give you the hangover from hell in the morning. How about I shotgun the toilet, you can hurl in the bath." "Wow, and people swear chivalry is dead." "Keep telling you I'm a class act." I sigh because, sometimes, with Brandon, that's all I can do. I shouldn't find his immaturity as endearing as I do, but I can't help myself. He grabs a piece of meat and holds it up to my face. "Here. Try it." I shrink away from the meat he's dangling between his fingers. "I don't want any." He shoves it in my face again. "Take a bite." "Look, I don't want your nasty meat." A slow grin works over his face. "Really?" he says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Asshole." "Seriously though, you're missing out." He swipes the bottle of cider from me and takes a swig, shaking his head and squinting one eye like he's having a stroke. "Oh, god. That shit is like vinegar."

"Compliments the taste of rat, hmm?" "No." He inhales and leans back on the bench. "You remember that time Connor drank a whole two litre bottle of that for a dare?" He starts laughing, barely able to get the words out. "I thought he'd actually died. And you dared him..." "Look, I don't remember daring him..." "If it had been anyone else he would have said no, but fuck, he'd have walked on hot coals if you told him to." He shakes his head, smiling. "Bless him. Poor thing had to have his stomach pumped and everything." "God, did he bitch about it." Brandon rolls his eyes, but I can see the warm smile on his lips, the softness in his expression. I think he likes to remember the three of us growing up, the way we were before life became hard and cruel. "Why were we all friends anyways?” I ask. “All we ever did was harass each other and get each other drunk as piss.” "Eh, you were the half-breed, I was the pikey, and Connor was fat. Who the fuck else was going to hang out with us?" "True." I smile and lean my head against his shoulder. "Who'd have ever thought me and you would end up in London?" "If there's one thing I've learned poss, it's that no matter where you go in the world, the places don't mean shit. It's the people. I'm glad you found me. I'm just sorry you had to lose everything to do it." He closes the plastic kebab tub and gets up, tossing it in the trash. He turns to me and holds out his hand. "Ready to go home?" I nod and take his hand. Little things like tonight, they are what make everything seem worth it. It's the way he makes me feel. The way he loves me, the us there always has been swirling somewhere beneath the surface, that makes me know I would never let him walk away from me. No matter what. I WAKE UP, AND THE SUN IS MUCH BRIGHTER THAN IT SHOULD BE THIS TIME OF MORNING. I GLANCE AT THE clock, sitting straight up. "Shit!" Brandon jumps, bolting up in bed. "What? What..." He swipes his hand over his face before holding it to his chest. "Fuck. Don't do that." I hop out of bed, stumbling into the wall as I try to catch my balance. "The fuck are you doing?" he asks. "I'm going to be late." "So? No need to give me a fucking coronary over it." "I'll get in trouble." "Trouble? Sounds like bullshit, if you ask me." Groaning, I roll my eyes as I dig through the piles of clean laundry I've yet to put away. Brandon rolls out of bed and staggers into the living room while I rush around attempting to look halfway put together. When I come into the living room, Brandon's standing at the kitchen counter

staring down at the box of two-day old pizza. "Okay, you've got two choices here. Pizza or Coco Pops." "I'm fine, thanks though." He steps around the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand. "Coffee. No whiskey." He flashes a smile that nearly makes me melt. I push up on my tiptoes to kiss him, and his hand snakes around my neck as he sweeps his tongue over my bottom lip. I fight the urge to part my lips, and I somehow manage to pull away from him. "I'm late." "And I'm horny, babe. We all got our issues." He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip in a way that just shouldn't be allowed. "Well, I have got to go. Save it and I'll handle you when I get back." "Possum..." He takes a step toward me and I hold a finger up. "Don't..." His smile is full of mischief and dirty promises as he takes my hand and yanks me closer. His lips skim just below my ear. His hand grabs my ass. "Just call in sick," he whispers, his hot breath tickling my neck. "We'll have a sex day. It's like a snow day, only better." I melt into him for a second, nearly caving. "Have I told you I hate you..." "Lies." He nips at my ear and I playfully shove him away. "I have to go. I'm already late. I'm not calling in. Stop trying to be a bad influence, Brandon O’Kieffe." I snatch up my coat and rush to the door. "Love you." When I turn around, he's leaning against the kitchen counter with Mort scooped up in his arms. I don't believe there can be a cuter sight than Brandon O'Kieffe clutching a tiny, bald kitten in his arms. "Love you, possum," he smiles as he pets the cat. I leave, closing the door behind me, and all but jogging to catch the tube in time. By the time I get to the clinic, I'm half an hour late. I cringe when I walk through the doors. Doris is bent over, shoving patient charts into the filing cabinet. "Sorry I'm late. I overslept." I throw my purse under the counter, drop my lunch by the mini fridge, and I check the schedule. "I'll go get Mr. Brighton," I call out. Before Doris has even had a chance to respond, I'm on my way into the hallway. I push open the door to the large waiting room, but the only person out there is Mr. Williams. He smiles at me over his newspaper and I smile back before shutting the door and heading back to the nurse's station, plopping down in the seat next to Doris. "Did you already take Mr. Brighton back?” I ask. "Sorry again that I was late." I'm still trying to catch my breath. Doris has yet to say anything. When I glance up, her eyes are closed, her fingers sliding her cross along the silver chain that hangs from her neck. Her eyes slowly open and when she looks at me my heart rate instinctively picks up. "Mr. Brighton passed away last night," she says. The air leaves my lungs in a heavy rush, my throat constricting. "They just called." She stands and wraps her arms around me in a comforting

embrace. "What happened?" I ask as I fight back the tears. Sighing, Doris holds both of my shoulders and takes a slow step back. She looks down at me as a mother would her child, empathetically full of love. "He took his own life, dear." I clutch at my tightening chest. Doris' hands rub over my arms. "It's a terrible thing when your own mind is your worst enemy. He's at peace now. At peace..." The rest of the day is a blur. Patients come in and out. The day drags on, and I find myself wondering why Mr. Brighton did it. What went through his head? How utterly desperate it is that to some people, that is the only answer, that the only way to peace is through death. And suddenly, I'm swallowed by fear, dragged down into this black abyss of worry and panic. Peace...that is something Brandon is always seeking and never finding. The last patient of the day is a no show and Doris lets me leave early. I sit on the tube, deep in thought, and by the time I get home, anxiety is crawling across my skin because what if…what if? The apartment is quiet with no trace of Brandon or Mort when I drop my keys on the kitchen counter. "Hello?" My voice echoes around the empty apartment. Nothing. I walk to the bedroom door and push it open to find Brandon and the cat both in the bed. One of Brandon’s muscular arms is thrown over his face. The other is cradling the cat against his side. "Brandon?" "Hmm?" "You feeling okay, babe?" I sit on the edge of the bed and rub over his arm. "Yeah." Mort struggles beneath the weight of Brandon's arm and walks over his stomach, purring like a little engine. I place my hand against his forehead. He's not warm. Mort steps into my lap, rubbing his slick, hairless self against my arm. "Want to go get Chinese? I know how you love your crispy seaweed." I smile. He moves his arm and drags his hand down his face. "No, I'm good." His eyes are flat and lifeless, his tone void of emotion. He rolls onto his side, turning his back on me. The Brandon I left this morning and this Brandon are so vastly different...I watch him stare off into the nothing, uncertain of what to do. Mort bites my finger because I'm not petting him so I swipe my hand over his head a few times before placing him on the floor. I do the only thing I know to do—lie down next to Brandon and wrap my arms around his broad frame and just hold him. "I love you," I whisper. He remains silent, but reaches for me, pulling my arm around his waist until my palm rests against his chest. I feel the steady beat of his heart under my hand, the sadness radiating from

him, and it tears me in two because there is nothing I can do to take this away. As much as we pretend we aren't alone, we are never more alone than when we are trapped in our own mind. And Brandon—the place he's trapped, it's a place I could never begin to understand. I can feel the sheer sorrow pouring off him, drowning him. He's not angry, he's just...sad and I don't know which one is harder to witness. So, I just hold him and he clings to my arm, not allowing me to let go. We lie in silence until I notice his chest rising in uneven swells, his breaths shallow from sleep. He violently rolls over, throwing his arm across the length of the bed. The covers shift off me. He tosses, his head thrashing from side to side. I watch his eyebrows furrow, his face twists in a grimace and I want to wake him, but I'm afraid to. "Brandon," I whisper. His arm flies out to the side and the lamp, the glass of water and the alarm clock all go crashing to the floor. Mort hisses, his bell tinkling as he runs from the room. I am certain I hear Brandon mumble Connor's name in his sleep, and my blood runs cold, chill bumps scattering across my skin. "Brandon," I gently prod him with one finger and he sits bolt upright in the bed, chest heaving as he pulls in a deep breath. His head whips to the side and when his eyes fix on me, he relaxes slightly. "Did I hurt you?" "No." I timidly rub my hand over his chest. "Are you okay?" He nods and falls back against the mattress, his chest still heaving and his skin clammy with sweat. "Yeah. I'm fine." "Tell me what you dreamed." Inhaling, he turns to face me. "I can't." "It helps to talk." I kiss his cheek. His eyes squeeze shut and he swallows. "It's not the kind of shit you talk about." "I know, but...you keep something like that bottled up inside, it'll eat away at you." He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me down against his chest, placing a kiss on my forehead. "Go to sleep, poss." "Tell me what happened, Brandon. Please." "You don't want to know the details of how he died. It will run through your mind on repeat. Trust me." "All I imagine is what you see in the movies, and I know that's not right." I lay my head on his chest. His heart is banging against his ribs Iike a caged animal desperate to get out. "I am stronger than you think. I've accepted long ago that he's gone. That it was brutal." I pause, my eyes veering up to him for the briefest of moments. I feel like I am invading some personal space of his, but I can't help it. "Did he suffer?" "No…it was an IED. I don't even remember the bomb going off. I just remember waking up. The foxhound was on its side. Everyone else was dead. I tried to save him, I tried, but he was already gone." His voice is a distant hum, disconnected as

though he were recalling a story he read in the paper. "The truck was leaking diesel, and, for a moment, I thought that if I just stayed there, just kept pressing on his chest, the whole thing would blow, and I wouldn't have to crawl out of that fucking truck and leave my best friend behind." My chest goes tight and for a second I feel like I'm suffocating with him. There are so many things I selfishly want to force out of him, but I dare not. Because at the root of it all...all I want is for this pain, this memory, the unrightful guilt he carries day in and day out to vanish, because for all Connor meant to me, I know he meant so much more to Brandon. Connor was my love, but to Brandon, Connor was his salvation. "You did the right thing,” I whisper. “You know that." "Why me? There were five of us in that truck. He was the best person I knew, and he died while I fucking survived. How is that right?" He inhales a ragged breath. "It's not fucking right." "Some people, Brandon..." I fight the tears. I fight the hurt because I want to collapse and crumble, I want to wallow in this hurt with him, but I can't allow myself. "Some people are too bright for this world." He squeezes me tighter. "Yeah. He always was the golden boy."

