The Clinch

Chapter One:

*Chapter One*

This isn’t the first time my brother has come home with blood leaking out of his nose and streaking his ruddy, ginger cheeks in a nasty scrape. I’ve become accustomed to the metallic smell of blood after years of patching up the boys at the club when they get scrapes and scabs, but it’s different when it’s family.

 No body picks on a Kallahan. Fact.

My granddad owns the local gym/fight club and people get into deep, deep shit when they think to challenge a Kallahan. I can’t remember the last time someone even gave me a glare or a funny look; I come from a very over protective family and anyone that seeks to mess with a Kallahan always comes out worse for wear.

Obviously someone didn’t get the memo when it came to picking on my little bro, Sid. Now Sid… Unfortunately wasn’t blessed with either the athletic or colossally muscular frame that is a trait in our family, instead he’s rather, urm, round and still sports most of his pudgy baby fat despite the fact he’s eleven years old and well out of infancy. Oh don’t get me wrong, he’s definitely one of us; the ginger hair and freckles say it all and pay tribute to my mother’s Scottish heritage. Thanks for that ma.

“Who did this?” I question Sid in a serious tone as I squat down in front of him, resting the medical kit on my knee whilst I swab at his cuts and scuffs with an antiseptic drenched ball of wool. His chubby cheeks look like they took the brunt of the abuse as I pick out pieces of grit and gravel from the wound with the tweezers; he must have bit the blacktop, hard.

Rather than answering my questions, Sid diverts his eyes, stubbornly turning his face from me. But not before I notice his bottom lip wobbling with emotion. That quivering bottom lip gets me every time.

I protectively snap my brother into a fierce hug before releasing him and harshly jostling his shoulders. “Sid, tell me who and I’ll sort this out for you. Dad’s going to lose his shit when he sees this!” I argue when he remains silent. “It’s either I beat the crap out of whoever did this, or dad does. Which would you rather?”

That’s not a tough question. My dad recently just got released from a prison stint for getting into a fight and he relies on his fists more than granddad teaches us down at the gym. Dad is a prime example of when fight training gets out of hand.

“Just some new kid.” He murmurs, trying to stifle down his sobs. If there’s anything that Kallahan’s hate more than competition; it’s tears. Tears get you nowhere in life. It’s been drilled into me and my four other brothers that sometimes we just need to suck it up.

I’ve got two older brothers; Kaleb, who is twenty and still bumming off of mum and dad and dossing off at college; and then there’s Reagan, recently turned twenty five and ranking up there in the world of heavyweight boxing. Raegan was blessed with dad’s caveman physique and his body is honed, unlike Kaleb’s who’s is slight and athletic, totally made for soccer.

Being the only girl in the family- aside from mum- means that Kaleb and Reagan see fit to protect me, perhaps too well sometimes. I’ve never had a boyfriend, or a friend who’s a girl. If I even give one of the guys at the gym a cursory glance, that guy is pinned up against the wall and warned before he can even take his next breath. And the only reason why I’d have a female friend would be to get used as an insider to the club’s males. Ugh, girls are so fucking fickle.

Because of the age difference between the two oldest and the three youngest, my younger brothers are considered my responsibilities.

AJ and Ray don’t give me too much hassle- they’re twins at nine years old and basically tag team if there’s a problem. But Sid… God he gives me so much to worry about. He’s just such an easy target. I love him to the end of the world and back and I don’t mind him just the way it is, it’s just other people seem to have a problem with it.

“Give me a name bud” I order and hold his face still between my palms as he winces and tries to pull away from the astringent that’s trying to soak into his wounds.

He shakes his head adamantly. “No, Darryl. I don’t want you to get into trouble again. It’s fine; I’ll sort this out.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking… Who names their daughter Darryl? But my father was adamant that he was having a boy and they’d picked the name before I was even born. My dad is more stubborn than even I am.

I harrumph as I place butterfly bandages across the prominent scratch to Sid’s face to keep the skin together and shake my head sadly. I’ve no problem with dealing with the consequences of my actions. Last time I beat on the family of some kid that was picking on Sid, I got expelled from my school and given a warning by the cops for street fighting. I’m used to changing schools and starting again, and as for the cops; they ain’t got shit on me. Academically I’m flawless. My record is always wiped clean, courtesy of Uncle Iain who works on the force. I’ve basically got amnesty.

“Cut the BS Sid, just tell me or god help me you’re just going to make me even more fucking angry at the bastard that did this!”

“Kevin, Kevin Lancaster. He shoved me to the floor and kicked my face, alright? You’re not gonna hurt him too much, right Darryl?” He inquires nervously, tugging at my shirt sleeve as he uses his fingers to jab the tears from the corners of his eyes.

I’m well rehearsed with the laws and I know I can’t touch some runt of a kid. No. I won’t touch the little weasel that did this; normally I go after a relative and eventually we get an apology. When the case is abnormal on the other hand… Let’s just say things aren’t too pleasant.

 "Sure kid, whatever you say."

(A/N) Song that motivated the beginning of this story: Jhene Aiko- The Worst