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  “I didn’t mean to pry,” I said apologetically. “I just want to know more about you. Where you came from, what kind of childhood you had. What were your parents like before they died? How did they die?” I swore I saw him wince a little when I mentioned his parents dying. He sat there thinking about how to answer me, I assumed. Guilt swarmed me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you.” I felt horrible and had no idea how to make the conversation go back to being comfortable again.

  “It’s okay, Bree. It’s not you. I know you aren’t trying to be pushy. These are normal questions that I should be able to answer. I’m just…I’m no good at this. I have a lot of…baggage. It’s too painful to talk about. I’m not strong enough yet,” he said sadly.

  “Nonsense. Even your name means strong,” I said to reassure him.

  “What? What do you mean my name means strong?” he asked.

  “Brian. The name Brian is an old Celtic name, meaning strength and honor,” I responded.

  “How did you even know my real name was Brian?” he questioned.

  Shit. Busted.

  “Um…I may have possibly, maybe, looked at your driver’s license. I do all the books for the gym; I see every member’s information. I’m sorry if that’s weird. You intrigued me. I was curious, so I read the file. You know, just to make sure that we all of the necessary paperwork,” I replied jokingly.

  “Sure, stalker! But how do you know what my name means?” he asked.

  “It is sort of my thing. I know names. Especially Irish ones, of which you have three, Brian Andrew Dougherty. Even your last name, richly Irish, means harmful. So, Drew, you are strong and harmful. Even your initials spell BAD. Maybe somehow I sensed that when we first met,” I teased.

  “I guess so. Maybe you should run away now,” he suggested flirtatiously.

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere. I’m stuck here forever probably—family business and all. Actually, my real name is Brianne, the feminine form of Brian. We essentially have the same name, which means that I’m also strong. Strong enough to handle anything you tell me. Try me,” I challenged.

  We both chuckled but when he didn’t say anything further, I thought it best to redirect the conversation to what he asked me in the first place.

  “So anyway, the gym,” I proposed.

  “Oh yeah, the gym. Tell me about the Murphy family gym.”

  We sat on the edge of the dock, staring out into the inter-coastal, and I told him of Paulo Gonzaga and Murphy’s Gym.

  “We used to be your stereotypical, run of the mill, Irish Catholic family,” I began. “My great-grandfather, Conor, was born in Londonderry, Ireland. He immigrated over here at the age of seventeen in 1943, during World War II, and wound up here in Fernandina Beach, working on shrimp boats for mere pennies. He managed to save up enough money to buy an old, run down metals warehouse that he converted into the boxing gym. He married a lovely Catholic girl, also of Irish descent, and took up roots. The Murphy family is kind of well-known in Fernandina. It was implied that if you grew up in the Murphy family, you were going to somehow be involved in running the gym.

  “My grandfather, Kearney, was really the one that’s mostly responsible for introducing mixed martial arts into the gym. His wife, Meara, was a local schoolteacher. She was having issues with one of her students ‘acting out’ in her class and being violent with other children on the playground. She called for a conference with the parents, but only the father showed up. I remember her telling the story of how Paulo Gonzaga came into our life around the dinner table many times as a child.

  “She told us of this poor, broken man, originally from Brazil. He’d fled his country to avoid going to jail and wanted nothing more than to be able to provide for his children and wife. Sadly, his wife was gone, having tragically passed away before they came to America, which he feared was the main reason his son was acting out at school. He didn’t know how to be a mother to his sons. He only knew what he knew. When she asked him what it was that he did for a living, he started crying in front of her. Apparently, he was quite famous in Rio De Janeiro, Brazil, as a Muay Thai and jiu-jitsu fighter and trainer. He was fighting for money and one day was paired up with a very influential politician’s son. He knew better, but was desperate for the money at the time. During the third round of the fight, he had his opponent in a submission hold and was going for the win. He could feel the man’s arm ripping from his shoulder, could hear the bone snap as he broke the man’s arm and tore his shoulder to shreds. He refused to submit, out of pride or pure stupidity, he wasn’t sure, but he knew in that moment that his life would be changed forever. He was never a fearful man, but in that instant, he feared for his life, and his family’s lives. He knew he must leave. He knew he was supposed to lose that fight. He collected his winnings, cleaned himself up, and rushed home to be with his family. When he got home, he saw that the front door frame was busted and broken into; he found his wife’s throat slashed. His young sons were asleep in the next room. He grabbed what he could stuff into a small suitcase, snatched his sons up, and fled. He knew he would be blamed for the murder of his wife and then his children would have no one. He traveled through Brazil and South America and, by the grace of God, ended up here in 1986. He was scraping by, picking up odd jobs cleaning fish at the docks, shrimping with anyone that would let him join, and working construction jobs for people that would pay him under the table. My grandmother, who was probably some sort of saint reincarnated, vowed to help the man. She introduced him to her husband, my grandfather, and insisted that he be given a job at the gym.