Chapter Thirty Three POPPY

“Riot” – Sara Haze THE COFFEE POT BEEPS AND I GRAB MY MUG, FILLING MY CUP TO THE BRIM. I HARDLY SLEPT LAST NIGHT. Brandon usually holds me in his sleep, but last night he didn't. It's a small thing, but really, it’s not. He is a ticking time bomb. His own worst enemy and I know it. He goes way down, and when he gets to the place he was last night I have no idea what to do, but it scares me. Life is a series of ups and downs, peaks and valleys—but when your valley is so damn dark, how long can a person stand that? I'm afraid, one day he'll get so low he'll never be able to come up again, like Mr. Brighton… The door to the bedroom creaks when he opens it. Dark circles loom below his eyes. He looks exhausted even though I know he slept most of the day yesterday. "Good morning," I say, smiling as I go to fetch him a cup from the cupboard. "Hey," he mumbles, stepping in front of me and reaching over the top of me for a mug. He takes my cheek in his hand and presses a kiss against my hair before moving to the coffee machine. "Sleep good?" "Yeah. You?" He pushes the button on the machine and it spits out thick, black liquid. "Yeah..." I watch him for a moment. He pours creamer into his cup, followed by the whiskey, of course, then he stumbles over to the couch and plops down. Mort comes running up, clawing his way up the side of the sofa and jumping into Brandon's lap. He nudges Brandon’s hand with his bald head. Part of me doesn't want to mention last night, but I can't ignore it. "Brandon," I sit on the edge of the sofa wondering why it's so hard to talk to him about this. I can talk to him about anything, but here, I find myself anxious and on edge, worried I'll piss him off. "I need to talk to you." Shooing Mort away, he turns to face me, his expression blank as he cradles the mug in both hands. "Okay." "I just..." Taking a breath, I hesitate. "I worry about you." His eyes narrow. He

lifts the mug and presses his lips against the rim. That annoyed him which means the rest of this is going to get under his skin. "You just...I want you to get help, Brandon. You need help." He rubs a hand over his face and sets his coffee down. He takes my mug from my hand, places it on the table, and then grabs me around the waist, dragging me into his lap. His rough fingers stroke over my face before he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Babe, you're everything I need." "Brandon, stop." I move his hand away from my cheek and he glares at me. "I'm serious." His fingers wrap around the tops of my arms, holding me in place. "You're the only one who can help me, poss. I don't know what you fucking want from me." I stare at him, sadness and anger coursing through me because he just doesn't see how bad this is. I can't make things better for him. He needs to let some of that guilt go. He has to find ways to cope with everything he's seen and done, and I can't help him with that because I'm just as lost as he is sometimes. His sadness, at times, drowns me. "Brandon, don't you see I can't fix you." He goes very still, his eyes snapping to my face and narrowing as his jaw clenches hard. "Fix me?" He carefully shifts me off his lap and pushes to his feet before stalking away. All I can do is sit in silence and watch him, my pulse clanging in my ears, my mind swirling with how to make that sound any other way than it came out. When he eventually turns to face me, his body is bristling with tension. "Is that what I am to you?" he says, his voice shaking with agitation. "Something broken? Defective?" "I...I didn't mean it like that.” My heart anxiously pounds against my ribs. “I just meant—" "I don't need you to fix shit." He heads for the bedroom. "I didn't mean it like that," I whisper. I didn't, and I know how awful that sounded. He's not a broken toy that can be pieced back together, and that is exactly how that sounded. "You don't need to be fixed, you need help. We need help because I can't..." I shake my head as I follow him into the room. "I can't lose you, Brandon. I can't." "There is no helping this!" he roars, and I flinch. "There is no fucking cure. No fix. This is survival, one day at a time. You knew what you were getting, Poppy." He spreads his arms wide, a mocking laugh slipping from his lips. "Is it everything you fucking hoped it would be?" Closing my eyes, I take a breath as the heat washes over my cheeks. "Nothing in my life has ever been everything I hoped it would be,” I say. “But the way you were yesterday..." I stop my mind from tumbling down the dark hole of what ifs. "I just don't like to see you that down." "It was Connor's fucking birthday yesterday!" he shouts. There's a sharp pain in my chest and I find myself clutching at it as my mind comes to an abrupt halt. What a terrible person am I? I forgot him. I. Forgot. Him.

So consumed with running late and Brandon and Mr. Brighton...so worried with my life as it is now that I forgot the person I should always grieve for. And this is where my strength gives out. I bury my face in my hands and sink to the floor. Tears well in my eyes and, this time, I don't even try to stop them. "I'm sorry," I whisper. Not to Brandon, but to Connor because I forgot him when I promised I never would. Brandon’s rough hands sweep over my arms and up to my cheeks, and I lift my tear-filled gaze to find Brandon crouching in front of me. He swipes his thumbs below my eyes, drying my tears. "I forgot," I whisper, a fresh wave of pain gripping my heart. I wrap my arms around my legs, pulling them to my chest as a sob tears from my throat. "I am...a horrible person." Brandon sits beside me and pulls me between his knees. I cry against his chest and he holds me, his chin resting on my head as he cocoons me in his warmth. "Shh," he whispers. "You couldn't be a horrible person if you tried." And I want to scream at him that I am. I want to throw things and punch things, I want to destroy something until it's as ugly and battered as I feel—but, instead, I cling to him. "I love you," he mumbles against my hair. And I fall to pieces in his arms and he is the only thing that keeps me from completely breaking.

Chapter Thirty Four BRANDON

“Blood Hands” – Royal Blood I STEP INTO THE RING AND CRACK MY NECK FROM SIDE TO SIDE. JOSH HARMON GRINS BEFORE HE BLOWS ME a kiss. "I'm gonna break that pretty little face of yours," he says. His eyes are wide, his pupils nothing more than pin pricks. His hands twitch in agitation as he bounces on his feet. Brilliant. I tell Larry to step it up and he brings me some gear jacked thug. I say nothing, simply stand. Still. Silent. I allow the rage to swirl and build like a thick cloud until it swamps me, wrapping me in its thick tendrils. The sound of Larry's voice becomes a distant hum as if I'm under water, removed from the situation rather than at the centre of it. And then, the bell dings and everything snaps back into place in an instant: the roar of the crowd, the smell of sweat, beer, and cigarettes, and the rage. The rage punches against my skin like a rabid animal waiting to get out. Harmon comes at me like a train, fists swinging. He instantly tries to step inside me and block my leg with his. It's a dirty move, and in any normal fight, an illegal one. I swerve to avoid his legs and catch the end of his swing, only a glancing blow, but enough to split my lip. I pause and swipe my fingertips over my throbbing lip. My hand comes away bloody and I smile. He comes at me again. Whatever he's on must be some good shit because he's lightning fast. I nail him twice in the face, but it doesn’t faze him. Another swing. His fist barely brushes past my side, but I wince at the sting that breaks out over my skin. When I glance down, I see three bright red lines stretching across my ribs. I watch the blood well up and spill down my side. The crowd erupts, some booing, some cheering. Larry shoves his way into the ring, closely followed by Kyan. "Time!" he shouts. "Disqualified for breach of conduct." I look at Harmon. He throws his head back and laughs as he lifts his hand. The light glints from the razor blades the motherfucker has in his wraps, and Larry and Kyan step in front of him.

"Protecting your boy?" Harmon says. "I would have destroyed him." I snarl and step forward, but Finn is in front of me the second I do. Harmon grins, spits on the floor, and steps out of the ring. "We both know you would have had the fucking junkie," Finn says. He never swears, and I can practically feel the tension hammering off him. His anger may be controlled, but all it does is feed my own. I shove away from him and pace across the ring a few times, clenching and releasing my fists. My ribs sting. I can feel the blood trickling down my side, mixing with the sweat. Larry moves in front of me, placing his hand on my side as he inspects the damage. "Go get cleaned up," he says, his eyes studying my face closely. "Finn, go with him. Get him some first aid, and do not let him out." By the time I'm back in the storeroom, I'm feeling real fucking murderous. My skin physically itches, anger crawling over me like ants. Finn sits on the metal bench in the middle of the room, a small first aid kit in his lap. Although seemingly calm, his knee jerks repeatedly in my peripheral. His agitation makes me nervous. Too much time in a battle zone will get you like that. When you live, work, and kill beside other guys, you feed off their emotions. If one of them suddenly becomes tense, you best assume you're about to get a bullet in your arse. In a way, you become like a pack of animals, each looking to the other for behavioral cues. And his anger is only setting light to my own, stoking it and stirring the flames higher. "Finn, you need to go," I say through clenched teeth. "Larry told me..." "Look, you're pissed and it's not fucking helping me." I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes closed. I hate feeling this out of control, a slave to this aggression. He hesitates for a second before he nods, gets up, and leaves the room. The second he does, I slam my fist into one of the metal lockers. The skin at my ribs pulls with the movement and I place my hand over it. Blood slicks my palm. "Fuck!" I roar. The door swings open, and I jump at the sudden bang of it slamming against the wall. "I swear to God," Poppy says. Her face is red, but it goes all soft the second her gaze skims my side. "That guy's an asshole." Inhaling, she takes the first aid kit from the bench and begins rummaging through it. "I'm fine." "You're bleeding." She crouches in front of me, swatting my arm away from my side. "You need a Tetanus shot." Her fingers gently brush over my skin as she inspects the cuts. A line sinks between her eyebrows and her lips press into an angry little line. It's so cute that the anger in me ebbs slightly. She places a bandage over the cuts and shakes her head. "Well, I guess they gave you a Tetanus shot when you enlisted… You should have knocked his teeth down his throat." I cock a brow. "I would have done if Larry wasn't such a pussy-bitch about it." "I mean, what did he hope to accomplish by swiping you with a razor?" I say nothing and concentrate on a spot on the wall while she tapes the bandage

in place. I count to a hundred in my head and focus on breathing. In and out. I allow the pleasant scent of Poppy's perfume to drown out the smell of blood and sweat and violence. Her fingers trail over my cheek and I blink, staring down at her. The little frown line is still there, marring her perfect features. "Stop worrying," I tell her. "Oh, I'm sorry.” She scowls at me as she stands. “I didn't realize that you getting shanked by some filthy asshole—in an underground, illegal fight pit, might I add—was something I shouldn't be worried about." She groans. "You just got shanked Brandon. Like in prison." I roll my eyes. "Babe, it's a scratch. I did not get fucking shanked." I can't help but smile at that. "Don't try to downplay this, Brandon." She shoots me a nasty glare. I lift my hand and sweep the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. Her eyes flutter closed and she swallows heavily. "I hate this," she whispers. I press my lips against her forehead. "Let's go." She's still glaring at me, but she lets out a sigh. "You drive me crazy." Shrugging, I pull away from her and throw on my shirt and hoodie. As soon as we step outside the storeroom, I spot Finn lingering against the back wall. Hope is with him, no doubt chewing the poor guy's ear off about some pointless bullshit. The second he spots me, Finn crosses the room, falling in beside me. The crowd in The Pit is still thick, and if anything, the blood has only riled them even more for Kyan's fight. I throw my arm around Poppy's shoulder, pulling her tight into my side as we push through the sweaty drunks and make our way to the door that leads to the back alley. The basement door bangs shut behind us with a rattle, and the cold air wraps around me, making me shiver. The dark alley smells of rotting food and piss. It's pretty much the local toilet for every patron of The Pit. "Bingo!" Hope shouts. "Come on, lads. Let's go play some Bingo." I snort. I swear that girl is completely fucking oblivious to anything that goes on, unless it involves a potential dick. Poppy glances nervously at me. "I really just want to go home." "Suit yourself,” Hope says. “Finn, you want to go with me? It's a grand time. You win neck massagers and... hello?" Poppy squeezes my arm. I look down at her before following her gaze to Finn. He's staring at a point in the alley, his posture tense. He wraps his fingers around Hope's arm and pulls her behind him. That one small motion is enough to set every instinct I have on edge. I step in front of Poppy, moving to stand beside him just as four guys appear from the darkness, Josh Harmon standing in the middle. They step into the dim streetlight. His friends look to be the same kind of low life thug as he is, and aggression is pouring off them. They take another step into the alley, and I notice Harmon’s lip is split, and although his right eye is swelling shut, that rising rage in

his eyes, that need to hurt someone is evident. I crack my neck to the side, tightening my fists. "Poppy, go back inside," I say, through clenched teeth, fighting to keep control of myself until she leaves. "No, stay sweetheart," Harmon leers, attempting to peer around me. "Don't fucking talk to her." I'm shaking as I attempt to hold back the wall of pain I'm ready to inflict on him. I can feel Finn at my side, the tension bristling from him. Harmon laughs, and his friends join in like a pack of well-trained dogs. "I'm going to beat your arse in front of your little whore girlfriend." That's it. I fall on him like a motherfucking building. My fist slams into the side of his face three times before one of his friends jabs me in the kidney. Something in me delights at the challenge of taking on every-fucking-one of them. My little demon rises to the occasion, basking in the raw violence. I beat the shit out of the pair of them, nailing my knuckles against flesh and bone over and over until blood coats my hands. I'm consumed, blinded by the sole purpose of destroying the guy in front of me. I'm vaguely aware of the other two out cold on the floor—courtesy of Finn. Now it's just me and Harmon. My fist and his face. "Brandon," Poppy shouts. "Stop it! Brandon." I hear her but nothing registers. "Finn, make him stop. He's going to kill him!" "Nothing he doesn't deserve," Finn's voice is laced with the same kind of darkness that's roaring through my head. I hit Harmon until my arm is tiring and his face is completely red and swollen. "Brandon, please," Poppy's voice hitches on a sob and I wish I could go to her, but I just can't pull myself out of this. The force is too strong. Something brushes over my arm, hands grabbing at me, and I swing. At the last second, I realise that it's Poppy. I pull back the force of my punch, but it's too late. My fist collides with her jaw and she crashes against the concrete. Time stands still. My heart seems to physically freeze in my chest and my blood runs cold. The anger disappears instantly and all that's left is the horror of what I've just done. She's sprawled out on the filthy ground with her hand to her mouth, blood trickling from her lip. Finn and Hope rush over to help her to her feet. "Poppy..." Hope charges me. Her hand meets my cheek with a resounding clap. "You," she points a finger in my face. "Are a fucking head case. Stay the fuck away from her." Poppy's eyes are focused on the ground, and a steady stream of tears track down her cheeks. "Poppy, I'm so sorry," I whisper. I feel like all I ever do is apologise to her. I take a step forward. "Don't you dare." Hope stands like a guard dog, her expression fierce. Usually I'd argue with her, but I'm too ashamed of myself right now. I drag both hands through my hair and tilt my head back. "Please look after

