[Celtic Thunder]

Las Vegas, Nevada

The week after the holidays always had that sad, empty feel to it in Las Vegas, or anywhere for that matter. People wait with anticipation for Christmas and New years and just like that, the most anticipated time of the year is all over. Ciarán Doyle hated that part most. How quickly the noise disappeared and left him alone with the quiet that was heavy to both heart and soul.

La Quinta Inn & Suites didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t. The room was a studio with beige walls and a small kitchenette tucked along one wall, complete with a small refrigerator, cabinets and a microwave. A partisan wall split the room, giving the illusion of having more space than it did. On one side of the room was a desk with a chair and a lamp that threw light on a small stack of papers that he had yet to take care of. On the other, a bed that was ironically more comfortable than it had any right to be and above the headboard was a desert print of a cactus in the soft colours of a sunset. There was soft, plush carpeting underfoot rather than the prototypical hardwood floors so many hotels designed to use. That fact alone was something that sold him on this particular location.

The room gave a sense of belonging as opposed to just being somewhere that you might pass through. And Ciarán was doing neither. This was not a simple hotel for a random stop while on tour. For Ciarán, this was home. He’d been living like this by choice, week-to-week. He had his reasons, all of which had fallen on deaf ears where his friends and especially his family back in Ireland were concerned. They had questioned his life as an exotic dancer, but they flat out did not understand why he became a professional wrestler, putting that same body he would flaunt so openly previously directly in harm’s way.

But, where his welfare was concerned, and his comforts, they all thought he should at least have a steady place to call his own while in the states. It only made sense. By Ciarán’s logic, that was exactly what he was doing. Just … not how his loved ones intended.

He tossed his duffel onto the desk chair and stood there for a beat, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the sounds of the city outside of the hotel. His eyes fell to the takeout menus that were left in the room by management, something offered to every tenant in every room. The idea of delivery appealed to him, as lately he had little desire to cook anything fresh or homemade in his meager kitchenette.

He forced a breath through his nose, and let the mask slide down a fraction. Not off. Never truly off. Just … loosened. And just like that, the phone buzzed in his hand before he could talk himself out of it.

“Mam.”

He stared at the name until it blurred at the edges, then swiped to answer and immediately put on the practiced voice, warm and ready, like he’d been born with a spotlight pointed at him.

“Ah here.” He said, half a laugh as he answered. “How’re ya, Mam?”

“Don’t ‘how’re ya’ me.” His mam, Fiona Doyle, snapped, but he could hear the smile behind the reprimanding tone. “Did you eat, or are we callin’ coffee a meal again?”

He let out a quick chuckle, the kind that came easy. “I’m getting ready to, promise. That counts for somethin’.”

“Aye, it counts for the bare minimum.” She said. “Now, where are you stayin’?”

“Same spot.” He said, light as he could make it. “Just off the Strip. It’s grand.”

“Still the hotel.” She said, and the disappointment landed soft but sure. “Ciarán, love, why won’t you get yourself an apartment? Somewhere decent. Somewhere yours.”

He felt it then, that familiar tightening behind the ribs. Annoyance first, because annoyance was easier than the rest. He pushed off the wall and wandered toward the kitchenette, opening the fridge even though he already knew it was mostly empty. A bottle of water. Some fresh fruit that had seen better days. A couple of takeout tubs he’d promised himself he’d bin yesterday.

“Because rent over here is daylight bleedin’ robbery. I’m payin’ half for this lot what I would an actual apartment.” He said, sharper than he meant to. “Swear to God they’d charge you extra for air if they could, I swear.”

“But you can afford it.” She said, plain as anything. “Don’t be actin’ like you’re stuck.”

That stung, because it was true in one way and not true in another. He could afford the numbers. The rest was a different story.

“It’s not just the money.” He said, and his own voice surprised him, more honest. Then again, he was talking to his mam. “If I sign a lease, that’s roots. That’s me sayin’ I’m stayin’.”

“And aren’t you?” She asked, gentle now, and the gentleness was worse than being scolded. “You sound like a fella standin’ at the pier waitin’ on a boat that’s not comin’.”

He shut the fridge and rested his palm against the cool white door, like it could steady him. He could feel the dip of the week in his bones, the post-holiday blues, leaving his family in Ireland again, only to not have a spot or even an appearance at Inception VIII, then when everyone went back to their lives, he went back to a room that looked like a placeholder.

“I don’t know.” He finally said, quiet.

