Scythe & Sparrow: Chapter 11

Fionn

The lights are low. Music pumps through the speakers. The smell of sweat and beer and bourbon permeates the air as I make my way through the crowd. My grip tightens on the handle of my bag, and I push past the people talking and laughing as they wait for the show to begin.

Maybe I shouldn’t like this environment. I know what’s about to come, after all. It’s not really the kind of thing a man like me should condone. But the truth is, I love coming to these Blood Brothers fights. The split flesh to mend. A glimpse of bone. It’s raw and visceral. This is humanity at its bloody core, fights hidden in the dark. My job might be on the sidelines, to fix the damage done during the bare-knuckled fights in a makeshift ring in a rundown barn, but I enjoy it, nonetheless. I’m close enough to feel the adrenaline of the battles and rivalries, and just far enough that I don’t become a different man from the one I chose to be.

And maybe it will take my mind off Rose.

I can’t deny how much I want her. Every day, little by little, it gets worse. Her infectious smile. Her uninhibited laugh. Her wild, unpredictable nature, as though she’s not bound by the same rules as everyone else. She’s so fucking beautiful it sometimes hurts just to look at her. The way she sits at the table to stare into her tarot cards with a braid looped over her shoulder and her fringe skimming her brows. The way her eyes sparkle when she teases me. No matter how hard I try not to let it, my desire for her chews at my resolve.

But I feel like I’m losing my grip on reality. Like I’m not the man I thought I could force myself to be. And that makes me infinitely more dangerous than she is. Because while Rose knows what she is and what she wants and how dark she’s willing to be, I still have no idea what I’m truly capable of. Or what will happen if I let myself go.

I can’t risk her. I can’t.

I need some time to figure this all out. Time around something that gets me out of my own head and into the blood and guts of life.

When I make it to the side of the ring, my designated area, I set my bag down on the folding table and take out my white coat and stethoscope and put them on. I learned early on to do this first, or risk being punched in the face for taking up prime real estate next to the ropes. As soon as they’re on, I wipe down the table and take out the things I know I’ll need, placing them on a sterile disposable mat. Isopropyl alcohol. Cotton pads. A scalpel. Latex gloves. My suture kit.

“Dr. Kane,” Tom says in his best announcer voice, sidling up to my table as I nudge my two metal stools into place next to the table. He gives me a flash of a chipped smile when I meet his eyes, his gaze traveling across the crowd before returning to me. This is his show. His lair. And he revels in every moment of the mayhem. “We’ve got quite a lineup tonight. I’m sure you’re going to be busy.”

“I’m always busy when I come here.”

“Maybe extra busy this time,” Tom says with a wink. “Fury and the Natural are up first. You ready?”

A spike of excitement snakes through my veins. I nod once. “Sure am, Tom.”

“Great.” He claps me on the shoulder. Then he turns to the ring, bringing a microphone to his lips. “Who in this shithole is ready for a fight?” he booms, his words chased by cheers and pounding feet and sloshing beer.

I’ve been here enough times over the last few years that I have this process memorized. Tom introduces the fighters. The packed audience yells their bets. They wave money in the air. Tom’s grown kids and a handful of employees collect wagers. And as Tom booms the limited rules through the microphone, I ready myself. I’m coiled, even though I’m not the one about to fight. The match starts and I shift my feet on the sticky floor like I’m a mirror of the battle on the mats. When the Natural throws a hook, my fist tenses. When Fury ducks to avoid a punch, my head bobs too.

The fight goes the full three rounds. I patch the Natural up with a few butterfly bandages after the second, just enough to keep the blood from dripping into his eye, but by the end of the match, he’s heading straight to me for stitches, the pain likely made a little duller by his narrow win in the ring. His buddy brings him two beers and he chugs the first one. I don’t even bother mentioning that now is probably the worst time for alcohol given he needs at least six sutures. I just disinfect the wound and start my work, piercing his skin and drawing the thread through the tiny, bloody hole I create, tying each stitch with a precise knot.

I’m only three stitches in when a familiar voice grinds my progress to a sudden halt.

“Hey, Doc.”

My heart surges into my throat and lodges there as I whip my head around and come eye-to-eye with Rose. She sinks a bite into a hot dog overflowing with mustard and relish and ketchup. Her eyes glimmer in the dim light as they take in the shock that must be spread across my face.

“Rose, what the fuck are you doing here?”