her." She nods and turns on her heel with a flick of her red hair. I watch as she leads Poppy away and out of sight. Finn lingers, tentatively casting glances at me. I look back at the four unconscious bodies littering the alleyway. This is what I do. This is what I'm capable of, and I've never given a fuck...until Poppy stepped into the middle of it. "Come on." He jerks his head to the side and I follow him. My mind and body have gone completely numb and, by the time I get to his place, I can't even remember getting here. His apartment is small but well decorated and meticulously clean. I used to be like that before everything happened, and I guess I got to a point where I just gave up and decided that nothing was worth doing anymore. At times, I could barely wash myself let alone clean an apartment. "Here." Finn comes from the kitchen and hands me an ice pack, pointing at my hand. I glance down at my ripped and bloody knuckles, and all I see is them coming into contact with Poppy's beautiful face. "I need to go to her." I start to get up, but he places a hand on my shoulder. "Just let Hope deal with her for now." He sets a beer on the coffee table and takes a seat next to me, sipping on his own. I drag a shaking hand through my hair. "They were just there and she was there and I lost my shit. I would never hurt her," I say hoarsely. But I did. I did hurt her. "I know. It was an accident." I don't know how long Finn sits there watching me. My mind races in a whirlwind of guilt and horror as I stare numbly at the wall. Eventually he gets up and leaves the room. I hear the shower start, and I pick up my phone, staring at the blank screen. I pull up Poppy's name, press the call button, and when it goes straight to voicemail, I text her: Possum, I am so sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. I wait and wait, but get no response. My heart is pounding in my chest as a very real fear eats away at me. She's going to leave me. She's going to leave and then what? She's everything and without her it's all completely pointless. She's the one person I cannot bear to hurt though. I war with myself for a minute and then I realize, I can’t blame her if she does leave. Actually, she should leave me. She should hate me. I'm a disaster waiting to happen, a ticking bomb, and she's strapped right in with me just waiting for the inevitable bang. I tell myself I would never hurt her, but I just proved myself wrong. I can't trust myself. I don't even know who the fuck I am anymore. She is my peace, but I just saw that even she can't quiet this fucking demon inside me. I decide to do the selfless thing for once in my shitty life. I don't want her

forgiveness. I just want her to be happy and loved and safe. My love will only hurt her, and that's not what love should be. So, I'm letting her go. I type out another text: I don't deserve your forgiveness. I can't live with myself knowing I've hurt you. Just know that I love you, always. And I press send.

Chapter Thirty Five POPPY

“Mercy” – Shawn Mendes I CAN STILL FEEL THE BLOOD PULSING THROUGH MY THROBBING CHEEK. HOPE HANDS ME ANOTHER ICE PACK as she takes away the one that's been on my face for the past thirty minutes. "This is what I was talking about," she says, tossing the used pack into the sink. "It's messed up. He's messed up, Poppy." I stare at her, still numb. "I know it is. I don't need you telling me it is." She closes her eyes and sighs. "That was not Brandon," I say so quietly, I can barely hear myself. "No, Poppy, it was Brandon." She shakes her head, pushes away from the counter, and comes to sit next to me on the sofa. "He's...he's..." "He didn't know what he was doing." I exhale. "It was a reaction. A reaction. I shouldn't have tried to stop him. I should have just...I didn't want him to go to jail. He can't go to jail, he's a deserter, he'd..." My mind jumbles with scenarios and excuses, grasping to understand what just happened. And I can't help but wonder, am I justifying this too much? I love him, but am I trying to make something work that has no business working? "Did he mean to hit you? No, but did he? Yes." She places her hand on my knee. "He needs help and you know it. Hell, you work with these guys day in and day out, you know what war can do to someone." What war can do to someone. War is death on so many levels. Poison that seeps through your veins, never letting you go. It took Connor's life and it took Brandon's. He is basically a zombie staggering around, always haunted by the memories, the cruelty and gore. War sentenced him to hell and so it sentenced me right along with him. I stand from the couch, glancing at Hope. "I just want to go to sleep. I don't want to talk about this." "Poppy, I know you want to help him, but at what cost to yourself? You can't just —" "I can do whatever I want. It's my life." I walk out of the living room and close the bedroom door, dragging in an uneasy breath as I make my way to the bed. I pass

by the dresser and make a conscious effort to avoid my reflection. I'm in love with a man I've known my entire life, but there's this darkness to him that no light will ever find its way into. A part of him that was created in an attempt to survive, but now, I worry there is nothing that will help him survive himself.

I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING, MY FACE SORE. AGAIN, I PASS BY THE MIRROR WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A glance. And what do I do today? Do I go home and pretend everything is okay? Do I leave him? The thing is, Brandon would never intentionally hurt me. And maybe I sound pathetic, but what kind of person would leave the person they love when they are at their darkest? The living room is empty when I step into it. On the table, beneath my phone, is a note Gone to get coffee. xx-Hope. I plop down on the couch and grab my phone. One missed call and two texts, both from Brandon. I don't deserve your forgiveness. I can't live with myself knowing I've hurt you. Just know that I love you, always. My chest tightens, each beat of my heart is harder than the last. And all I can see is Mr. Brighton's face. I nearly drop the phone trying to press the call button. It rings and rings with no answer. Adrenaline is buzzing through me, my heart pounding so hard I can literally see it. I grab my purse and run to the door, dialing Finn's number as panic settles in. "Yep?" "I need to talk to Brandon." "He's not here." "What?" "He left late last night." I feel a lead weight sink in the pit of my stomach. "Why did you let him leave?" I shout into the phone. "Because...” Finn inhales, “he wanted to go home..." I hang the phone up and drop it inside my pocket as I turn the street corner, heading down the stairs into the Underground. I shove my way through the crowd standing around the platform just as a train comes to a screeching halt. People aren't even off the subway car before I'm fighting my way inside. The entire way to my stop, my mind plays out horrible scenarios. I keep telling myself I'm overreacting, that Brandon would never do something like that—kill himself—but

while Brandon wouldn't, that darkness would. The train stops and I rush off, tripping on my way up the stairs and barely catching myself with my hands. Someone helps me up. "Thank you," I shout over my shoulder as I take off in a sprint toward our flat. By the time I reach the front door, I'm out of breath and covered in sweat, my cheeks and lungs on fire from the cold air. I put the key inside the lock and take a breath, praying that he's okay... The lock clicks, the door swings open, and I find the apartment quiet. I want to call out to him, but part of me is terrified of the silence that might greet me. As I walk through each room, a sense of desperation claws at me, squeezing until tears prick my eyes and stream down my cheeks. The fear is so all-consuming. I want to turn around and walk out so I don't have to face it. I throw the bedroom door open, my heart hammering against my ribs as my eyes land on Brandon standing beside the bed. His gaze snaps to mine and the relief almost knocks the breath out of me. "Brandon," I whisper. Deep shadows linger below his eyes. His jaw tightens when his gaze drops to my cheek. I can feel how swollen it is and I know it must be blossoming in shades of purple. Slamming his eyes shut, he drops his head forward. He looks so tortured. "I am so fucking sorry," he says, the words choked. I notice the gym bag on the bed, piles of his folded clothes around it. "Where are you going?" I ask, quietly. "Away." "Away where?" He finally lifts his gaze to mine, and there's a distance in his eyes that I do not like. "We're done, Poppy. The flat is paid up for the next six months and all the bills are covered..." "What..." Every bit of air leaves my lungs. "You're leaving me?" Ignoring my question, he continues to shove clothes into the bag. With every passing second, the worry and fear and confusion is swallowed by anger and resentment. My fists clench, my jaw tightens, my cheeks are on fire. "Fuck you," I say, grabbing a pile of his clothes and throwing them across the room. "You don't get to give up that easy!" I grab another stack of shirts and toss it, then the bag. And all the while he just stands there. "Did you hear me, Brandon? You don't get to give up that easy!" And the next thing I know, I take both my hands and angrily shove them against his chest, but he doesn't budge. He watches me for a few seconds before he closes the space between us, pulling me against him. I fight his grip, but his thick arms pin me in place. I feel so small and fragile against his solid body, so unbearably broken in his arms. "I hate you," I say against his chest as tears finally break through the anger. "You should," he mumbles against my hair. My fingers fist his shirt. The thought of letting go of him terrifies me. There is so much that's wrong between us, an ocean of loss and heartbreak, anger and

sorrow, but I need him. I’ve needed him since I was ten years old. "Please." I don't know what else to say. His hands gently cup my face, tilting my head back until our eyes meet. A small frown line sinks between his brows as his eyes frantically search mine. "I love you, Poppy," he says. "What did I do?" His eyes close. His expression pained. "Nothing, possum. You're fucking perfect. But I hurt you, and sooner or later I'll do it again. Sometimes love is about sacrifice." "So sacrifice my heart, then?" "I told you once that I would destroy you." His thumb brushes over the bruise on my face. "I'll give everything I have not to." He steps away, zips the bag and picks it up, placing a lingering kiss on my forehead before he walks out of the room without a backward glance. He thinks he's just going to walk out. Give up? My entire body tenses, my pulse clanging in my temples with each step he takes. "You are the most selfish person I have ever met, you know it?" I follow him out into the living room. "You quit. Everything. You quit the army, and Connor, and now me. Congratulations, Brandon. Just keep running from everything that means anything to you." He stops midstride, but doesn't turn around. "And, for your information, you destroyed me years ago, Brandon." He finally whirls around to face me, his fists clenched and his eyes tight. "How can you fucking want this, Poppy?" he shouts. "I don't want this," I say, shaking my head. "I just want you." "Last night....that is what I am. A ticking fucking time bomb, and babe, you can hate me all you like, I don't care." He turns back to the door. Just before he opens it, I feel everything inside of me crumble. This is the middle of the storm and no matter what I do or say, everything is about to be swept up within these winds. "Love isn't easy," I find my voice shaking. "You don't just walk away from something like this." I swallow. His hand's still on the door. "Everything in life is a risk, you just have to decide which risks are worth taking, and to me, you are a risk worth taking because without you, without what we have, I will merely be existing. And I want to live, Brandon." His chin drops to his chest and he rests his forehead against the back of the door. "But clearly,” I say, “I am not worth the risk to you because you refuse to get the help that you need." I grit my teeth. "And if that's the case, go ahead and fucking leave, but don't you dare say you are doing this for me. You're doing it for yourself." His palm slams over the door and he spins around, dropping his bag before he storms toward me. "This can't be fixed! It will always be there. I'm trapped in my own fucking head, day in day out, and when I close my eyes, do you know what I see?" His face morphs into something hard and vicious. His voice rises steadily. "I see Connor's dead eyes staring at me. I try so fucking hard to bring him back. And

every. Fucking. Night. He dies. Tell me, can they delete that memory? Pull it out of my head?" And what do I say to that? No amount of loving him will ever erase that from his mind, and the amount of sadness that threatens to swallow me from that fact is immeasurable. "No," I say, "but I just want someone to help you see there's so much more to life than that piece of hell you constantly live in." He squeezes his eyes shut. "There is more, Poppy. It's you. And I want more for you…" he gestures between us, "than this." "Brandon..." "I need some time." And with that, he opens the door and leaves. He leaves me...