  “Paulo Gonzaga started out cleaning mats and equipment. One day he got into a scuffle with one of the boxers over his headgear apparently stinking of sweat. The fighter blamed him for not cleaning it and started pushing him around. He put up his fists and egged him on to box him. Paulo knew he needed this job and knew he should just walk away, but he wasn’t going to be pushed around. He let the man get a few punches in and then went to town. He soon had him on the mat and his opponent’s poor attempt at wrestling and grappling got him into an arm bar submission hold. The man was screaming for mercy, a foreign concept to Paulo, but he released him. In broken English, he told the boxer to never ever try him again. The boxer nodded and the few gym goers that had gathered around the scuffle dispersed as he walked away, barely even winded.

  “The following morning, my grandfather called him into the manager’s office and sat him down. Paulo just knew he was getting fired and was already thinking of what he would do next. But to his surprise, Kearney Murphy was intrigued. Instead of getting fired, Paulo was given a promotion. My grandfather wanted him to start teaching jiu-jitsu classes at the gym. Over the next six months or so, membership to the gym nearly tripled and there was a waiting list to get into Paulo’s jiu-jitsu and Muay Thai classes. He was even teaching some Taekwondo classes to kids and self-defense classes for women. Paulo Gonzaga was the best thing that ever happened to Murphy’s Gym. He was like a member of our family from that day on.

  “My father was fourteen years old when Paulo, twenty-four at the time, started working at the gym. He took my dad under his wing and taught him everything he knew about all things MMA. He made my dad respect and love the sport and the two of them really moved the gym towards MMA training.

  “Paulo’s sons, Ricardo and Tomas, who are twelve and ten years older than Liam and me, ended up being like older brothers to us. Liam had a really special relationship with Paulo. They always seemed to have some sort of understanding of each other. He was Liam’s only true friend and was such a great support to him when our mom died.” I trailed off, remembering how amazing Paulo was with Liam, never babying him, and always challenging him in the gym as well as with life in general. I missed him.

  When I was finally done with the story, Drew caught me off guard by asking, “What ever happened to Paulo? Why haven’t I seen him around the gym?”

  Any other guy would’ve been bored with my minutes-long story, but Drew
was right there with me, hanging on every word, actually interested.

  “He died last year,” I responded with sorrow in my voice. “He didn’t show up at the gym one morning when he was supposed to meet Liam for training. Liam went over to his house to make sure he was okay after he didn’t answer the phone. He found Paulo, but he was unresponsive. He had apparently suffered a heart attack. He was only 51. Liam didn’t leave the house or speak to anyone for three days. To say that he was devastated would be an understatement.”

  “And Ricardo and Tomas? Where are they now?” Drew asked.

  “Tomas lives in Savannah, Georgia, with his wife and children. We always stay with him when we go up for the St. Patrick’s Day festivities. Getting a hotel in Savannah for St. Patty’s Day is near impossible. And Ricardo still lives here. He’s actually an OB/GYN here in Fernandina.

  At some point during my story, Drew had reached down and grabbed my left hand in his. Our fingers were intertwined and resting on his lap. It felt so comfortable that at first I didn’t even notice. I just continued talking and telling the story that he seemed genuinely interested in hearing. He seemed genuinely interested in knowing me. When I spoke, he listened. He paid attention and looked into my eyes. Slowly, this huge bear of a man, with all of his mystery, all of his secrets, all of his trust issues and his damage, all of his hidden emotions and unknown fears, was seeping into my soul. I could feel myself wanting to fall for him. It felt scary. And wrong. And amazing.