She shrugs, taking her time to chew and swallow before she wipes her mouth and gives me a mischievous grin. “Thought I might check out what y’all do for fun around these parts. The Suture Sisters are cool and all, but I figured crochet club and the gym weren’t your only hobbies.” She glances around us and returns her gaze to mine with a shrug. “Guess I was right.”

“You’re supposed to be at Sandra’s,” I protest, a wave of worry hitting me so hard I feel nauseated.

“I was at Sandra’s, for a bit. But I got bored. One can only work on a sex swing for so long, I guess,” she replies with a shrug.

“How … How did you get here?”

“Larry.”

An irrational spike of anger hits my chest like a lightning strike. “Who the fuck is Larry?”

Her head tilts. “Chill, Doc. You’re touchier than a Risley juggler with athlete’s foot.”

“I’m … what?”

Rose rolls her eyes at my inability to decipher her obscure circus lingo. “You’re irritable.” I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already shifted gears when she says, “You don’t know Trucker Larry? He’s your neighbor six houses down across the street.” For a moment, I consider lying and claiming I know who the hell she means. But that won’t fly with Rose. She merely grins around another bite of her hot dog and pierces me with her sharp, dark eyes. “Have you been living in Hartford, Doc? Or have you just been hidin’ out in it?”

My gaze drops from hers as I turn her words over in my mind. I know she’s right, of course, but it feels different to hear it from someone on the outside. I’ve had my head down, doing my work, keeping to myself. If a person hasn’t come into the clinic, chances are I haven’t gotten to know them. And even if they’ve been to my practice, can I say I’ve really made many friends in town? This Blood Brothers fight club is the closest thing I’ve had to socialization until I wound up with the Suture Sisters, and even this is realistically more of a job than it is a night off with friends.

A job.

I finally realize I’m here to suture somebody’s face, and the gash across his brow is only half stitched up.

“Sorry,” I grumble as I turn back to my patient.

“No need to apologize, Dr. Kane,” the guy says as I slide my curved suture needle through his skin. “I’d rather look at her pretty face than mine too if I were in your position.”

“Nah, you’re the prettiest one here, Nate,” Rose says, adding accelerant to the fire that’s already burning through my veins. I turn my incredulous glare to Rose, who gives me a saccharine smile as she wipes her fingers clean then tosses the napkin into a nearby bin. She grips the handles of her crutches and points one in my patient’s direction. “What, you’re telling me you don’t know Nate either? Nate the Natural? He makes those wicked-cool chainsaw wood sculptures all over town. The bear is badass, Nate.”

“Thanks, Rose.” Nate only grins when I narrow my eyes at him and pierce his brow a little more roughly than necessary for the next stitch. I try not to glance over at Rose as I concentrate on the work of my hands, and Nate can see it, my struggle to keep my attention where it belongs. So he takes every opportunity to ask Rose questions about her broken leg or her tarot cards, or worst of all, How long before you’re back on the road with the circus?

“Last one,” I interject before Rose has a chance to answer. I tie the final knot and clip the thread free, then rise from my stool. “See you around.”

Nate gives me a slow smile that’s equal parts teasing and pitying. “Thanks, man,” he says, shaking my hand before he turns away. “Rose, stop by my shop next Sunday and I’ll have something for you.”

“No, you won’t,” I grumble, but no one can hear me over the drone of the crowd. I clean up my workstation, but really I hang on every word Rose says as she agrees to visit Nate’s shop and compliments the new scar on his brow before giving him a brief hug. Even after Nate’s moved out of my peripheral vision, I still don’t look over at Rose. Instead, I busy myself with resetting my table, but I feel her dark eyes on me the entire time.

I finally set down the last item, a fresh, curved needle, when Rose says, “You okay there, Doc?”

No. “Yeah. All good.”

“You sure?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” I blurt out. It feels like all the sound is sucked out of the room. Like I could pick Rose’s voice out of the chaos, but her silence is just as loud. When I finally look up, she has her arms crossed despite leaning on her crutches, and it looks as fierce as it does awkward.

“Why not?”

“It’s not safe.”

Rose casts her gaze around us in an arc that sweeps across the ceiling and the crowd before returning to me. “Yeah, structurally this place is probably not great. One dodgy bolt and we’ll all be crushed to death by rotten beams and broken dreams.”