Chapter Thirty Six BRANDON

“Bad Habit” – The Kooks I KNOCK ON FINN'S DOOR, AND HEAR THE SHUFFLE OF FOOTSTEPS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR BEFORE he opens it. He's wearing a black tracksuit with the hood pulled over his head, shadowing some of his face. His eyes lock with mine for a beat and then, wordlessly, he turns away, leaving the door open. I follow him down a short hallway and into the apartment. "What's up?" he asks, picking up the vape pen from the coffee table and lifting it to his lips, his eyes narrowing as he inhales. I take a seat on the opposite corner, facing him as I swipe an agitated hand through my hair. "Standard shit." He nods. The scent of cherry tobacco wafts around the room when he releases a steady stream of smoke. He leans forward and braces his elbows on his parted knees, the movement causing his hood to fall forward and slightly cover his face "Poppy?" he asks. "I think we broke up." "You think?" "I tried to. She can't fucking see how dangerous this is, even after last night." He exhales a long breath and leans back. "She loves you." I nod. The truth is, I thought Poppy would hate me, that she would at least agree with me on some level, but she doesn't. I hit her for fuck's sake, and she just begged me to stay. What is wrong with us? Are we so toxic for each other? Is she so desperately clinging to this that she can't see how fucked up it all is? And then she asked me to get help, and fuck, I've never felt so shitty. I know it won't help, but would it hurt to try...if it makes her happy? If I go to a therapist I guarantee I'll end up in a military prison before my arse even touches the couch. And even if I do get help, even if there's some magic cure, I'm still screwed. I'll still be fighting for dirty money, never able to give her the life she truly deserves—a deserter on the run.

"She wants me to get help. She thinks I have PTSD or some shit. Says the fighting makes it worse." He shrugs and leans back into the sofa cushions. "We all have our issues, it's how you deal with them that defines you." He's right. I have these issues and on my own they wouldn't be such a problem, but with Poppy... There's only so long you can keep plummeting before you hit rock bottom. I thought Poppy was enough to stop the descent, but all she's doing is slowing it and suffering with me in the process.

Chapter Thirty Seven POPPY

“World in Flames” – In This Moment UNABLE TO SLEEP, I LIE WIDE AWAKE. IT’S NEARLY MIDNIGHT WHEN I HEAR THE DOOR UNLOCK. THERE'S the clink of keys dropping onto the table. The water in the kitchen turns on for a moment and then I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. The streetlight that filters in through the window casts just enough light that I’m able to make out Brandon's silhouette as he strips off his clothes. My eyes follow along the broad expanse of his chest down to his narrow hips as he walks toward the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight before he slides in next to me. The sensation of his hot breath blows across the back of my neck, followed by the soft caress of his lips trailing from below my ear to the corner of my shoulder. Part of me is relieved that he's home, part of me is angry—not that he's back, but just that he does this. That he goes up and down and round and round. But it always comes back to this right here. To him and me. And, if one day it didn't, that type of heartache would slaughter me. "I'm sorry," he whispers into the darkness. "I love you." I roll onto my back and he hovers over me, his fingers stroking over the side of my face before his mouth covers mine. My entire body relaxes as it gravitates toward him. I’m in desperate need of his touch, his warm embrace. Gripping my hips, he rolls on top of me with one swift movement. Hot skin presses against the inside of my thighs. I should be used to the way he feels by now, but my body still has this involuntary response to him, each touch branding me in a way that only he can. His lips sweep across mine in a ghost of a kiss, so tentative, yet so full of need. I close my eyes when his rough hands glide beneath my shirt, skimming my skin as he lifts the material up and over my head. His movements feel so desperate, almost tortured, yet undeniably gentle. We kiss until I'm breathless, until I feel as though he is my oxygen. His touch makes me forget everything that isn't his mouth or hands, anything that isn't us. And this is how love should be: all consuming and unexplainable. A place where nothing outside of us exists. And this—this magnetic pull that lives deep inside my

chest, that sucks me to him and makes me feel like my very existence depends on his next kiss—I've only ever experienced that with him. "You are everything, Poppy," he breathes the words against my lips. I wind my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He groans when my tongue brushes over his bottom lip, and his hand comes up to cup my cheek. "I will always love you," I say. His fingers slowly skim my hips before he takes the waist of my shorts, dragging them ever so slowly down my legs, and sitting up as he slides them past my ankles. He grabs my thighs, yanks me down the bed, then grips my waist and drags me into his lap. His strong arms wrap around the small of my back and every single inch of his hard body bleeds into mine until it feels as though we're melting into one another. Ragged breaths slip past my lips, mingling with his. My fingers trace over his defined jaw, and then his lips are on mine. Every kiss is tender, gentle, his fingers tangling in my hair as he slides inside of me. A tortured groan slips through his lips as his forehead presses to mine and our eyes lock. There is something so intimate, so profound, as though in this moment we may find the broken pieces we need to make us whole. He moves slowly, reverently, holding onto me with a sense of desperation. And it's here, in each other’s arms, that we find our peace. This is where everything else fades, where nothing on the outside matters. Me and him and that pull that has existed for as long as I have known him. That feeling deep inside that this person is truly the other half of your soul. And for all the faults he and I both have, when something as pure as this exists, everything else fades into oblivion. And that's what we do, fade into oblivion. THE SUNLIGHT POURS IN THROUGH THE WINDOW AND I PULL THE COVERS OVER MY FACE, SHIELDING MY eyes from the harsh rays. I roll over and scoot toward Brandon only to find empty sheets. I sit up, my vision focusing as I look around the room. "Brandon?" My voice echoes through the flat. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the wooden floor cold beneath my bare feet as I make my way out into the living room—the empty living room. His jacket's gone from the rack, his shoes... My heart rate steadily increases with each breath. I grab my phone from the coffee table and dial his number, but it goes straight to voicemail. And panic sets in full force. All I can think about is him leaving me yesterday morning, the way he was last night—like he was saying goodbye. I grab onto the wall to steady myself, doubling over to catch my breath. He wouldn't...But the thing is, I don’t know that I actually believe that. Brandon is unpredictable. I hurry to the bedroom and grab my coat from the closet along with a pair of sneakers. I throw my coat on, shove my feet inside the shoes, not bothering to tie them, and snatch my purse from the kitchen counter on my way to the front door. My stomach is in knots, bubbling with anxiety. The cold wind burns my cheeks when I run outside, and before I've made it three

steps, I run, face first, into Finn's broad chest. "Whoa," he says, catching me and holding the tops of my arms to steady me. "Finn." I glance up at him. His brows pinch together as I study his face. "I was coming to see you." He tucks his hands into his pockets and rolls his shoulders forward. "Where is he?" My pulse is hammering in my temples. "Let's go inside so we can talk." I glare at him. "Where. Is. He?" I'm shaking as the fear beats away at me. "He's safe, Poppy." He places an arm around my shoulder, guiding me back inside the building. "Finn..." He takes the keys from my hand and opens the door. Something terrible must have happened. Something awful and horrible. I brace myself as Finn closes the door behind him and takes a deep breath. "He's been arrested." I blink. My brow furrows. "What?" He sighs. "He turned himself in to the military police." "What?" I shout, my entire body shaking from fear and anger and shock. My legs give out and I fall back onto the couch. Finn drops to a crouch in front of me, ducking his face to make eye contact with me. "He asked me to keep an eye on you. He's expecting to do time for it, but you and I both know he's not going to pass any psych evaluation, Poppy." "Why did he..." I shake my head. "Why wouldn't he have told me?" His eyes fill with sadness and he covers my hand with his own. "You asked him to stop fighting and that's what he's doing." "Shit." I bury my face in my hands. I take a few deep breaths. Brandon is in jail. Locked up. Alone. And all because I couldn't shut my mouth. I made him feel like there is something wrong with him, that he's not good enough. Tears well in my eyes. My throat goes all tight and a sob racks my body. Finn moves to sit on the sofa beside me, hugging my shoulders as he pulls me into his side. "Don't cry," he says, and I rest my head on his shoulder because I feel completely drained. "He needs to do this, Poppy. Trust me." There's a knock on the door and Finn stands to answer it, but before he reaches it the door swings open and Hope comes crashing through, nearly knocking him over. "Fuck's sake," Hope says, rushing to my side and draping her arms around me. "Are you okay?" She looks over at Finn. "Could have called me sooner." "I'm going to…go," Finn edges toward the door. Hope’s arms are around me so tight they nearly suffocate me. "It's going to be okay. Maybe now the asshole will actually get help." She pulls away enough to look at me. "See, it'll be for the best." I don't move. All I can manage to do is stare over her shoulder at the open bedroom door. At the empty bed. My chest is tight with anger, my heart hammering against my ribs. The fact that Brandon didn't even tell me, ask me,

warn me—it has me pissed.

Chapter Thirty Eight BRANDON

“I Need a Doctor” – Dr. Dre, Eminem, Skylar Grey I LEAN BACK ON THE OLD CHAIR, STARING ACROSS THE DESK AT DR. WATSON. SHE'S IN HER LATE THIRTIES with blonde hair cut in a bob that just skims her jaw. Propping her elbows on the desk, she places a file in front of her and stares down the length of her nose at the paperwork apparently summing up my life story. I sigh impatiently and fold my arms over my chest. Finally, she looks up at me, a small smile touching her lips. "It's been almost two years since you deserted, Mr. O’Kieffe," she says. "Well done. You read my file," I say through clenched teeth, trying to bite back the anger that's simmering just below the surface as always. I don't like the word desert. It makes it sound like I left people who were relying on me, and I didn't. She inhales, her eyes set on me. "Well, that is my job..." Her fingers drum over the table. "Why did you leave your post?" "My post was at my best friend's side." My chest tightens with a pain so old and engrained you'd think I would be used to it by now. "He died. Job done," I grate out. "I understand that must have been hard to witness your best friend pass away, but your job was with the military, not your best friend. Again, why did you leave?" I snort, plastering a smirk on my face as I lean forward and prop my elbows on my knees. "I have no loyalty to the army. It's never done shit for me." I watch her watch me. "Why have you turned yourself in?" "I have my reasons." Smiling, she leans back in her chair. "You're good at avoiding questions, aren't you?" "Honestly, I'm just going through the motions. So why don't you just sign whatever you need to sign and I can get out of this shithole." "It's not that easy, Mr. O’Kieffe. You need to understand you committed a crime and I am here to help you, but in order to do that, I need to understand the psychology of why you left, why you've turned yourself in." "I don't know why I left." I shrug one shoulder. "Vehicle blew up, everyone died

except me. I got out and I started walking and I didn't stop." Until now, until her. "Do you have trouble sleeping—nightmares, flashbacks?" I frown as I remember waking up with my arm pinned across Poppy's throat. I nod. "How do you handle those?" I huff a laugh. "You tell me." She nods. My leg keeps bouncing. I just want to get this shit over with and get the fuck out of here. I don't need her psychoanalyzing every damn thing—things no bloody degree can give you a clue about. She can't help me. There's only one person who can help me, and I left her to come here. I swipe my hands down my face. Fuck. She opens her desk drawer and rummages through it before pulling out a sheet of paper. She hands it to me along with a pen. "I want you to answer these questions based on your feelings over the past three months as best you can." I don't take it, instead I just glare at her. "Brandon, I need you to answer these so I can help you." I take the piece of paper and pen, glancing over the questions. Do you feel on edge? Do you feel worthless? Sighing, I toss the paper back on her desk. "This is a waste of time." "Not many people willingly walk in here two years after they've deserted, so why, if you aren't going to cooperate, are you here?" I drag both hands through my hair and sigh. My heart thumps heavily in my chest and I almost don't want to talk about Poppy, as though she's my crippling weakness. "I'm tired of running. Tired of flying under the radar." "Okay." She leans over her desk and pushes the paper back toward me. "Then fill this out." She smiles. Fuck my life. I take her fucking paper and tick no to every single one of her fucking questions and push it back across the desk. "See, I'm grand." I wink. "Being a smartass will get you nowhere, Mr. O’Kieffe." She sighs...again. She does an awful lot of that. "Look, I fucking turned myself in. Willingly walked through the damn gates. What more do you people want from me?" "I understand that, but what I'm afraid you do not understand is that, unless I can document what your reason for leaving your post was, you may very well end up in jail. Depending on whether you were just some guy who was tired of being at war, or some guy who has suffered severe mental trauma, the punishment the military sees fit for deserting varies..." She arches a brow. "Greatly." I place my palms flat on her desk, clenching my jaw so hard it hurts. "With all due respect, doctor, until you have been in a war zone, until you have watched the only brother you ever had die...you can't help me. Your books don't even come fucking close. The only person who can help me, is beyond these walls, so just do whatever you need to do. Let me serve my time so I can get back to her." "I am doing what I need to do." She opens the drawer again, pulling out another

