The basement of the pub is full of filthy men. The ring is nothing more than a roped off square of concrete, and the entire place reeks of beer and body odour with an undertone of piss. Dirty old men roar and heckle at the two sweat covered men in the ring. I spot Larry, Haven's dad, off to the side of the ring. He's shouting at Finn who is now his prized fighter—it used to be Brandon. That boy was chased by demons, but damn did they make him fight well. Me and Haven are at the back of the room, standing on some rickety chairs, watching as Finn and his opponent circle each other.

Haven whistles. “Get him, Finn,” she shouts.

One of the men in front of us turns around and drags his eyes over me then her, a sick smile creeping over his face. I'm tempted to kick him in the nuts for staring at her because, Jesus, what is she? Eighteen? I glance at her. Streaks of purple dye are scattered throughout her blonde hair. She’s wearing an old Nirvana t-shirt that’s so thin you can see her bra through.

Finn throws a punch and nails the other guy in the cheek. Each of Finn’s movements are calculated and calm. His muscles bunch and flex under the lights. Dark and quiet, it’s hard not to find Finn sexy. Ever since I moved here, he’s been my favourite of the guys to watch fight. They’re all attractive in their own way, but something about Finn has always left me a little hot under the collar. Maybe it’s his dark hair that’s just a little too long and messy, or his brown eyes that never miss a trick.

The other guy throws a punch and misses which garnishes a smile from Finn just before he slams his fist over the guy’s face. He's always been the one I thought fought just to fight, but right now I see something else in him. I see that rage that used to overtake Brandon when he fought and something tells me there's a storm brewing.  

Haven screams Finn's name and I turn to smile at her for a second, and in that second, it’s all over. Finn knocks the guy out and the crowd roars. This is when it gets hairy, when the room becomes divided between those who have lost and those who have won. Men like to gloat and that's when tempers run high, but I love it. I love all the testosterone, the element of danger, the thrill of the fight. You can practically smell the bloodlust in the air. A pair of hands grab at my hips. I'm about to knee someone in the face when I glance down to see Kyan. He's a dog and has also become one of my best friends. He lifts me from the chair, placing me on my feet before he grabs Haven. A couple of the nearby spectators pat Kyan on the shoulder and he smiles at them before turning back to me.  

"What's up, ginge?" he asks, grinning. His blond hair is piled in a messy bun and he's wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off his defined arms. His eyes twinkle as they sweep over my body and I smile, running my finger down his arm teasingly. He steps closer, pressing his chest against mine. I glance over his shoulder and see Haven walking away towards the stairs.

"Want to get out of here?" he murmurs against my ear. This is what we do, flirt and tease, but nothing ever happens. Poppy is convinced I've fucked him, but I like my men with a little more challenge. 

"I'm busy, hot stuff."  

He pulls back and sighs. "Quicky in the toilets?" 

"Gross, Kyan.” I wrinkle my nose. “You have seen the toilets here?" 

"Plenty of times." 

I roll my eyes. "You are so vile."  

The cheers of the crowd grow louder as Finn shoulder his way through to me and Kyan. He wedges his way between us, turning his sweaty back to me. A massive tattoo of some kind of angel-demon creature spans his back. I study it, the thing looks utterly tormented. It’s on its knees with its head thrown back to face the skies. It's twisted and scary, but oddly beautiful. 

"When's your fight?" Finn asks Kyan. 

Kyan smirks, glancing around Finn’s shoulder to cock a brow at me. "Is he ignoring you? Or is this a macho move?" 

I shrug. "I'd go with ignoring." 

He nods and winks before straightening again and facing Finn. "She is ginger. And I'm not fighting this week. Some dickhead from over the pond took my spot." He ducks around Finn again and points at me.

"Fucking Irish."  

"Aw, don't be sore because the pikey kicked your arse."  

"Better luck next time," Finn says, slapping Kyan on the shoulder before he turns to walk away. 

Sighing, I follow up the stairs and right out the front after him because, yet again, he looks like shit and he doesn't know when to ask for fucking help. He’s pulled his vape pen from his pocket and is steadily puffing on it, a thick cloud of smoke surrounding him. The sweet scent of cherry hits me and I inhale deeply. It always reminds me of Finn.  