I give Rose a flat glare and mischief dances across her face. “You know what I mean. It’s not safe for you. Your leg. This crowd. The person who could show up, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean Matt? He’s busy making hay. Lucy’s younger sister’s best friend’s boyfriend told me at the car wash today.”

“What were you doing at the car wash? You don’t have a car.”

“I was bored. Thought I’d take a little wander and got to talking,” she says, unaware that two men have started a shoving match behind her, one pushing the other against the side of the empty ring before they’re separated by their respective friends. “Anyway, this place seems just fine to me.”

“You hurtle yourself though a metal cage on a death machine and you subsist on a diet of waffles and sugar. I can’t say I trust your self-preservation instincts.”

Rose lifts a shoulder and takes a lollipop from her pocket, holding my gaze as she slowly pulls the wrapper free and slides it past her lips. Those fucking lips. Strawberry red, glistening, sweet and plump. I can almost feel them, warm and yielding as they wrap around my—

“Next up is the Humphrey Hurricane,” Tom booms into his microphone. Cheers and boos interrupt the ache that’s already starting to build in my cock. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts and refocus on my purpose for being here. “And please welcome a brand-new challenger to the ring: Ballistic Bill.”

The crowd descends into a frenzy of betting and shouting as the new guy ducks between the ropes and throws his hands in the air, turning a slow circle as he basks in the mayhem. He’s fucking enormous. He shrugs off his black robe and he’s like a square block of muscle and tattoos. Shaved head, wrapped hands, scarred face. This guy knows what he’s doing. And I’ve seen the Hurricane fight. I’ve stitched him up. He’s capable and fast, light on his feet. But I know the same thing the rest of the crowd does. The Hurricane is about to have his ass handed to him.

“Rose, seriously. You need to get out of here,” I say over the cheers as Ballistic Bill roars like a feral beast. The crowd surges and a drunken onlooker bumps into Rose’s crutch as though proving my point. He sloshes a few drops of beer on her arm, and it takes everything in me to swallow down a burst of rage as he apologizes to her before moving away. “It’s not safe here. Fights break out on the sidelines all the time. You don’t have anywhere to put your foot up.”

“Chill, Doc.” Rose brushes off the drops of alcohol and then hobbles toward me. She taps my hip with her crutch and I rise from the stool, internally berating myself for not giving her my seat earlier, though it’s not like I want to encourage her to stay. As soon as I’m up, she plops herself down, then brings her injured leg onto the empty stool. “See? All good. Promise I’ll move when you get your next patient. The Hurricane, by the looks of things. Yikes.”

“Rose—”

“You should get us something from the grease joint.” She nods toward the concession stand when I tilt my head and furrow my brow at what must be more of her circus lingo. “I wouldn’t mind a beer. I’ll hold down the fort and make sure nobody takes your doctory shit. If they do, I’ll stab them in the fucking eye.”

Rose whips my scalpel from the table and stabs an invisible assailant, twisting the blade, a look of maniacal glee plastered on her face. I cover her hand with mine and pry the knife from her grasp. “Please do not go stabbing anyone,” I say as I take a sterile pad and disinfect the handle before setting it back in its place. “I’m only going to be the one to put them back together again if you do.”

Rose shrugs as though that’s not her problem.

“One beer.”

“Might as well bring two, save you another trip.”

“One. You’re recovering. I’m your doctor. Doctor’s orders.”

Some fleeting wisp of emotion passes across Rose’s face, the meaning of it too complex for me to discern from her furrowed brow before it smooths. “Fine. But I’ll take a bag of Skittles too, please.”

“I don’t think they have Skittles.”

“Trust me, they do.”

Though I roll my eyes, we both know I won’t deny her. It’s hard enough not to bring an entire keg back for her just so she can have the two beers she wants while I keep her in sight. She grins at me as though she can read my thoughts. I shake my head at her, but when I turn my back and walk away, I smile.

The bartender sees me coming and I’m able to jump the line, grabbing the Skittles and a free beer and a bourbon for myself before I return to the table just in time for the start of the fight. Tom yells the rules into the mic. Closed fist only. No slapping, no elbows, no knees or kicking. Anyone knocked down has ten seconds to get back up. And then he steps back from between the two fighters, and with one simple word, the battle is on.

Fight.