of those damn questionnaires. "You do what I need you to do, and I'll make sure you get back to her as soon as possible." "Fine." I go over her questions, answering them almost truthfully before giving the piece of paper back to her. "Thank you. That's all for today." Thank fuck. IT'S BEEN OVER A WEEK SINCE I'VE SEEN POPPY, AND THE SECOND I LAY EYES ON HER IT'S LIKE I CAN breathe properly again. She sits at a small table next to the window in the visiting room, her gaze trained on the world outside. Her bottom lip is taking some abuse from her teeth and I can practically feel the anxiety rolling off her from here. Her head snaps up as I approach, those grey eyes of hers locking with mine, swirling with emotion. "Hey," I say, taking a seat opposite her. "Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice is shaking, her face red. I take one of her balled up fists in my hand, smoothing her fingers out. I lift her hand to my face, and brush my lips over her knuckles. She snatches her hand away and glares at me. "Don't try to charm me, Brandon. Answer my fucking question." I bite my lip, trying to stifle a laugh because damn she has a dirty mouth when she's pissed, and with her little twang it somehow sounds worse. "Didn't Finn explain this?" I ask. Her eyes widen. Her nostrils flare. "Are you serious right now? I didn't want Finn to explain it to me." She stands and grabs her purse from the table. I quickly push to my feet, grab her wrist, and yank her towards me. She collides with my chest and I wrap my hand around the back of her neck, slamming my lips over hers. She freezes, her body going rigid for a second before she softens and becomes pliant in my arms. My fingers skim just beneath the hem of her top, trailing the warm skin at the base of her spine. Her lips part on a small gasp and I smile against her mouth before nipping her bottom lip. I rest my forehead against hers as I stroke my knuckles over her cheek. "Please don't go," I breathe against her lips. "God, I hate you." She groans and her warm breath blows across my lips as her fingers wind around my biceps. She clings to me for a moment before she steps back. "You should have told me." I take a seat in a bid to force myself away from her. "You wouldn't have let me do it, and I needed to do this, poss. For us." An exasperated sigh leaves her lips and she flops down on the chair. "This might be the only time in my life I actually made the right decision babe. Don't hate me for it." "How long do you have to stay here?" I shrug. "No idea. All depends what the shrink says apparently." "Oh God, I'm sure whoever that doctor is, is having a field day with you."

I grin. "I don't think she likes me." "You better not be an asshole to her." Poppy gives me a stern look. "You've been an asshole, haven't you?" "I'm a fucking delight," I say defensively. "Great, they'll never let you out in that case. You know..." Her gaze falls to the floor and she begins fidgeting with a loose string on her sweater. "I talked to one of the military guys at work, Fergus, he said that since you have PTSD they should let you go as long as you agree to treatment." "Who the fuck is Fergus?" I scowl across the table. What kind of fucking name is Fergus? "He sounds like a prick." Throwing her head back, she groans and drags her hands down her face before she looks back up at me. "That's all you heard?" She shakes her head. "He's one of the guys that rotates in through Headley Court. He's the one who gave me all those PTSD books to help me deal with your mood swings for Christ's sake—" "Yeah, I'm sure that's what he was doing, fucking helping you. My mood swings would be a lot better if I didn't have to deal with twats like Fergus chatting up my girl." I cock an eyebrow at her and damn I want to hit something. She shoves my shoulder. "Shut up already, would you, or do you want to go find your club and drag me back to your room by my hair?" "If only," I grumble. "Anyway, I don't have PTSD. I swear, the army just wants to stamp my damn forehead with that shit and move the fuck along." Poppy looks at me, her eyes all sympathetic like I'm a fucking abandoned puppy on one of those TV adverts. "It's not a bad thing to have,” she says. “It is what it is..." I exhale a heavy breath and tilt my head back, focusing on the harsh florescent lights in the ceiling above me. "Possum..." "For me. Just be honest with her, let her help you. Please." Jesus, fucking shit. I lift my head and meet her pleading eyes. I swear to god, I should just hand her my balls for safe keeping. I've almost finished growing my vagina anyway. "Fine," I huff. A smile lights up her face and she folds her arms on the table, pushing to her feet and leaning across it. She kisses me, and I reach for her, but she backs up quickly. Letting out a groan, I grip the edge of the table. Damn, a week without her and I'm feeling particularly uptight. "I have to go, or I'll miss my train, but I love you." She picks up her handbag and we both stand. I take hold of her and pull her close, wrapping my arms around her. The scent of her perfume surrounds me and I breathe deep, pressing my lips into her hair. "I love you." She tilts her head back and brings her lips to mine once more before she slips away from me.

Chapter Thirty Nine BRANDON

“Sail” - AWOLNATION ONE MONTH LATER

FOUR WEEKS. I ONLY SPENT FOUR WEEKS IN THAT PLACE WITH THAT FUCKING DOCTOR. I TURNED MYSELF IN, fully expecting to spend months, if not years there. I didn't go to prison because I have post-traumatic stress disorder. There, I admitted it to myself. I still don't like saying it out loud. It feels cliché and fucking whiny, a blanket diagnosis for every guy who has demons. But whatever it is, it is real. And it still haunts me, the rage is still real, and I was told repeatedly in my time there, that they always will be. This is permanent, an altered aspect of my personality that I will always have to live with. It seems daunting and damn right depressing, but I have Poppy. I have a reason to fight this, a reason to be better. I get out of the shower and go to the bedroom, staring at the grey uniform on the bed. A job. I have a job, and the thought makes me anxious. I know the fighting makes my anger worse, but I can't say I don't like the freedom of it. There's something to be said for making money doing something you're good at. The treatment centre helps get ex-soldiers like me into jobs, but of course, I have a record. Employers love ex-military but no one wants to employ the guy with an assault charge to his name. I sigh and drop the towel before getting dressed. I scowl at my reflection in the full-length mirror. This is what normal life looks like apparently, a twat in grey polyester trousers that clearly were not made for a guy of my build. I'm going to have thigh chafe within the hour. I leave the bedroom and Mort runs over to me, his bell tinkling with every step. He rubs his face against my leg and purrs. Bending down, I pick him up, cradling his naked body to my chest. The little ginger tuft on his head sticks up making him look like one of those troll toys that Poppy used to collect when she was a kid. When I come out to the living room, the radio is blaring and Poppy's in the kitchen singing along to some Shawn Mendes song. She’s wearing one of my

oversized t-shirts, and I can't help but let my eyes drag over her bare legs. I attempt to sneak up behind her, but she spins around with a plate in her hand, all smiles. "Good morning." Her gaze sweeps over my uniform and her smile deepens. "You look really hot in that uniform." She bites down on her lip before grabbing my tie and yanking me down for a quick kiss. "You're cute," I say on a glare. "Made you breakfast. Eggs, bacon, and pizza." She hands me the plate with a laugh. "Man food." "Thanks." I slap her arse. "You're a keeper." I take a seat at the breakfast bar and she sits next to me as I shovel a forkful of bacon into my mouth. "Are you excited about your first day?" What do I say to that? She looks so fucking hopeful, but seriously, who the hell sits down and thinks: My grand ambition in life is to be a security guard. No one. "Sure." I take a bite of pizza. "I was thinking, your office isn't far from mine, maybe we could do lunch?" She grins, her eyes sparkling. "Sure, babe." I like seeing her happy. Since I got home, I can see this sense of hope in her eyes. As if everything will be okay. As if maybe, just maybe I'm fixed. Hope is such a tenuous yet powerful emotion and I haven't felt it in a long time. So, I smile. I allow her hope to infect me because maybe this will all work out. Maybe this job is what I need, what we need. "What about noon?" she asks. I shrug. "Yep." I stand up, put my plate in the dishwasher, and down the rest of my coffee. It's not the same without whiskey in it, but normal people don't drink Irish coffee before they go to work. I'm told I should be living rather than surviving, and some cunt there told me alcohol is simply a mask…Well, right now, this doesn't feel like living, it just feels like shit. I eye the cabinet where we kept the whiskey but turn away. "Okay, bye babe." I turn to face her and she steps closer, reaching up on tiptoes and placing a kiss on my lips. She tries to pull away, but I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and sweep my tongue over her bottom lip. Her lips part and I fight a smile as I slide my hand beneath the bottom of her t-shirt and grab her arse. "You better stop it or you'll be late." She says this, although right now, she’s nipping at my lip. I pull back and cock a brow at her. "And?" I grip her waist and lift her onto the kitchen side, pressing between her legs. The shirt rides up allowing me a peek of her pink lace underwear. "Ah, poss," I groan, biting my bottom lip. "Stop," she says as her cheeks blush. "You know how I feel about the pink lace." I grin before dragging my lips up the side of her neck. She swats at me. "Go to work, you perv." My teeth graze her earlobe and she shivers, her breath hitching. I trail my

fingers up the inside of her thigh, and that makes her stop breathing altogether for a split second. Her legs tighten around my waist when I brush over her underwear and the polyester trousers are even tighter than before. "You're not very persuasive,” I say. "You, on the other hand," her eyes drift down to my ever-tightening crotch, "are." "Hmm." I fist her hair, tugging on it until her head tilts back. "Let’s just call in sick.” I place a teasing kiss to the corner of her mouth. And here comes the eye roll. "It's your first day..." she pushes me away from her and hops off the counter before grabbing me by the shoulders and spinning me around to face the door. "Go before you're late." I readjust myself. "Fine, but babe, our lunch date just became a lunch blowie. You owe me." "And how, exactly, do I owe you? You are the one who started it." She's still pushing me toward the door. "And I would have finished it." I smile. "Oh my God..." She opens the door. "I love you." "Not that much." I pout, readjusting my junk again. Damn these trousers are snug. She slams the door behind me and I sigh. Time to face reality. I GLANCE AT MY WATCH FOR WHAT FEELS LIKE THE HUNDREDTH TIME. HOW THE FUCK CAN ANYONE GET paid to just sit and watch a fucking door? I throw my head back and stare at the ceiling, ready to go and jump off the nearest bridge. People come in and out of the building. The lobby is filled with the sound of repetitive as fuck classical music and the clicking of heels across the marble. For the first hour or so, I couldn't deal with all the people, the crowds. Then after a while, I guess I got desensitized. And now, I'm just sitting here, not really paying attention to anything. I want to bash my head on this desk repeatedly. "Brandon." I blink and look up at Poppy. She's standing there, her eyebrows raised. "Yeah. Hey." "How's your day going?" She glances around the lobby then back at me. Boring as fuck. It makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a paperclip. "Great," I lie. I think my eye just twitched. She holds up a paper bag with a little panda on it. "Got you that crispy seaweed." There is a god. The highlight of my day is going to be that seaweed. "See, this is how I know this is true love." I take the bag from her and give her a kiss, pulling her into my side. She places her palm on my chest as we walk toward the exit. "I love that you work so close to me. We can have lunch together every day if you want?"

"Yeah, we can." And even to my own ears I sound robotic. Jesus, how do people do this?

Chapter Forty POPPY

“Arsonist’s Lullaby”- Hozier THREE MONTHS LATER

HOPE'S LAID ON THE COUCH, HER HEAD HANGING OFF THE EDGE, HER FEET ON THE WALL. "COME HERE, Mort." She clicks her tongue and Mort goes prancing over to her. "Where's the cunt at?" "At the gym." "Standard." I grab the remote and flip through the channels. Commercial. Commercial. News. Some musical... "So, how are things going?" "Good." "No, really." Hope drops her legs from the wall to the couch and sits up, her red hair sticking up in all directions. "How is he?" "He's fine..." "Brandon O’Kieffe has never been fine as long as I've known him." "Hope..." I sigh. Every once in a while she does this. She thinks I'm hiding something from her, or lying to her...The thing is, everything is actually fine. No more fighting. No more rage. He still has his ups and his downs. But he is so much better. He's learned how to handle it. How to cope. I think… "Look, I'm just saying, something's going to give at some point." I glare at her, my foot tapping over the floor as a slow rage burns through my chest. "Why?" I toss my hands in the air. "Why does something just have to give at some point, huh? Why can't we just be happy? Why can't you just accept that everything is fine?" She stares at me for a few seconds and I can see her mulling over what to say in her head. "You do realize he has done a complete one-eighty, right?" I glare at her.

