“I’ll get your change.”
“Keep it.”
The guy’s brows raised. “Thank you.” He smiled and did one of those half-bow things dudes like that could pull off. Clay turned. Another step, and Clay stiffened when a hand landed on his shoulder. The Brit had come around the bar, apparently. “You all right to drive, mate?”
“Not driving.”
A nod, and Clay walked to the door, then outside into the oppressive heat. He turned toward the skin clinic. Dark. She was gone. Fuck. He’d missed his appointment, which meant… He swallowed. Had she waited for him?
Nah. She wouldn’t do that. She was nice, but she had a life, a job. Not like him, whose sole purpose right now was those fucking appointments.
Right. And then I go and miss one.
At the clinic, he tried the door, just in case, but there was no point, was there? He knocked a couple of times, pounded the door for good measure.
“Doc left a while ago,” a deep, lazy voice drawled from somewhere behind him.
Clay turned, squinting until he saw a man—the sheriff who’d pulled him over his second day here. Small but strong-looking—sitting on a bench right in front of the MMA school. Fuck if he hadn’t just passed right by him and not seen him in the night.
“Yeah. Figured.”
For a few silent seconds, the two men sized each other up. Whatever he saw, the other man decided to keep the conversation going.
“See you’re still here, son.”
“Yep.”
Clay sucked in a lungful of thick, heavy air, which didn’t even begin to clear the booze from his head.
“Blane, right?”
“S’ right, Sheriff.”
“You hidin’ out in Blackwood, Mr. Blane, or you come to make trouble?” Clay opened his mouth, and Sheriff Mullen shushed him. “Nah. Don’t say it. Don’t need to hear whatever story you’ve cooked up. I’m in charge here, though, and I’d rather you keep your brand of trouble outside of my town.”
Clay nodded, with a quick look around. Where were the TV cameras filming this ridiculous cowboy banter? “Not looking for trouble…sir.”
“Good.”
He sucked in a few breaths and felt his back loosen when the other man stood up and turned to walk away. Clay watched him go a few steps, then swing back around.
“Noticed you doing that limping jog around town.” He indicated the gym behind him with a thumb. “If you’re looking for a workout, you should check out the gym. Wouldn’t be so hard on that bum leg as all that running.”
Clay’s brows rose. His eyes flicked to the glow of lights coming from the gym.
“Don’t think you’d like my kind of fighting in there.”
The sheriff did a scoffing laugh, managing to come off as both wise and condescending, which was really a pretty good trick.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got our share of assholes who think they’re tougher than they are. You sober up and come on in tomorrow, son. We’ll see what kinda fighter you are. Tell whoever’s at the door you’re my guest.”
“Why?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you inviting me?”
“It’s like I tell the parents around here: know where your kids are. They’re gonna get shit-faced no matter what you do, so you might as well keep them at home.” He smirked. “Or at least in the field out back. And, I mean, look at you.” He waved at Clay’s face, taking in the rest of him with a lazy move. “Don’t know when you got out, no idea why you’ve got 5–0 inked onto your face, but I’d say you belong where someone can keep an eye on you.” The man’s smile widened again, revealing a perfect, artificial-looking line of bright-white teeth. “’Course, a little birdie told me two of my favorite local meth heads showed up in the hospital Saturday night all broken to bits, tripping their asses off and spouting some bull about how a tattooed giant tore ’em apart.”