The crowd roars as the Hurricane lunges forward with a hook that doesn’t connect. Ballistic Bill leans away from a cross jab. And another. Another. A punch finally connects but only with Bill’s arm as he blocks his face. He dodges more hits, allowing a few past his defenses, always leaning away just as a punch connects. The blows he lets through are nothing more than taps. The crowd cheers, and heckles, and shouts at both men. But Bill doesn’t seem to notice. He’s only focused on his opponent, his feet light and quick on the bloodstained mats despite his massive size. And he hasn’t thrown a single punch.

“He’s wearing him out,” Rose says over the din of the audience, not looking away from the fight. She gestures toward the ring with a Skittle. “The Hurricane is so fucked.”

Dread settles in my guts like a stone. Most fights here might be raw, but they’re at least evenly matched. Not this time. And she’s right—I can feel it in my marrow. The Hurricane is fucked.

I turn my attention back to the ring just as Bill delivers his first hit, a punch to the Hurricane’s ribs. He stumbles backward. Bill clips his cheek with a jab. The Hurricane buries his head behind his forearms and blocks a few more punches. The crowd eats it up. But it’s obvious. Bill barely follows through, hardly uses his shoulders. He doesn’t put the momentum of his weight into the fight. These hits are only for show.

The buzzer rings, ending the first two-minute period. The fighters head back to their corners, where their buddies or amateur trainers pass them water and towels, leaning close to each man to deliver strategy or encouragement. Excitement skitters through the audience. I look down my shoulder at Rose and find she’s already watching me, a grin etched into her face as she tilts her beer bottle in my direction.

“This is great, Doc. Thanks for bringing me here.”

I frown. “I didn’t. I’ve asked you to leave. Multiple times.”

“I thought we were friends,” she says with a sarcastic pout, but there’s something about it that seems like genuine disappointment. The expression disappears in an instant and she turns her attention away from me to add her voice to the chorus of shouts around us as Tom calls for the fighters to return to the center of the ring. But I’m still looking at Rose, and it takes longer than it should to tear my gaze away.

The buzzer rings. The fight resumes. This time, Bill puts in a little more effort. He punches with more force. When the Hurricane loses stamina and backs away, Bill is on him, pushing him into the ropes. The newcomer is unrelenting. One blow after the next. The Hurricane takes successive hits to the ribs and when his arms inch lower and his frame hunches, Bill is there. A huge left hook slips right through his defenses and slams into the other man’s jaw.

The Hurricane’s back hits the mat and he doesn’t get up.

Cheers and boos swell around us as the seconds are counted. The Hurricane barely stirs, his body splayed across the mat. When the match is finally called in his favor, Bill takes a victory lap around his opponent and then slips through the ropes to collect his winnings. I take his place to collect my patient.

“Hey, buddy. We’re going to need to get you to the hospital,” I say over the roar of the crowd as I kneel next to the Hurricane. He blinks his swollen eyes up at me, and I pull him into the recovery position. His friends pat his shoulder and keep him conscious as I turn my attention to Tom, the announcer hovering in the periphery. “What the fuck, man?”

Tom flashes a smile that might as well be made of dollar signs. “Great fight, wasn’t it? The crowd is going nuts.”

“You and I might have different definitions of great.”

“Everyone who steps into this ring knows they might leave it on a stretcher.”

“And everyone who steps into it should be matched so they won’t fucking die.”

The longer our eyes stay locked in a silent exchange, the more Tom’s smile dissolves. We both know that if I accuse him of rigging this fight with a ringer, there will be more trouble in this barn than either of us can handle.

Tom knows I don’t like it. But he also knows I won’t risk lighting a fuse in a powder keg. His smile sneaks back onto his face when he says, “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy a little mayhem, Dr. Kane. Why else would you keep coming back?”

“Because if you insist on running this club of yours, someone qualified needs to be here to put the fighters back together,” I say as the Hurricane’s friends get him up on his unsteady feet. “Because they’re going to wind up worse off if I don’t. Or someone will end up dead. Because—”

Whatever half-truth I’m about to bark at Tom evaporates the moment I hear Rose scream.

I forget about my patient. The crowd. The lights and the noise. When I whip around, all my focus is on the place she should be. The place where she is not.

My table has shifted, my supplies scattered across its surface. One of Bill’s friends tries to hold him back as he scraps with two other men, a third stumbling away from the altercation with his hand raised to catch the blood that trickles from a gash over his eye. Where is she? I call out her name, but she doesn’t respond. The brawl shifts to one side just enough that I can see the floor. And then I spot Rose. She’s been knocked off her stool, one hand clasped around her leg just above the edge of her cast. Pain twists her features into a grimace. She tries to push herself beneath the table and out of the way of the fight, brandishing one of her crutches as a weapon to keep the oblivious crowd away.

