Damron pressed his mouth close to Slater’s ear. “You ever talk to her like that again, I’ll cut your tongue out and mail it to your mom.”
Slater tried to nod. Damron dropped him.
All this took less than a minute. The bar was silent, except for the wet cough of the guy with the busted jaw and the high-pitched whimper from the chain man, who was pretty sure his leg was broken.
Carly watched from behind the bar, eyes wide, glass in hand. She didn’t look scared. She looked… fascinated. Like she was watching a time-lapse of a forest fire.
The bartender, emboldened, leaned over the bar. “You want me to call an ambulance?”
“Fuck that,” Damron said. “Call their mothers.”
Slater’s crew limped out, dragging their wounded. The leader stopped at the door, turned back to glare at Damron. “This isn’t over,” he spat, then staggered into the lot.
Damron surveyed the carnage, then looked at Carly. She met his gaze, face unreadable.
“You okay?” he asked.
She set the broken glass down, shook her head slowly. “You’re insane.”
He wiped blood from his nose, grinned crooked. “You picked me, darlin’.”
She laughed, raw and honest, like she was still drunk on adrenaline. She slid out from behind the bar, heels clacking on the sticky tile. “Buy me another beer?”
He pointed at the shattered pitcher, then at the bartender, who shrugged and poured another round. They sat down in the ruins of their booth. He leaned in, low, so only she could hear. “You scared?”
She considered it. “Not of you.”
He liked that answer. Liked her. Liked the way her hands trembled but her chin didn’t.
She reached for his hand, squeezing just hard enough to sting his bruised knuckles. “Next time you warn me?”
“Next time, I’ll try.”
She squeezed harder. “Liar.”
He didn’t disagree.
They finished the second pitcher mostly in silence, Damron flexing his bruised hand and watching the clock over the bar. The bartender swept glass and blood into a single heap, side-eyeing Damron like a guy who’d just seen a rabid coyote lick its balls and grin at him.
“You good?” Damron asked, voice low.
Carly’s hands shook so little it was almost imperceptible, but he saw it anyway. She looked at her own knuckles—one was cut, just a scrape, but it was leaking red down the line of her index finger. She dabbed at it with a cocktail napkin. “You break the pitcher or my date?” she said, the joke landing with an audible thud.
He reached across the table, took her hand, and inspected the scrape. “You’re lucky,” he said, “it’s only skin.”
She pulled her hand back, but not before his thumb had grazed her palm, soft as a prayer. “I’ve had worse,” she said. She wasn’t lying.
The front door slammed. The bartender, arms crossed over his chest, nodded at Damron. “You planning on paying for the damages, or just drinking all my beer and trashing my place?”
Damron reached for his wallet, peeled off four twenties, and laid them flat on the table. “That should cover the glass and the bleach,” he said. “If not, call the club.”
The bartender didn’t look satisfied, but he swept the bills away and uncapped another Modelo. “Cops’ll be here in ten. You might wanna… not be.”
Damron nodded. He stood, testing the weight of his own body, and held a hand out to Carly. “You coming?”
She rose, smoothing her skirt, dignity untouched by anything the night had thrown at her. “Try to keep up,” she shot back.
Outside, the night was raw and electric. The parking lot was empty of Dire Straits, but the tire marks and blood spots proved the memory was fresh. Damron’s bike sat heavy and sure, black as sin, engine still ticking with residual heat. Damron lit a smoke, shaking it out from the end, and watched the last glimmers of sunset torch the horizon. Carly leaned against his bike, arms folded, and looked him over. “You didn’t have to do that.”
