dried mud and a plain gray T-shirt stretched across his
broad chest. He ordered a club soda from the bar.
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Chapter 3
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"You look like hell, Eli," Rusty grunted, sliding the
sweating glass across the sticky plywood counter.
"Combine died," Big Eli said. His voice was a low, gravelly
rasp. He took a sip. The carbonation burned the back of his
throat. "Need cash."
Rusty let out a rough laugh, wiping down the bar with a
rag that looked dirtier than the counter. "You ain't going to
find no loans in here tonight, just bad decisions." He
nodded toward the center of the room. "Though, if you're
feeling suicidal, there's always the open challenge."
Big Eli followed his gaze. In the center of the makeshift
ring—a twenty-by-twenty square of interlocking foam mats
held together by duct tape—stood Trent Larson. Trent was
twenty-four, aggressively tanned, and smelled violently of
aerosol body spray. He wore black board shorts and tightly
wrapped hand tape. Bouncing on his toes, he threw
lightning-fast jabs at the empty air.
Trent ran a martial arts gym two towns over. He had three
amateur MMA belts, a tribal tattoo wrapping around his
bicep, and the kind of loud, unearned confidence that
made Big Eli's stomach physically churn.
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Chapter 4
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"T hree minutes!" Trent shouted to the crowd, his
voice cracking slightly with adrenaline. "Anyone
lasts three minutes, you walk away with $500 cash. No
gloves, submission, or knockout."
Trent wasn't fighting for the money. He was fighting for the
dopamine hit of watching someone lesser fold under his
hands. Big Eli watched him throw a spinning hook kick. It
was technically perfect, beautiful even. The crowd of
mechanics and mill workers collectively oohed.
But Big Eli stared at Trent’s feet. They were clean,
uncalloused—the feet of a man who fought on padded
mats under bright fluorescent lights with a referee
standing by to make sure nobody actually died. "$500," Big
Eli muttered, staring into his club soda.
"Don't do it, Eli," Rusty warned, dropping the jovial