Then, because he couldn’t leave it there, he tried to build a wall out of words. “And would ya blame me? The cost of livin’ is cracked, and the whole place is in a state. Politics are a circus. Half of them are roarin’, the other half are fecking bigots cheering the kidnapping of kids!” He stopped himself before it turned into a rant he’d regret. He blew out a breath. “It’s chaos. Why would I plant myself in the middle of that when their President is a fecking lunatic?”

On the other end of the line, the silence stretched. He could picture her in the kitchen back home, hands on a tea towel, lookin’ out the window like Ireland might hand her the right words. “Because you deserve a home.” She said finally, simple and direct “Not a room you can be put out of if the card declines.”

His throat tightened, sudden and stupid. He reached for the old reflex of charm. He put a grin in his voice like he could fool her through the phone.

“Ah I’m not gettin’ put out.” He said. “They’d miss me. I’m the entertainment.”

“Don’t!” She warned, but there was love under it. “Don’t turn it into a joke if it isn’t.”

Ciarán stared at the desk, at the lamp, the little welcome card, the empty space where a life might go if he let it. Anywhere his eyes could find surface, some semblance of his being there. His fingers tapped the fridge door in a subconscious rhythm.

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” She replied, so gentle it felt like her hand on his cheek. “I asked you why you won’t let yourself have a place to come back to.”

He huffed a breath, half laugh, half sigh, and leaned his forehead to the fridge door, thankful this wasn’t a video chat.

“Because I do.” He said, steadying his voice by sheer force of will. “I’ve got Ireland. I’ve got home. If it all goes sideways here, I can get on a plane and I-I’m back where I belong. So why would I start pretendin’ this place is anythin’ more than a stop?”

Another pause. Not empty. Careful.

“Ah, love.” His mam said at last, and there was steel under the softness now. “Ireland isn’t a life raft you keep tucked under your seat on some plane.”

His mouth twitched. “Isn’t it?”

“No.” She said, firm. “Ireland is your home, aye. Your family’s here, aye. But you don’t get to use us like an emergency exit so you never have to build a life where you are.”

He opened his eyes and looked out of the window, staring at absolutely nothing in the distance. Yeah, real glad she couldn’t see him right now.

“You make it sound like I’m doin’ somethin’ wrong.”

“I’m sayin’ you’re doin’ what you’ve always done.” She replied. “You keep one foot out the door. You keep your bags half-packed. You tell yourself you can always come home, so you never have to risk feelin’ settled or risk bein’ hurt.”

His throat tightened again and he hated it. Hated how quick she could find the tender bits he’d taped over.

“I’m not…” He started to protest but she deftly interrupted.

“You are. And listen to me, Ciarán Doyle. You will always have Ireland. You’ll always have us. But I don’t want you comin’ back here as a man who never let himself belong anywhere else, waitin’ till you’re worn out and empty and callin’ it home when really it’s just where you ran when you couldn’t stand your own life anymore.”

That landed hard. He swallowed, staring at the carpet’s looping pattern until it stopped swimmin’. “I’m not runnin’.” He said, but the shine had gone out of his voice.

“Maybe not.” She said, soft again, like she’d reached through the line and eased a hand on the back of his neck. “Maybe you’re just keepin’ yourself from bein’ found.”

Ciarán shut his eyes. The room felt smaller. He could taste the metallic edge of panic he hadn’t invited.

“I don’t know how.” He admitted, so quiet he nearly missed it himself.

“I know,” she said, gentle as anything. “That’s why I’m askin’ you to try. Not for us. For you. For the part of you that deserves to come back to somethin’ that doesn’t feel like borrowed time.”

He breathed in slowly. Out slower. If only he could make her understand how he felt, or why he was feeling the way he was feeling. But how could he get her to understand if he didn’t understand himself?

“I’ll look.” he said at last. “Not promisin’ miracles. But I’ll look.”

“That’s all I wanted.” She replied, and he could hear her smilin’ through the worry. “And you’ll eat somethin’ green?”

He gave a weak laugh. “Yes, Mam.”

“And Ciarán?”

“Aye?”

“I love you.”

The words lodged in his chest, warm and awful and real. “Love you too.” He managed.

When he hung up, the room was still the room. But Ciarán stood there a little longer than he usually let himself stand in one place, phone in his hand, breathing steady until the heavy quiet stopped feelin’ like a threat and started feelin’ like a choice.

He sat on his bed, more heavily than intended and just stared. Until those emerald green orbs of his drifted onto the end table where this pamphlet of an Irish takeaway place called out to him. He slowly reached over and slid it into his fingers. He picked up his phone again and started to dial.

Baby steps.


