____________

Saoirse

 

 

 

I knew that Declan Gallagher was Diarmuid’s close friend. I’d suspected that I might see Diarmuid here—not that it had anything to do with the fact that I wanted to come—but it was still a shock to see him with someone.

Damn him.

He had a date with him.

A fucking date.

A woman, full grown, with a sophisticated dress sense and a pretty ladylike smile.

Unlike me.

Suddenly I hated that Malachi had his arm round my shoulders, leading me into the theatre. He’d been pressuring me for weeks to go out with him. I’d said no because I thought that Diarmuid and I were going to become something. How stupid I had been.

I was coerced, partly by my own father, into coming with Malachi. I was originally supposed to go with my da to the fight; he’d told me about the tickets he’d bought days ago. But at the last minute, something had happened out at the farm, which meant my da had to go and sort it out. He sent Malachi in his place to pick me up.

I hadn’t wanted to get on the back of the bike. Not until he produced a second helmet. Even then, I heard Diarmuid’s warning in my head. I made Malachi drive like a grandma, pinching him on his side every time he went too fast or took a corner too hard.

The theatre was round, velvet red seating rising up from the fighting ring positioned in the centre, ornate boxes hanging around the walls. It was a strange juxtaposition between the elegant eighteenth-century theatre, more used for Shakespeare and opera, and the modern gladiator show that was on tonight.

Malachi and my seats were near the front, close enough to smell the sweat, to see the frown lines on the referee’s face. My da must have paid a lot of money for these tickets.

I spotted Diarmuid and his date sitting in the section to my right just as the light dimmed. He was smiling at something she said, his attention on her.

Bitch.

I hated her already.

The announcer’s voice came on introducing the two fighters that would start the match. Declan Gallagher and his opponent were the main match and would come out later. I barely heard the announcer calling the warmup fighters’ names or when the first round bell clanged. All I could see was Diarmuid.

I swear his eyes were on me.

 

 

 

I couldn’t tell you when it started.

Like most brawls, all it took was one flare, one strike of a match. Add that to testosterone-filled air soaked in tension and booze, and whoosh. It all went up at once.

A push became a punch and then all of a sudden the crowd around us had turned into savage beasts.

“Oh fuck,” Malachi said, his hand gripping my arm.

“We have to get out of here,” I said.

Someone slammed into me from the side and I fell into Malachi, letting out a scream. We tumbled, almost falling on the floor between the seats. Holy shit. Getting hit wasn’t the only risk; getting trampled was a possible reality too.

I shoved at Malachi as we stayed crouched down low. “Go, keep moving, towards the exits.”

He remained frozen at my side.

I almost rolled my eyes. Malachi talked tough, dressed like a tough guy. But it was all show.

A figure grabbed me, yanking me to my feet. There was a male, some rage-drunk spectator, his eyes wild, his arm raised back to hit.

I braced for the hit, throwing my arms up to shield my face.

It never came.

He was yanked back off me, causing me to wobble at his disappearance.

Diarmuid’s face and wide shoulders took up my entire vision. “Are you okay?”

My breath whooshed out of me. Diarmuid was here. He’d saved me from being hurt.

Even as the sounds of violence, the screams and crack of breaking glass echoed around us, I was safe. Because he was here.

I nodded. “I’m fine.”

Diarmuid pulled me against him, his arm wrapping around my shoulder. “Thank God.”

His lips brushed my forehead, and I closed my eyes as I leaned into him, sucking in his scent of leather and his woodsy cologne.

“Hey,” Malachi’s voice pierced through my peace, “Get your hands off my… You.”

I opened my eyes in time to watch Malachi’s face drain white, having obviously recognised Diarmuid.

“Fuck off, kid,” Diarmuid growled. “I’m taking her home.”

Malachi didn’t even protest. He just scrambled through the seats.

Diarmuid kept me close as we made our way out of the theatre, his strong arms shoving brawlers away from me so that they never got close. He was my walking bodyguard. My shield. My protector.

At the entrance, when we made it out into the night air, the chaos behind us, he let go of me, having no need to keep me close anymore.

My stomach dropped. Did he regret coming for me? Did he remember that he didn’t want me around?

Then he grabbed my hand, our fingers lacing together, his eyes soft as he eyed me over as if to assure himself again that I was okay.

“Stay close,” he said, and for once, it sounded like a request.