Page 29 of Last Round

I’ve known the man my whole life. He stayed with us for years. His room was always a clusterfuck with a distinct scent of man that should have repulsed me, because an element of it was definitely his sweaty clothes piled in the corner, but somehow body odor never seems to smell bad on him.

I would’ve bet my left ovary that neither of these boys knew how to do a single dish. Growing up, the mountain of plates these two would make in the sink would’ve toppled over if it weren’t for me. Killian was a drink out of the carton, built a pyramid with beer cans, naked girls plastered on his walls kind of guy.He might have a housekeeper, except there are too many dust bunnies rolling around his hardwood floors. Unless she isn’t that good, and he hired her to just watch her “dust” in one of those little costumes.

Sudden jealousy over this mystery woman, who poorly cleans his house and he’s probably fucked on every surface, boils within me. I stomp to the closet, retrieve the kit, and go back to the living room where Killian is sitting, his eyes staring off into the distance.

I take a deep breath. This is Killian Murphy. I know him. Which unfortunately includes being painfully aware that his bedpost has plenty of notches. I had the misfortune of hearing many of those notches being carved when he lived with us. If I’m going to get jealous or angry about all of them, I better quit my endeavor now.

“Found it,” I say, smiling as he looks over at me.

“I told you I can handle it,” he grumbles.

“The dried blood on your forehead says otherwise.” I take a seat next to him, setting the kit on his lap. “Look, I’m here. Might as well let me help. It isn’t like this is the first time I’ve had to patch up a bump or scrape.”

“When? I don’t remember you patching me up before,” he says softly, as though he’s bothered by the fact.

“I never did.” He looks even more confused now. I roll up my sleeve and bend my arm to expose a scar along my forearm. “This one was a doozy. Slipped mid-backslide down that giant rail at the library. And this.” I show him my palm. “Billy Keefs pre-pool fill party. I was doing a handplant and didn’t notice the shard of glass. Fighting isn’t the only sport the requires a little first aid.”

Killian goes silent, but at least he doesn’t argue about me helping him anymore. He hisses as I clean the wound.

“Sorry.” Empathetically, I wince. “This is gonna hurt a little more. You should’ve done this when it was fresh. It’s a lot easier that way.”

“I got distracted,” he grunts.

“By what?”

“Your brother,” he mumbles under his breath.

“He is very handsome,” I tease as I apply the first butterfly bandage.

“Yeah.” Killian cringes with the pressure. “It’s the real reason he didn’t pursue fighting professionally. Didn’t want to risk his pretty face.”

An embarrassing snort-laugh escapes me. My hands move as quick as lightning to cover my mouth. Killian falls to his side laughing. The contents of the kit fall and scatter to the floor.

“You’re such a jerk.” I hit his side, only to make him laugh harder.

I move to stand from the couch, but his firm grip on my wrist stops me. Those intense, panty-melting blue eyes look up at me. All humor from a second ago gone, while that pensive stare I caught him with earlier when he was alone and waiting for me returns. “Why did you come up here?” The question doesn’t feel nearly as loaded as earlier when he asked.

Bex suggested I play naughty nurse and kiss his booboos, amongst other things, to make him feel better. But that isn’t what had me sneaking through the back hall, so that no one would notice, especially not my brother. It’s not even the cut. While that fighter—I think I heard someone call him Luke—got a good hit on him, Killian’s injury is minor.

No, I’m likely here for the same reason Sean sent him upstairs and told him to take the day off. Yes, I was very much eavesdropping. Not that it was my plan. It just happened. Also, yes, I might have heard thetoo hot for sweatpantscomment and was secretly hoping he was going to be naked.

Getting back on track…

“It reminded me of that night.” Tears burn as I struggle to hold them back. “The crowd was so loud… I’m not sure how, but I heard when his knee collided with your face. That sickening crunch haunted me for so long. But not nearly as much as when you collapsed to the ground with blood gushing from your face.”

It wasn’t the first time I witnessed one of Killian’s fights. His opponent that night wasn’t even as big or scary as some of the guys I’d seen him go head-to-head with in the past. Everyone expected Killian to win via KO before the second bell. What no one saw—not Kill, not Sean, not even his opponent—was that while delivering a flying knee, Killian would lean in for a left hook. The blow landed with incredible force, right above his eye socket. The guy won by a technical knockout. Killian didn’t lose consciousness; however, he was blinded by blood and his skull was depressed. The medics ignored his adrenaline-fueled screams to keep going, rightfully so, and the fight was called. For months, the clip was replayed on sports news everywhere. To this day, whenever it comes on, I turn it off. Seeing it once was more than enough.

“It’s okay.” Killian’s rough thumb brushes away the tear rolling down my cheek.

“Oh my god.” I rush to stand from the couch, wiping the rest of the moisture from my face. “This is so embarrassing,” I mumble to myself.

“Wait.” Killian is quick to follow me.

My feet freeze in place at his request, but I keep my back to him. For weeks, I’ve been showing him how I’m not that little girl anymore. The one who cried herself to sleep every night after watching him struggle with the news that he couldn’t fight again. Or the one who was stupid enough to confess…

“No,” I whisper to myself. “I’m not her.”

“Do you want to stay?” His question catches me off guard.

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