“Brandon Hendrix. I’m gonna say this nice and slow so it sinks in through whatever thick skull you’re swingin’ around these days. You’re a big boy, aren’t ya? One of them rough ones. Broad shoulders, heavy hands, the kinda fella who thinks intimidation is a personality and bruises are a love language. I’ve seen your type since before I ever set foot inside of a wrestling ring. Men who learned early that if they’re loud enough and hard enough, nobody asks what they’re scared of. You stomp in, you puff up. I’ve seen fellas like you in the audience when I danced, trying to assert dominance over the performers because yer ladies came to look at us rather than settle for what they had at home. I’ve seen bulls like you backstage in SCW, thinkin’ yer the shit. Grand. Brilliant, even! Except it doesn’t scare me, Brandon. It just tells me exactly what you’re tryin’ to do.”

“Step one for you is always the same. Find someone you can throw around and call it ‘sendin’ a message.You don’t speak to anyone, you don’t prove anything. You pick a moment, you pick a body, and you try to carve yourself a reputation with somebody else’s blood and pain. And the maddening thing is, it used to not be like that with you. That’s the part that really sticks in my teeth. You were one of the good ones, once upon a time. You were one of the lads you could look at and say, ‘Aye, he’s rough, but he’s fair. He’s mean, but there’s a line.’ Then somewhere along the way you turned into a right prick, and now you carry yourself like the world owes you applause for being cruel.”

“Step two, you show the world you’ve no shame about it. Inception VIII an’ LJ Kasey. You didn’t go after him because you had a point to prove about him. You went after him because he was there, because he’s got a name people care about an’ because you knew the cameras would catch it and the crowd would react. And that reaction is the only thing you’re truly chasin’. You didn’t attack LJ to beat him. You attacked him to wear him like a trophy. That wasn’t a fight, Brandon. That was you turning a person into a prop so you could feel like the biggest lad in the room for five short minutes.”

“Now step three is where you start eyein’ me, isn’t it? You look around SCW and you see a new face and you think, ‘There’s a fresh story I can hijack. There’s a new name I can smear my boots all over. There’s a fella with an accent and a smile, and the crowd’s lookin’ at him. An’ if I put him down hard enough, I get the attention he was gettin’!’ That’s the plan. You’re not subtle, Brandon. You’re not clever. You’re just heavy. You plan to use me the same way you used LJ. To try an’ make yourself feel massive by makin’ someone else feel small. And maybe it works on lads who don’t see you comin’. Maybe it works on lads who still believe there’s some honour in you left to appeal to. But I’m not that kind of stupid.”

“Because here’s the part you’re not accountin’ for, yeah? I’m flirtatious, I’m fun, I’ll give you that. I’ll grin an’ wink. I’ll talk sweet an’ make the crowd laugh. An’ you’ll think that means I’m soft. You’ll think that means I’m here to entertain while you’re here to hurt. But I’m direct, Brandon. Direct enough to tell you the truth to your face without dressin’ it up. You’re not scary because you’re big. You’re dangerous because you’re careless, and careless men get surprised when the world hits back. An’ I will hit back. Not because I’m tryin’ to be a hero, but because you’ve made it personal by decidin’ I’m just another body you can use!”

“You want me scared. You want me dazzled by your size. You want me to panic when you start swingin’ like a brawler in a pub car park. But I don’t panic, Brandon. I watch. I learn. I wait for you to do what you always do, because you can’t help yourself. You overcommit. You lean too hard into bein’ the giant and forget in every story, the giant is always cut down. You throw that big weight around like it’s invincible, and you leave gaps. Gaps big enough a blind man on the moors could see and take advantage of. And before you start cryin’ about metaphors, I’ll make it simple enough so a simple man like you can understand. I’m gonna take your momentum, your ego, your temper, and I’m gonna turn it all against you until you’re the one wonderin’ how the room got so small!”

“And when it’s over, you’re gonna realise somethin’ that’ll sting worse than any hit you’ve ever taken. You can’t patch the hole where your honour used to be by tearin’ pieces off other people. You can’t keep attackin’ lads like LJ and thinkin’ it makes you a monster worth fearin’. All it makes you is a bully with a marketing plan. And I don’t mind bullies, Brandon. I’ve met plenty. They’re predictable. They’re loud. They’re brittle. They break the minute someone refuses to play the part they wrote for them.”

“So come on big boy! Come in rough. Come in mean. Come in thinkin’ you’re about to make yourself a name off my back. I’m tellin’ you straight, with all the Irish kindness I can muster. It’s not goin’ to go your way. Not this weekend, not with me. Because if you’re lookin’ for someone to use, you picked the wrong fella. An’ you’re about to find out what happens when the ‘right prick’ runs headfirst into a man who doesn’t flinch.”