  Just when I was about to ask him a question, I felt Drew shift a little next to me and turn. He reached up with his left hand and tilted my chin up to face him. He left his hand cupping my jaw, he looked deep into my eyes, and just sat there. He opened his mouth as if he was almost about to say something, but then he stopped. It was like he was at war with his thoughts. He stared into my eyes for a few seconds, saying nothing but thinking everything. I caught his eyes wandering down to look at my mouth every few seconds and I could see the inner turmoil behind his eyes. It was like I could sense his fear and apprehension rolling off of his body, the energy between us changing rapidly. Remembering that his right hand and my left hand were still intertwined, I squeezed it a little harder and rubbed my thumb over his, trying to reassure him. He broke our gaze, glanced down at our hands together, smiled, and said, “We better head back.” He abruptly released my hand and stood up.

  I could do nothing but follow. What the hell just happened?

  As we walked slowly down the dock and made our way back towards the gym where our cars were parked, I couldn’t help but replay what just happened in my mind. The entire walk down and off the dock, I was trying to recall every word spoken, every facial expression he made, every touch, agonizing over my every word, touch, reaction, response. My thoughts were firing in my brain a mile a minute.

  Did I just imagine that?

  There’s no way he didn’t feel that.

  Maybe he just doesn’t like me like that.

  Like me like WHAT?

  Like THAT, dammit!

  I really wanted him to kiss me.

  Didn’t I?

  I’ve never felt like this before.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.

  I FEEL like I want this man to own me. And me to own him.

  I want to love him and him me.

  Okay, whoa. Pump the brakes!

  Love? Seriously? You just met this guy.

  But he grabbed AND HELD my hand.

  But he didn’t kiss you.

  And he could have.

  The moment was there.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, get a grip!

  My ridiculous train of thoughts was interrupted by Drew saying, “Bree? Hello? Bree?”

  “Oh, sorry. Yes?” I asked hopefully.

  “Where did you go?” he asked, a look of confusion on his face.

  “What? What do you mean?” I questioned, pretending like I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “You zoned out. I lost you. Where did you go?” Are you okay?” he asked, seeming genuinely concerned.

  “Yeah. Of course. I’m fine. Sorry. I just got lost in my own head for a minute. So, here we are. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked, almost dismissively.

  “Uhh, okay. Sure. Yeah. Tomorrow then. Have a good night, Brianne,” he said softly, and then turned and walked away from me.

  I just stood there and stared. Did he just call me Brianne? For the love of God and all that is holy, he might quite possibly have the sexiest body I’ve ever seen. Ever. He even walks sexy. He oozes sexiness. It’s like his body has its own soundtrack and he’s gliding along to the rhythm at all times, never missing a beat. I realized that my mouth was open slightly. There I was, standing and staring at this beautifully perfect specimen of a man with my mouth agape, watching his broad muscular back and absurdly fine ass walk away from me, practically drooling. SHIT! Oh God, oh God, oh God. He just turned around, surely to check if I was watching him leave, caught me staring, grinned and winked. He fucking smiled and winked. I smiled back and quickly turned around, my face and chest beat red, flushed with the embarrassment of being busted.

  The girl part of my brain awakened again.

  Oh. My. God.

  Seriously?

  I mean, SERIOUSLY?!?!

  I really need to talk to Sue. Like NOW.

  Chapter Eighteen

  DREW

  Walking away was difficult, but I needed some space to think. My attraction to Bree was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I may be crazy, but I think she felt it too. I almost kissed her. I had to be careful there. Her father was my trainer and coach, effectively my boss, so to speak. Her twin brother was my training partner and also had “special needs,” for lack of a better term, with the mental capabilities of a fourth grader. He wanted to be my friend—I couldn’t fuck that up by making a move on his sister. Bree and I were essentially coworkers, so there’s the whole “don’t date people you work with” recommendation. More like “don’t shit where you eat.” We hadn’t exactly started off on the right foot, either. Actually, we started off with her right foot landing on the left side of my face and me blacking out. All signs pointed to staying the hell away from this girl.