"People relapse. It's part of life, Poppy, and I just don't want you blindsided when it happens." "He. Is. Fine." "Brandon was beating the shit out of lads twice his size when he was fourteen, by sixteen he was winning money, and by seventeen he was a bare-knuckle boxing champion. He joined the army. His job was to kill people. That boy is hot blooded male through and through. He lives to fight, and he's damn good at it. And now he's a security guard..." She shakes her head. "I don't buy it." "Well, good news, you don't have to buy it, Hope." I tell myself she is only trying to help, that she is trying to be a good friend, but part of me wants to tell her to mind her own damn business. "All I'm saying is, don't be naïve. Don't get so wrapped up in wanting everything to be right that you miss when it starts to go wrong." "You know what?" I stand up. "Fuck you, Hope. Who the hell are you to give me any kind of life advice? You have no idea what it is to live. No idea what real life is about. Just..." I shake my head, my face growing hot. "Just go." She shrugs. "Maybe not, but you're my friend Poppy and I love you. You can hate me for it, but I will always tell you the shit you don't want to hear." She gets up, swinging her Hermes handbag over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her. I sit on the edge of the sofa and stare at the wall for a few minutes, my skin tingling with adrenaline. And then, I exhale, letting my head fall into my hands. Why can't she just let me live in the bliss that things will stay like they are? I see the way he glances at the alcohol behind the bar when we go to a restaurant. I watch his leg bounce under the table, his hands wringing. I feel his body tense when we go onto the subway or to the museum. But things are better. They have to be.

Chapter Forty One BRANDON

“Skinny Love” - Birdy I SIT AND WATCH PEOPLE MEANDER THROUGH THE PARK. A WOMAN THROWS A BALL FOR A DOG, A GUY teaches his kid to ride a bike. I slide my sunglasses onto my face and skip my iPod onto a different song just as my phone dings with a text. Finn: Hey, you around today? I swipe a hand through my hair and chuck my phone back inside my pocket without responding. As far as Poppy is concerned, I'm with Finn now, training at the gym. I've been doing this for three months. Normal. Everyday. The stuff every other person on the planet seems to cope with just fine. At first I missed the gym, that sense of belonging that I never even realised I'd found amongst Larry's rag-tag band of fighters until it was gone. I used to hang out with Finn a lot, go to the gym with him and work the bag. Hell, I even used to spar with him just to feed that desire. But as the months have gone by, I find myself feeling more and more alone, and instead of reaching out to others, I recoil from them. I pretend to Poppy that everything is fine, and I just don't have the energy to pretend for anyone else. I can't let her know that I fucking hate this, because this is what she wants. This is what she deserves. A life. She deserves a guy who has a stable job and who doesn't fly into a rage all the time because he's fighting, exasperating the very thing that threatens to consume him. But that job is unfulfilling in every way. And to make matters worse, the pay is awful. I could make more in one fight than I make in a month. Poppy had to get a different job working for a private hospital. The pay is better and she got a promotion, but it means she works nights—because of me. Because I'm not good enough. Because I can't provide for her. The worthlessness is starting to feel like a constant friend, weighing me down until each and every moment feels utterly inconsequential. And I think that maybe the fighting defined me. It was all I was good at, all I was ever good for. And without

Brandon 'The Breaker' Blaine, I'm just a guy with no prospects, no dreams. I could go back to it if I wanted, and god I do want to, but I won't. Because of Poppy. She would work every hour god gives her and sacrifice everything to keep me out of that ring. And doesn't that make me a selfish bastard for wanting it back? When I see Poppy, I smile, I kiss her, I want her, but I'm ashamed of the man she is stuck with. And I'm terrified that one day she will look at me and realise that I'm not worthy of her love, and I never really was. With a sigh, I get up and slowly make my way home. I like to take these breaks on the weekends. Step out for a bit and get my head together because the more time I spend with her, the more disconnected I become. I walk in and drop my gym bag to the floor. Poppy is lying on the couch, a blanket covering her as she watches TV. Her face breaks into a smile when she sees me, and fuck if she doesn't manage to make me feel like the most important person in the world for just a few seconds. "Hey," she says, stretching her hands above her head. "Hey, poss." I walk over to the couch and bend over, bracing my hand against the arm as I kiss her. Her fingers thread through my hair whilst her other hand cups my jaw, and my chest clenches. "How was the gym?" "Good." I quickly kiss her once more before moving away from her and heading into the kitchen. I grab a plastic tub out of the fridge and peer inside, inspecting the contents. Something with tomato sauce. I shrug and pop it in the microwave. When I turn around and she's leaning against the door frame, her arms folded over her chest. "How was Hope?" I ask. Her lips press into a line. "We had a fight. I kicked her out." I smirk and she rolls her eyes. "It's about time. What did she do?" "She was just being Hope." She shakes her head. "Just, I don't know, running her mouth." I snort. "You have met, Hope, right? She's like a fucking mouth on legs." Poppy shifts her weight from side to side and looks at the ground. "Yeah..." She glances up and a small line appears in her forehead like she's studying me. "I love you." Something in that sounds so desperate. I narrow my gaze and see a hint of sadness in her eyes, but I don't ask. Maybe I don't want to know, or maybe I just don't care anymore. No, that's not it. I'll always care about her. "I love you, too." "Tonight's my last night this week which means I get four nights of sleeping with you." Smiling, she wraps her arms around me. "Naked. We're sleeping naked." "Are you trying to corrupt me? I'm a full pyjamas guy these days, you know? Steady job, normal life. If you're not careful I'll start scheduling you in for Friday night sex." She glares up at me, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. "Brandon O’Kieffe," she

laughs and fuck me she is beautiful when she does, "you could never be normal." Isn't that the sad fucking truth? "I'm telling you, stripey fucking pyjamas. And slippers. Give me a few months and there will be slippers." "You start wearing slippers and we're going to have problems." "You'd still want me," I say, brushing my lips over her jaw and kissing the spot just below her ear. "True." A little smile works over her lips and she grabs the waist to my tracksuit bottoms before she slowly drops to her knees, tugging them down as she glances up at me and bites down on her bottom lip. "Didn't even need the slippers," I mumble and she grins, leaning forward and putting her mouth on me. Fuck me. My head falls back and my fingers tangle in her hair. Maybe it's because she has that innocence about her, but no girl has ever looked as good on her knees as Poppy does. She renders me utterly weak and I'm almost ashamed at how fast I get off. Almost, but not quite because it's her and she's always had the ability to turn me into a simpering mess. "No slippers," she says pushing to her feet and heading to the bedroom. "I don't know. I may need a little more convincing," I shout after her, smiling. I feel like I live for this with her, these moments of happiness. A few seconds later, she comes out of the bedroom dressed in a pair of pink scrubs, her hair pulled into a ponytail. She grabs her purse from the kitchen counter and gives me a kiss. "Love you, babe. See you in the morning." And she walks out of the door, leaving me alone. Really alone. GUNFIRE ECHOES AROUND ME LIKE THE CRACKLING OF FIREWORKS. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHICH WAY THE bullets are flying. Shell casings tinker against the hard desert floor, skittering over the toe of my boot. I aim, fire, aim, fire. Methodical, precise, robotic. I see the faces of men in the rifle sights, but pull the trigger before I can lock on, and then I'm onto the next. Refusing to look at them. Refusing to commit them to memory because the second I do, they become more than a target. They become a person with a family, a wife, kids. I swing my gun to the next target and Connor's face stares back at me through the sights. I try to move the gun away, take my finger off the trigger, but I can't. My limbs feel like lead. He smiles sadly at me, and then…I'm pulling the trigger. Pow. He drops to the ground and I cry out to him. The next thing I know I'm on my knees in the back of that truck, my hands pumping over his chest, his cold, dead eyes staring at me, mocking me, accusing me. I feel like I can hear his voice in my head. You should have died. I should have lived. You're living my life. You stole her. You aren't good enough for her. You'll never be me. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I say the words over and over, needing his forgiveness, willing him to wake up even though I know he never will. I need him. She needs him.

I jolt awake, gulping air into my lungs. The dream clings to me and, I swear, I can still feel Connor's presence in my mind like a soft caress. I have had these same dreams ever since he died, reliving that moment over and over, but this is different. This is more. It's mixed in with the fighting, and the shooting, the nameless faces and the guilt. And for the last few days, I hear him. He's there, in my head, taunting me. I don't talk to Poppy about my dreams anymore. I don't want her to know that I still have them. I don't want her to know that I'm still broken. She once told me she couldn't fix me, that I needed help. Well, turns out, I truly can't be fixed, by her or anyone else. This is what she's left with, half a man, a shitty fucking stand in for the guy that she married, the one that should have lived. I thought the therapy would make everything better. I stupidly clung to that futile hope, never even realising how much I needed that possibility. And now...now those hopes are dashed. This is it. This is better. As good as it gets. And she deserves so much more, so I hide it from her. I hide the fact that I'm this empty shell because if she saw me—really saw me—surely she'd leave. Who would want this? I don't, but I have no choice. She does.

Chapter Forty Two POPPY

“Three Seed” – Silversun Pickups I LOUD CRASH WAKES ME FROM MY SLEEP, SENDING MY HEART INTO A SPRINT. I SIT UP AND PAT THE OTHER side of the bed, but Brandon's not there. "What the fuck..." I hear Brandon's voice come from the living room. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. 1:08. Why is he still out there? Throwing the covers off, I climb out of bed and step into the living room. The blue haze from the TV casts just enough light for me to make out Brandon, crouched down, picking up pieces of the broken lamp from the floor. Mort jumps down from his spot on the couch, stretching beside the sofa and yawning as he kneads his claws on the rug. "Stop it, Mort," I snap at him and he glares at me. Brandon freezes. "Hey, babe." "What happened?" "It's nothing. Go back to bed." He flops back down on the sofa. "You coming?" "No." I stand in the middle of the living room watching him. We hardly see each other now that I work the night shift. He knows how much his holding me when we sleep means. My gaze drifts back to the shattered lamp and I swallow hard. I know why that lamp is broken, and the fact that he won't just admit he's having nightmares worries me. "Why not?" I ask. He drags a hand through his hair and then pauses, fisting a handful of his dark strands. "Just go back to bed, Poppy. Please." "Brandon..." I hesitate, uncertain whether I should press the subject, but he can't keep it all bottled up inside. "Did you have a nightmare?" A commercial comes on the TV and the pale light dances across his face. I see his jaw tense, the muscles fluttering beneath his skin. "No. Leave it alone." "It's okay if you did." A cynical laugh rumbles from his chest. "Oh, thanks. Good to know I have your permission to be a fuck up."

"You're not a fuck up. It's just a dream—" “Really?” Sitting up, he swings his legs off the sofa and rests his elbows on his spread knees. His head drops forward. His fists repeatedly clench. "Is that what you tell yourself? That I'm not fucked up? That I just have bad dreams?" There’s a cold cruelty lacing his voice. "Do you think I'm all fixed, Poppy?" My chest goes tight. My nostrils flare at that dig. "All I want is to understand you..." He balls one fist tight and rests it against his forehead, gritting his teeth as he presses his knuckles into his skin. "You will never fucking understand me!" he shouts with such hate that I flinch. "Only because I don't think you want me to." The second I say it, I regret it. He glances up at me and I can't tell what's swirling through his head. "Why the fuck would you want to understand this?" He slaps his palm against his bare chest and his eyes drop to the floor. His shoulders rise and fall in uneven swells, his heavy breathing audible. I wish it would all go away, the guilt the pain, the memories, but I don’t believe it ever will. And it's at points like this I feel completely helpless, like I'm just watching him drown while I'm holding onto a life raft. "Just come to bed. Please." I step toward him and try to take his hand. He shakes his head and laughs. "God, he's right. He's fucking right." He grips his head, his fingers winding through his hair in agitation. “I’ll never be good enough for you.” He jumps up from the couch and growls. "Brandon, please..." "Why don't you just fucking leave, Poppy? I'll never be what you want me to be! I hate this. I hate that fucking job. I hate this bullshit life. I don't fit in your perfect fucking box." "My perfect..." I trail off, watching him pace the length of the floor, his hands pulling at his hair, his fists constantly clenching. I don't know where any of this came from, but does it really matter? It's here and it's been here looming beneath the surface. "Stop it. Just..." I cover my face with my hands. "Stop it," I shout. He laughs, his face twisting into something cruel and unrecognizable. "Why? So we can go back to pretending that I'm Connor?" My jaw drops and every bit of air rushes from my lungs as I stare at him. Out of all the things he's said, that cut the deepest because he really doesn't see. It has always been him. Always, Brandon who owned my heart and he will never believe that. "Why would you say that?" "I stole his life. Took his girl. Hell, I even have the shitty nine to five he would have happily worked for you." He kicks the coffee table over with a roar. Mort goes dashing across the living room and into the safety of the bedroom. "Fuck! I swear to God." Brandon's fist goes through the sheet rock. Dust flies up into the air. "I'm fucking worthless. Fucking worthless." He grabs a vase from the side table and smashes it against the wall. My heart's in my throat, my pulse banging in my temples, and I find myself

backing away from him. And just like that, he freezes, his eyes locking on me. All that rage melts, morphing into despair and grief. He grabs his jacket, and, without a word, he opens the front door, slamming it closed behind him. I'm left standing in the middle of destruction, staring at the violence that must constantly be swimming inside of his head. And when I’m finally able to draw in a good breath, I collapse to the floor, head in hands wondering when love turned into a war?

