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He chuckles, like his quip is the funniest joke around. I’ve half a mind to knock a few yellowed teeth out then see if he’s laughing. In defense of what, my bloody prowess in the bedroom?

“Magic pills for everything these days.” I manage, causing him to laugh harder.

He finally collects himself, then, feeling more charitable toward me, says, “Word of advice. Don’t linger after you win the fight. You hear me?”

“Not even for a few free pints?” I press.

“Not if yer planning on reporting in to work at the warehouse the next morning.”

I study his expression. What are you hinting at, Johnny-boy?

He tosses the cigarette on the ground and crushes the amber out with his shoe. “One last thing.”

“Grand.”

“There’ll be an intermission during the final bout. Time for more bets to be made. O’Brien says yer to take a bleedin’ massive beating up until then.”

“What say you?”

He punches me lightly in the arm. “Good luck, motherfecker. A shiteload of money will be riding on you. Win or else ...” He laughs as he strolls away.

And I head back into the pub to finish drowning me sorrows. If she’d been a student or a nurse or a barmaid—anything else than a feckin’ reporter—this might have ended differently. But Hayden’s right. A smart, ambitious wan like Clarissa involved in my life, given my line of work, and I’m a glutton for punishment.

And don’t I deserve to have a few fists sort me out for what I’ve done? Tomorrow’s arse-whopping won’t come close to the clatter going on within me own head.

Is this what it’s like to have a broken heart?

I grimace but not because I don’t acknowledge it. Pretty feckin’ hard to ignore the fact I’ve feelings for the minx. No, what weighs on me most isn’t my sudden revelation.

What troubles me is what Clarissa must be feeling about now.