  But the way she looked at me, all doe-eyed and hopeful, with pure innocence in her stare…damn. She was sweet but with a take-no-shit edge I appreciated. I couldn’t help but be attracted to her feistiness. Man, I had no idea how to handle this situation. I wanted her. I wanted her beneath me, begging for her release, more than I could ever remember wanting someone before. Yet, Bree was different. I’d been with a few girls and even some women, but I’d never had any feelings for them beyond needing to scratch an itch with a willing participant.

  Bree was different. I actually wanted to know this girl and I wanted her to know me. I felt so comfortable talking to her and wanted so badly to finally open up to someone and she seemed genuinely interested in getting to know me too. I guess it was possible to just be friends and nothing more. I’d just never be able look at her perfect pouty lips. I’d avert my gaze when her deep blue eyes found my green ones. I’d find something else to do with my hands when a stray piece of hair fell in front of her face, begging for me to gently tuck it behind her ear. I’d think of fat, naked grandmas to suppress my arousal when she walked in front of me with her sexy, innocent little saunter. Yeah. I could do this. I could try to do this. I had to try to do this.

  I walked around the corner and made my way back to my truck. With Mick coming in a few days, I thought it might be a good idea to run by the store and get some things for the house so I could be as accommodating as he and Joan were to me. Even though Fernandina was a smaller town, they still had a super store, so I figured that was best. I filled my basket with soap, manly smelling shampoo, disposable razors, shaving cream, toothbrushes, and some other random toiletry items. I bought cocktail sauce, sticks of butter, a jar of minced garlic, and a shit ton of paper towels. I got all of the necessary bre
akfast staples: eggs, bacon, and cheese, a bag of frozen hashbrowns, orange juice, and coffee creamer. I googled “how to make sweet tea” on my smart phone and purchased everything I’d need to keep a pitcher in the fridge at all times. I even got a mason jar with a handle for him to drink out of. Feeling like I was finally set up to host my guest, I made my way back to the house.

  After putting everything away and straightening up the house a little, I walked out onto the deck. This place was beautiful during the day, but at night, it was simply majestic. All I could hear were the relaxing waves crashing into the sand. All I could smell was the salty air and crisp early summer breeze. All I could see was a big, bright moon reflecting against the ocean’s ripples, a beacon of light in a wide open black abyss.

  I stood against the railing, thinking about the questions Bree asked, and tried to recreate the conversation in my head. How could I have answered differently? How should I have answered her naïve inquiry? I thought about my mother. I pictured her face smiling down at me with pride and adoration. Grief overtook me in that moment, smacking into me like a freight train out of nowhere, and the tears just poured down my face. The sorrow of missing her was squeezing my chest like a giant tourniquet, making it hard to take in enough breath. The sobbing became uncontrollable, my body wrenching and shaking from deep within my dark chamber of secrets. I felt wounded emotionally, but was actually in physical pain too. The near full moon just stared at me, fixed and steadfast, bright and bold, daring but also comforting. I wondered where she was. What was she thinking? Was she staring back down at me from these stars?

  Never having experienced grief before the tragic death of my mother, I could do nothing but surrender to its reappearance. It was too strong to resist, too powerful to fight. And so I just stood weeping. I wept for the loss of a person whose laughter I could still hear as if it were lingering in that salty night sea breeze. I wept for a smile I would never again see in person, not encased behind a pane of glass in a picture frame. I wept for the woman who gave me life and loved me with her whole heart. Now her memories would stay hidden in the shadows of my subconscious, creeping into the present when I least expected it. I couldn’t control my emotions when they made their appearance. Just when I thought things were going well and that I could actually find some happiness or a silver lining in this shit hand I had been dealt, the grief slipped into my thoughts, invading my heart, obscuring my vision, blurring my world into a hazy cloud, gripping my stomach in knots, my soul aching so intensely that the tears poured out of my eyes, the pain leaking out of me in full force.