Chapter Forty Three BRANDON

“You Can Be So Cruel” – Royal Blood I SIT IN SOME SHITTY BAR IN SOME RANDOM PART OF LONDON. A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY SITS ON THE BAR TOP in front of me, a short glass beside it. I fill the glass halfway and neck it in a few gulps. I've missed the numbness, the quiet. My mind stills until all I can think about is the glass in front of me. Today, tomorrow, they don't matter, just this exact moment. And isn't that just fucking blissful? To a guy like me, it is. What was I thinking, trying to work a normal job, trying not to drink? I didn't get rid of the monster, I just threw it in a cellar and prayed to fuck it wouldn't come back out. Eventually it was roaring so loud the floorboards were shaking, and when it got loose... If I’m honest, I hope Poppy hates me. I hope she gets out of this shit, because god knows I'm too damn weak to leave her. She is my fatal flaw, my beating fucking heart, and part of me wants her to go, tearing my heart out when she does and putting me out of my misery because this is all for her. Without her, I'd have let the war have me a long time ago. I sit and drink and no one bothers me. No one tries to talk to me. I don't know what time it is when I finally stumble out of the bar, but when I do, I bump into some guy. “Watch it,” he says, and I drunkenly wave him off. I walk toward the street, leaning against a bin to gain my balance. The London traffic is heavy. The lull of the tires over the wet pavement almost has me in a trance. I watch the taillights reflect off the damp road as I take a step toward the curb. One step, and I stumble, falling to my knees on the wet pavement. I manage to climb to my feet. My gaze focuses on the lights of the London Eye in the distance as I walk. I close my eyes and keep putting one foot in front of the other until I’m in the middle of the road. Waiting. If I stand here long enough, perhaps fate will fix everything for me, remove me from all this. Someone shouts at me. There’s a horn and I feel the breeze from the vehicle swerving past me. Hands grab me, yanking me back several feet. “Hey mate, what are you doing?”

I turn, focusing my blurred vision on a young guy with blond hair. “You alright?” he asks before glancing back at the traffic and thumbing to the road. “That doubledecker nearly flattened you out.” I shake my head, my senses coming back. “Thanks.” He pats me on the shoulder and gives me one last, concerned look before turning and walking off. My heart pounds, adrenaline flooding my veins as I watch the cars zooming past. What the fuck am I doing? I don't know how long I walk, or even where I'm going, but I end up at Finn's door. I knock and wait. Knock and wait. Eventually, he opens the door, squinting against the light from the hallway. "Hey." I stumble inside, and he closes the door behind me. He tosses a blanket to me and I fall back onto his sofa, passing out almost immediately.

I'M WOKEN UP BY THE SHRILL RINGING OF MY PHONE THE NEXT MORNING. "FUCK. ALRIGHT." I FUMBLE around next to me until my hand finds the phone. I answer it and press it to my ear. "Yeah?" "Brandon, this is Adam Connell." Ah, fuck me. "Are you coming into work today?" he says in that holier-than-thou tone. He manages office security for fucks sake. You'd think he was some kind of hot shot. "No, I'm not coming in." My skull is pounding with the hangover from hell. "We expect our staff to be responsible and reliable—" "Shove your fucking job." I hang up and toss the phone on the table. "Smooth." I glance behind me and see Finn leaning against the kitchen doorframe. "Looks like I'm in the market for a job, huh?" "Your skill set is pretty limited." He smirks. "But you can always fight." I know he's joking, but the idea is oh so tempting. Such easy money, and that feeling…I miss the energy of it, the bloodlust in the air, but most of all, I miss the respect that everyone used to look at me with. I miss being the best at something, being admired for it. And maybe I miss the continuity of it. Fighting was something that I did before everything went to shit, a constant point in my life that has never changed. The ability to fight. The ability to win. I imagine the disappointment on Poppy's face, but then I’m reminded of the things I said to her. I’ve gotten to the point that I just accept that I’ll always disappoint. I tried. I did, but I will always let her down. If she hasn't already realised that, then she will. I pick up my phone and dial Larry's number. It rings for a while and then he finally picks up. "Yeah?" "I want a fight." This is who I am, and this pays a lot better than a fucking security job.

Chapter Forty Four POPPY

“Hallelujah” – Jeff Buckley I DIDN'T SLEEP LAST NIGHT. I WORRIED. I CALLED BRANDON AND FINN...BUT I DIDN'T DARE CALL HOPE. I don't want her to know she was right. I don't want to listen to her nag at me to get out, because I won't. I refuse to give up on him. That's not what you do with someone you love. It's just not. Finn finally texted me at 4AM to let me know Brandon was safe. I called his work. Evidently, that's gone. And that's fine. If he hated that job, he doesn't need it. We don't need it. But now it's nine at night and Brandon still hasn't called me. Not one word. One breath. My head aches from a mixture of worry and anger, and just when I'm on my way to the kitchen to grab some medicine, my doorbell rings. "Poppy.” Hope shouts through the thick wood. Poppy!" "Great," I mumble under my breath as I toss a paracetamol into my mouth and swallow. "I know you're home.” The door knob rattles. “Answer the door, or I'll be forced to smash your bedroom window and climb in." Groaning, I flip the lock and yank the door open. "Here," Hope hands me a jacket and grabs me by the arm, pulling me into the walkway. "Put this on. Let's go. Chop-chop." She snaps her fingers. "What the..." "Come on, would you?" "Hope, I'm not going anywhere." She turns around, pops her hip out, and places her hand on it. "We're going to The Pit, and you want to know why, because Brandon, like the cunt that he is, is due a fight in about twenty minutes." "What?" "Yeah, so let's go on now, shall we?" My heart bangs against my chest, blood courses through me, setting my entire body on fire. "Oh, I'm going to kill him."

"Yep, yep. So come on." Fifteen minutes later, we're shoving our way through the crowded bar. I'd forgotten how rotten the inside of this place smells. Like beer, piss, stale cigarettes and cheap aftershave. The second I open the door to the basement the roar of the crowd nearly deafens me. Breaker. Breaker. Breaker. With every step I descend, my pulse pounds. Hope grabs my shoulders when we reach the bottom. "Don't really kill him. Maybe just a few good whacks upside his head, huh?" Glaring, I yank away from her grip. I've never seen this place so crowded. Wall to wall. People are shoulder to shoulder. Yelling. Shouting. Toasting each other. The microphone crackles and the feedback kicks in. "Gone from the ring for four months, he's back with a vengeance." Larry pauses for dramatic effect and everyone in the place goes batshit crazy. "Brandon 'The Breaker' Blaine!" I'm shouldering my way through people, weaving beneath sweaty arms. I push past a group of men in leather jackets and then, I’m right at the edge of the ring. And there Brandon stands, in the middle, his hands taped, his hair messy. He's pacing like a caged animal, a tiger hungry for blood. With each agitated movement, I catch a glimpse of that monster willing and ready to claw its way out. And I don’t want it to get him. I climb between the worn ropes. Men shout and whistle and Brandon whips around, his nostrils flaring like an angry bull when his green eyes land on me. I walk straight up to him, dizzy with fear and anger, and I stop, glaring up at him. "Get the fuck out of this ring," I say, my voice shaking. The crowd boos. A crumpled beer can lands inches from my feet. "Get the pretty out of the ring, would you," some pikey calls out. "Get out, Brandon," I say it again because there is a very real fear gripping me by the throat. This will destroy everything. And I can't let that happen. "Get your fucking bitch…" a voice comes from behind me, "out of the ring." I turn and glare at the guy bouncing on his heels, his hands taped and ready to rain down blows on Brandon. I turn back and Brandon's gone completely still. His jaw sets and he cracks his neck to the side. I've seen that look in his eye once before—the night he hit me. The night he nearly killed two guys. He walks straight past me, approaching his opponent. "Finn," he says, his voice low and gravelly. The next thing I know, Brandon throws a punch at the other fighter’s face and blood splatters the front of my top. "The fuck did you just say to her?" Brandon shouts as he grabs the guy by the hair and slams his head back against the concrete with a loud crack. The guy manages to pull his arms up in front of his face as Brandon batters his torso with ruthless blows. His muscles coil and tense with each merciless strike. Someone grabs me by the waist, lifting me up and over the rope. "You alright?" Finn asks as he pulls me away from the ring. The crowd is going ballistic, but even with their cheers, I can somehow still make out the sound of Brandon's fists smashing over that guy's face, the sickening whack of bone against the concrete.

I've been so wrong. Brandon has always been this wild thing, out of control, and maybe he's right. Maybe I was trying to shove him into some perfect box, not because I wanted him to change, just because I wanted him to be able to let that guilt go. All I have ever wanted is for him to be happy. And I realize that sometimes we think we're helping someone and all we're doing is placing a Band-Aid over a bullet hole. I FEEL AWFUL. AND CONFUSED. STUPID. "Poppy," Hope rubs her hand over my shoulder. "You can't feel guilty about any of this." The thing is, I had no business stepping into that ring. I was just so pissed and scared and...tired. I'm just so tired. Hope turns her car off, but I shake my head. "No." "I'm not about to let you walk in there by yourself, he'll be savage." "Hope, no." I stare at her before opening the door and stepping out of the car. "I'll call you in the morning." I shut the door and walk along the sidewalk, up the stairs, taking a breath before I place the key into the lock. I have no idea what to expect when I go inside, but when I do, I stop mid-stride, the keys still in my hand and door open. Brandon is sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa and his arms draped over his knees. There's a bottle of whiskey clutched in one hand. His fingers are coated in blood, a dark red smudge staining his cheek. But the thing that breaks my heart is the tears that pour down his face. I have seen Brandon mad. I've seen him quiet. I've even seen him sad, but I can't ever remember him crying. And this terrifies me. His glassy eyes are looking straight at me, but he doesn't seem to notice me. "Brandon..." I close the door behind me, fidgeting with the keys in my palm. He tips the bottle back and swallows several heavy gulps. I step toward him cautiously, dropping to my knees in front of him. "Brandon," I whisper his name because I don't even think he's here right now, and I'm scared of where he is, afraid to startle him. His eyes slowly meet mine. It's like his wounded soul is begging me for a type of help that I have no idea how to give him. "Poss," he whispers. And for whatever reason, the tenderness in his voice breaks me even further. I stare into his eyes...grief swallowing me because it’s painfully apparent that the memories plaguing Brandon's mind might as well be a terminal illness because he will die with this. It's as much a part of him as he is a part of me. I reach out and cup his cheek. He closes his eyes, leaning into my touch. "I'm sorry," he says, before tipping that bottle back again. I hate this. I hate that he feels he needs to apologize to me. "Nothing to be sorry for." I grab his hand and it's drenched with sweat. "Let's

go to bed. Come on." Reluctantly, he stands, stumbling and falling into the wall several times on the way to the bathroom. I turn the taps and let the water heat before I help him out of his bloodstained clothes. He takes a seat on the edge of the tub, just staring at me like the world ends right here with me and him. "I'm sorry," he whispers, tears still lingering in his green eyes. "Shhh." I run the washcloth under the scalding water and wash the blood and sweat from his face, from his neck and chest, his hands. I dry him off and we go to lie in bed. I lie down and he rests his head on my chest. I place my palm against his cheek, running the fingers of my free hand through his thick hair. And for a moment, we remain in the silence, in the blaring quiet. I listen to the deep inhale and exhale of his breathing, pain radiating with each ragged breath. "You know you should get out of this," he says, breaking the silence. "Save yourself." I shake my head and those tears I've been trying desperately to hold in fall free. "We're not talking about this right now." He wraps his arm around my stomach, holding onto me so tight, it's as though he's scared I'll disappear. "I turn everything I touch to shit. I'm poison." That is what his father used to say to him. That is what Brandon has been told his whole life. What he has been conditioned to believe. And how do you explain to someone who can't love themself, who can't manage to see their own worth—how do you explain to that person that they are your world? You can't. I may say the words ten thousand times, but Brandon will never actually hear them. He can't because some things just can't break through that darkness. I continue to sweep my fingers through his thick hair until his breaths even out and his tense muscles relax. And here I lie, holding onto someone I'm so terribly afraid I'll lose, and somewhere within my worry, I manage to drift off to sleep.