In an instant, I’m on my feet, gripping the ropes to duck between them. The sound of her scream still rings in my ears, setting my blood on fire. But I can’t get to her fast enough. Not before Bill knocks into her cast and she lets out an agonized cry.

“Get the fuck away from her,” I snarl as I shove Bill with both hands. He stumbles into another man on the sidelines of the skirmish. By the time he rights himself and pivots in my direction, I’ve put myself between the fight and Rose.

Bill hardly takes notice of the men he was battling just a moment ago. His friends step in to shove them back into the heaving crowd. But Bill doesn’t notice them. His eyes trail down the length of me as a sneer lifts one corner of his lips. “Stay out of it, bro. Wouldn’t want to bust up that pretty face.”

I could leave it there. Deescalate this situation. Chalk it up to bad luck. That’s probably all it was, just a moment that went too far. A simple accident.

But then Bill’s eyes land on Rose.

His menacing, predatory grin is stuck to her like tar. It clings on and I don’t have to look over my shoulder to feel her recoil behind me, as though her pain and fear and anger are invading my cells. And then I forget all about the kind of man I’m facing. Just like I forget the kind of man I’m supposed to be.

My first hit slams into Bill’s cheekbone. My second into his temple. I catch the moment of surprise in his eyes. In a blink, it transforms into rage. His fist arcs through the air, but I duck to deliver a hit to his ribs. He grunts in pain. It shouldn’t be so satisfying when he lurches backward. My knuckles crunch into his brow. It shouldn’t feel so fucking good when the skin splits open.

But it does.

Bill rallies back as blood pours over his eye. I take a punch to the cheek that makes the world around me vibrate and darken. But I stay on my feet and come back harder. My blood is lava. My muscles are stone. One fist after the other. One blow after the next. I don’t even see the man I pummel into a bloody pulp. I just see Rose on the floor, her pretty face creased with pain, her broken leg clutched in a white-knuckled grip. I see the unshed tears in her eyes and I hear the agony in her voice. And all I want is to tear his fucking flesh off for hurting her. I want to punish him. I want to punish myself. Because I never should have turned my back on her. The moment she showed up, I should have insisted we leave.

It’s my fucking fault.

Something cracks open inside me. A fucking monster tears free. I roar as I throw all my weight into a right hook that smashes into Bill’s bruised jaw. His head snaps to the side and his muscles go slack and he falls to the floor.

For a moment, the barn seems completely silent. The people around me stare at Bill, bloodied and unconscious on the floor. Then they look at me. The man who’s supposed to be the doctor for probably half these people and their families. With my stained white coat, covered in crimson splashes. My stethoscope discarded at my feet. And then, just as sudden as the stark silence, they erupt in cheers, raising their glasses, shouting and bouncing on their heels. They pat me on the shoulders and chant Doctor, Doctor, Doctor over and over and over. But even through the crowd, I still hear her. The only person who says my name.

“Fionn.”

I spin around and push past a few people to get to the table where Rose struggles to keep her balance with the single crutch, the other lost somewhere among the crowd. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve framed her face with my hands, my knuckles raw and swollen next to her flawless skin. She’s so fucking beautiful, her cheeks flushed, her plush lips open, her lashes still damp with tears of pain. My thumb coasts across her cheek and her eyes drift closed.

“I got knocked over. I’m okay,” she whispers. I don’t know how I can hear her over the noise that surrounds us. But I do. She grips my wrist with her free hand. “Are you?”

God, I want to kiss her. I want to feel the heat of her lips against mine. Would she want that? Would she melt against me if she did? Or would the tension I feel between us snap and release something feral inside her? Inside me?

I lean a little closer. Her eyes search mine. Her grip tightens on my wrist.

A hand clamps onto my shoulder and Tom appears in the periphery. And just like that, the spell is broken. I turn my attention back to Rose. Her eyes are still on me.

What are you doing? She’s your fucking patient.

And you’re the most dangerous man here.

I let my hands fall back to my sides.

“Looks like there was a ringer in our midst the whole time,” Tom says. With a clap on my back and a dark smile, he slips back into the crowd.

Though Rose keeps her thoughts shuttered from me, something lingers in the air between us. An electric charge. The scent of an oncoming storm.