The streetlight hits his face just right and I can see that his jaw is swelling. I'm not going to lie; I find a fighter as hot as the next girl—all that manliness, the sweat and the blood. There's good money in it, but it's not exactly a healthy way to make a living, not like this anyway. I'm pretty sure Finn is good enough to train professionally and I have to wonder why he doesn’t. Places like this are where men come to hide, to earn fast cash and lay low. Finn doesn't need to lay low or hide though…does he?  

"Why do you fight here, Finn?" I grab the vape pen from him. He frowns, but lets me have it. I notice his eyes fixing on my lips as I inhale the sweet smoke.  

"It's good money," he says. 

I tilt my head and prop a hand on my hip. "We both know that's not why you're here. Man of your skills could be doing a damn site more with his life than scrapping in this shit hole. Brandon came here to hide." I shrug one shoulder.  "But we're all hiding from something, so what are you hiding from?" 

"I'm not hiding from anything." He snatches the vape from me and takes a drag. I snatch it right back. 

"Always so surly, Finnley," I smirk. He ignores me and starts walking away. "Don't you want your pen?" I ask, holding up the vape pen. He glances over his shoulder.  

"Keep it." I swear to god, he’s hot in that brooding sort of way, but he takes himself too seriously.

"I'll treasure it," I shout after him. He keeps walking. "You still look like shit by the way." He lifts his middle finger over his shoulder. Smiling to myself, I turn around and head back inside the pub, inhaling on the vape as I go.  

Larry's standing at the bar with his wide girth propped against the tatty wood. "You been pestering that poor boy again, red?" He rubs at his glass eye and my gaze strays to the tattoo of a faded pin-up girl on his arm. That tattoo always makes me smile.  

"That one needs some harassing, Lars."  

"You ain't going to get your knickers knocked off by that one, no matter how much harassing you do. He's an odd-fucking-duck." 

I throw my head back on a laugh. "Odd. That's one way of putting it." 

"He's alright. He needs his space. He don't like people much." 

"I, on the other hand," Kyan interrupts, popping his head up from the cellar. "I'd give you all the liking in the world, sugar." He grins and winks.  

"And a case of the fucking herpes and clap, too." Larry chuckles. 

I point at Kyan. "You are a scagger. My ma always said not to talk to a boy who looks like he would lick arsehole." Or maybe it was: don't talk to boys who look like they're poor. Meh, same difference.  

Larry cocks a brow. "Your momma ain't never had her asshole licked then?" 

"Oh, gross. Leave my ma out of your dirty mind, Larry." I swat at him and he laughs, slapping his palm on the bar.  

"I need to meet your mum," Kyan says. "She sounds like my kind of girl."  

"Stop!" I put my hand over his mouth and he licks my palm. "Gross," I groan and snatch my hand away.  

"Aw, don't be horrified, ginge. After all, I'd lick your arse." He wiggles his eyebrows, and I roll my eyes. 

"I'm going to go check on Poppy,” I say. “See you guys later." 

"Oh, wait," Larry says, ducking behind the bar and rummaging around beneath the counter. He comes back up with a small bag. Inside is a cuddly toy version of what I think is supposed to be a naked cat. I study it. Jesus, it’s made of velour. 

"For the little one." He’s smiling, but I can see the sadness swimming in his good eye. Poppy hasn't been back here since Brandon died. She hated the fighting. Who can blame her? This is where men come when they've given up, where old dogs come to fight for scraps. Larry means well, bless him, but he's just the ring master, egging them on and cracking the whip. Or at least, that's how Poppy sees it.  

I take the bag, offering him a small smile. "Thanks. I'll make sure he gets it." 

"Tell Poppy she's welcome here anytime." 

I turn and walk away. She won't visit and we both know why, but I hate to be a cunt to an old man.  

Just as I'm walking out of the bar, my phone pings with a text. I glance at the screen and my heart stammers over itself. The message is from a random number, but the words are easily identifiable:  

Hope. Call me. Please. I need you.  

There's only one person who sends me messages like this. Silas. The former love of my life. I pause for a second, my finger hovering over the reply button. I take a deep breath, letting it slowly slip from my lungs before I click delete. That's a whole lot of heartbreak that I'm not prepared to get into right now.  

Silas will always need me, and I will always want him, no matter what he does to me. It's a toxic combination that has stung me more than once over our long history.