Clayton stood up. A severe limp dragged his left leg down as he walked over and picked up his socks. He sat on a nearby wooden stool methodically pulling the thick wool over his pale feet, then sliding his boots on. He left the laces loose.
Bending over hurt too much. The silence in the room was absolute. It was thick, heavy, and intensely uncomfortable. The men who had been screaming for blood a minute ago were now staring at the bottom of their beer bottles, suddenly very interested in peeling the labels.
They had come to watch a flashy show. They had just watched a man get dismantled with terrifying emotionless efficiency. It felt too real. Too intimate.
Rusty walked over his heavy boots thudding against the plywood floor. He extended a thick calloused hand holding five crumpled hundred-dollar bills. Clayton took the money. The paper felt damp with Rusty’s sweat.
He folded it neatly once and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his oil-stained Carhartts. “Christ, James,” Rusty muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “Where the hell did you learn to move like that?” Clayton looked at the bartender. The dull headache at the base of his skull was roaring back to life fueled by the receding adrenaline crash.
His hands were beginning to tremble slightly, a physiological reaction he hated more than anything else. He gripped the edge of the stool to hide the shaking. “Just wanted to get back to my truck, Rusty.” Clayton said quietly. He stood up favoring his bruised ribs and began the long walk to the door.
As he passed the ring, Trent was finally sitting up rubbing his throat, his face flushed with a mixture of shame and lingering shock. Trent caught Clayton’s eye. He opened his mouth perhaps to demand a rematch, perhaps to hurl an insult to salvage his shattered ego. Clayton stopped.
He looked down at the martial artist. He noticed the slight tremble in Trent’s jaw, the defensive posture of his shoulders. “Keep your chin tucked when you throw that overhand.” Clayton rasped, his voice sounding like dry gravel. “”And tape your wrist tighter.
You’re going to break a scaphoid hitting like that.”” Trent just stared, his mouth snapping shut. Clayton pushed through the heavy wooden doors and out into the suffocating July night. The oppressive heat felt almost welcoming after the icy tension inside the tavern. He walked across the gravel lot, the stones crunching loudly under his untied boots.
He climbed into the cab of his Ford. It smelled like stale coffee, dog hair, and old dust. He inserted the key, twisting it. The starter whined in protest for a solid five seconds before the engine finally caught, shuddering violently before settling into a rough, uneven idle.
Clayton slumped against the worn cloth of the bench seat. He closed his eyes. The adrenaline was entirely gone now, leaving behind a profound, aching void. His ribs screamed with every intake of breath.
His right hand was swelling where it had collided with Trent’s jaw. His leg felt like it had been hit by a pipe. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of cash. $$500.