MY LUNGS ARE BURNING. I CAN'T BREATHE. I CAN'T DRAW IN A BREATH! MY EYES POP OPEN, UNABLE TO focus as I claw at the hands violently crushing my neck. It's dark. I can't see. I can't focus. I gasp and gasp, arching my back from the bed and kicking, swatting my hand at whatever it is pressing on my throat. Spots dot my vision, and then, suddenly, the pressure is gone and I drag in desperate lungfuls of air as I throw myself from the bed, stumbling to the floor. "Oh god," Brandon whispers. I see him on the bed, staring at his hands. “I…” Thrusting both hands into his hair, he doubles over, a broken cry leaving his lips. "Fuck!" I'm shaking so bad that when I try to stand, I nearly collapse. I grab my jeans from the floor and pull them on, fighting the tears. Fighting everything inside of me that is telling me to run away from him.

"Poppy..." "It's fine." I glance up at him and nod. "It's fine. I'm okay. I'm just going to..." I walk around the edge of the bed and stop. Mort comes rubbing up against my leg. "I'm just going to go stay with Hope. It's fine though." I walk out of the room, grab my purse, and run to the door, closing it behind me. It's not until I get to the entrance of the subway station that I call Hope. And it's not until she throws her arms around me that I completely breakdown. I want to be strong for him, but everyone has their breaking point.

Chapter Forty Five BRANDON

“Say Something” – A Great Big World I HEAR THE FRONT DOOR CLOSE WITH A RESOUNDING CLICK. SHE'S GONE. SHE LEFT. AND I NEARLY KILLED her. That dream was so fucking vivid, and it was Connor—Connor was the enemy. I was choking him, choking her. I bite back the strangled sound slipping from my throat. I would never hurt them. They are the two people in this world I would never hurt, and yet, I did. I'm no longer living with a monster. I am the monster. And of all the things she could have said to me—it's fine. How is this fine? I am destroying her, piece by piece. And it's killing me. She's the only good in my life, and what happens when I extinguish her? I can't do it, not to her. But she'll never let me go because she's Poppy. She loves too hard and she won't give up. She will shred little bits of her soul if she thinks she's saving mine. But I can't do this anymore. I'm fucking tired. Every day is a battle, and she is the only thing I'm fighting for any more. I love her more than anyone—even Connor. I have to save her from this purgatory. Only I can set us both free. I go to the kitchen, rummaging through the junk drawer. Car keys, nail polish, an old birthday card. My fingers brush against the smooth glass of my pipe. I grab it, the little baggie rubber banded to it, and I go to the living room to take a seat on the sofa. Mort climbs onto my lap as I unroll the bag and pack a large bowl. He sniffs it and takes a step back. Lighting it, I inhale, holding the smoke deep in my lungs. I need the calm to find the resolve I need. So I stroke Mort and I smoke until the early morning rays start to creep through the living room window. And then, I get up and take the pen and notepad from the kitchen. There's a note on it that Poppy wrote to me a few days ago when she went in early for her night shift. I love you. It’s always, always been you. X

I swallow heavily and flip the page over, the crisp untouched paper staring back at me, and I start writing. Possum, I'm sorry. I have loved you for as long as I can remember. And as time has gone on, I've only fallen more in love with you. You are my world. And I know you love me, which is why you will forgive me anything. But, poss, some things shouldn't be forgiven. I don't know how to walk away from you because I can't survive without you. But I would sacrifice everything to keep you safe. I feel like I have been fighting a war for so long, and I just want it to stop. I just want that sense of peace I find when I kiss you, the serenity that your touch brings. I live for those single moments, poss. But I know you cannot survive me. You can't survive this thing that lives inside me. And I won't let it have you. You are the only peace in my own personal war. I love you. It’s always been you. Never forget that. Brandon. I inhale another drag off the pipe, allowing the smoke to burn my lungs. And I wait until I know Poppy will be up. I just need to hear her voice before I let her go. I dial Poppy's number and wait anxiously, hoping that she picks up. I need her to fucking pick up. It rings and then the line clicks. There's a beat of silence before her raspy voice comes over the line. "Hey, babe." I swallow around the lump that's sitting in my throat, threatening to choke me. "Hey, possum," I reply. "How are you?" "Good, you?" I'm so far from okay. I hate that I've done this to her, but right now, I don't want to hash over my bullshit. "I'm so sorry," I say. "I know." She takes a deep breath. "I was thinking about making tacos tonight." This is why I have to do this, because she's just so fucking good, and she will take it and take it until there is nothing left to give. She pretends nothing happened and why? Because she was unlucky enough to fall in love with me. "That sounds great," I whisper. "Brandon, I love you." "And I love you, poss, always." "I'll see you when I get home." "Okay." She hangs up and I close my eyes, clenching the phone tightly in my hand for a few seconds before I send a text to Finn.

Hey, fancy going to the gym? He responds: Sure Meet me at mine? Be there in half an hour. And there it is: half an hour. It has to be now. It has to be Finn and not Poppy. I get up and tidy away the few dishes in the kitchen. Mort hops up on the counter and meows. “Oh, Mort, come on.” I pick him up and take him to the bedroom along with his litter box and water bowl, closing the door when I leave the room so he can't get out. I fumble along the hallway, going into the spare bedroom that I use as a gym and staring at the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling. I wrap my arms around it, lifting it off the hook and laying it on the floor beneath the window. Shit. The door. I go back to the living area and open the front door, leaving it just a tiny bit ajar. And then I go through the motions, grabbing a chair, the TRX strap. Tying and fastening everything where it belongs. Once it's all done and I stand holding the strap, I close my eyes for a second. The deepest sense of sadness washes over me—not for what I'm about to do, but for Poppy. I wish I was better. I wish I could be the person to make her happy, but I never will and we both know it. We're both just too desperate to admit it. I loop the end of the strap around my neck and sit down, pulling it tight enough that I'm barely able to remain seated. Closing my eyes, I lean forward until the knot slips and the strap tightens around my throat. My airway constricts. Every instinct in my body tells me to stand up, to survive, but I can't. I just want it to end. I want this turmoil to stop. And most of all I want her to find peace. So I stay here until my lungs burn and scream, until my head spins and my heart pounds desperately in my chest. I push it all away: my body's frantic pleas, it's fundamental need for air. And I think of her. I remember the first time I saw her, just ten years old and even then I knew she was going to turn my world upside down. Everything burns. A weakness courses through me, as my heart beats grow erratic and skip as I wait for that nothingness that holds the promise of so much peace. I just think of her...my head swims and I struggle to see her in my mind ...Poppy Turner will forever be the girl that ruined me for all others...my head feels so heavy and I gasp for air that won't come...and if it’s possible, I know I’ll love her even in death. A cold numbness falls over me like a veil and, just as everything fades, I see Poppy’s face, her smile, and that peace I’ve been chasing for so long envelops me in its warm, soothing embrace.

Epilogue POPPY

“Fields of Gold” – Eva Cassidy WHEN FINN SHOWED UP AT MY WORK AND TOLD ME HE'D FOUND BRANDON, THE WORLD, FOR THE BRIEFEST of moments, stopped spinning. And I am certain of that, because my grief, my loss was that great. Part of me died with him. I’ve avoided coming here for so long because it’s just too hard, but today, I had to come, even though I know he’s not here, I just need somewhere to go, thinking he may somehow hear me. The dry grass crunches beneath my shoes as I weave between the tombstones. It’s such a pretty day. Blue skies. No clouds. And quiet…I swallow, cradling Patrick as he wiggles in my arms, a whimper escaping his little, pink lips. I wrap the blanket around him as I kneel beside Brandon’s grave, dusting the old grass clippings from the headstone. I take a deep breath, my chest growing so tight. “He looks just like you, Brandon,” I say. “He really does.” Silence falls so heavy around me as I stare at his name. His birthdate. Date of death. Eight months later, and it’s still not real because he was always there. And maybe that’s why I’m in such denial because such a vital part of my heart belongs to him and my soul refuses to acknowledge he is gone. I glance down at Patrick and he looks so peaceful, his tiny eyes closed. He has no idea the significance of this moment: the moment I introduce him to his father. “Brandon…” I take an unsteady breath. “This is Patrick.” My throat burns and I close my eyes for a moment. “Your little boy that I hope is just like you…” I glance down at his innocence and I hate this. I hate that he will never know what Brandon’s voice or his laugh sounds like. I hate that the life I imagined since I was ten years old is impossible now, and only because Brandon is gone. But what I keep reminding myself is that for a moment, for a flicker in time…we had it. We had that dream. I had my dream... I trace my fingers over the plaque. Over the name I so many times wrote on notebooks and diaries, swooning and wishing he’d love me. “I wish you were still here…” I whisper. “I know you set yourself free.”

He was in such a dark place, already half-dead. I remember how tortured he looked and how I tried to understand him, help him, love him, but love does not conquer all. “Brandon,” I hold Patrick a little closer and he nuzzles against my chest, “if death is the only place you could find peace, the only place you could find a way to rest—I don’t blame you. I hope you found your peace. But I will forever miss you.” I glance down to Patrick through the tears building in my eyes. “We will forever miss you.” Brandon O’Kieffe was a once in a lifetime experience, and there is nothing— nothing, that would ever make me walk away from that because when I am ninety years old, I will still hold him in my heart, knowing that I was lucky enough to have felt a love most people never experience. I had someone whose very soul was intertwined with mine. And when it’s all said and done, it doesn’t matter how long you had the person, just that you had them. So, I’ll believe that when we die we just start over, and that I will find him in the next life, because I believe our love is one that spans eternity. One that deserves more time…in another life… I shift the baby in my arms and bring my fingers to my lips, pressing a kiss to them before I place my hand on his grave. If it weren't for Patrick, I'm not sure I could have gone on without him. Knowing a part of Brandon was inside of me, it gave me reason. He gave me reason. “You saved me my entire life, Brandon and even in death you're still saving me.” My breathe catches in my lungs as an all too familiar pain captures my heart. “This isn't goodbye, only see you later.”

The End

20. THAT IS THE ESTIMATED NUMBER OF VETERANS WHO TAKE THEIR OWN LIVES EVERY SINGLE DAY IN THE United States alone. (US Department of Veteran’s Affairs, 2016). Those are not simply numbers; those are 20 people who are loved and needed. 20 people who are lost each day, forever changing the lives of those they leave behind. To the men and women who have so selflessly defended our countries, thank you. We will always remember.

Acknowledgments

There are always so many people to thank when it comes to publishing a book. So, here it goes. Thanks you to Marisa-Rose Shor of Cover Me Darling. We love this cover, and it really is perfect for Poppy and Brandon. Kimberley Foster-Holm, thank you for proof reading and making our words all squeaky clean. Leigh Stone, thank you for your pretty formatting. We have to give a massive shout out to our beta readers, Kerry Fletcher, Jen Lum and Cara Gadero. You guys were right there with us, sobbing and snotting. You mean the world to us. Christina McCormick Franco, your input meant so much with this book. Your real life experience of living with PTSD made you the perfect person to read this for us. Thank you so much. Kylie and Give Me Books, you girls are just fab, and we love you. There are so many blogs who post and review for us, and we are so grateful that you take the time to help us promote our work. There are far too many blogs to mention, but we must give a special shout out to Schmexy Girls and Totally Booked. You girls have gone above and beyond to help us and we appreciate it so much. We can never thank you all enough! Jen M, thank you so much for your support, help, and most of all friendship. And to our readers: You are amazing. We love you. Thank you for being you and reading our words.

Want to read Hope and Finn's story? Pre-order War Hope. War Series: Book Two.