“That what you been doin’ next door?”
A noncommittal sound was all Clay managed. He wasn’t sure why, but after a brief hesitation, he yanked off the long-sleeved shirt, baring his tats, before wrapping his hands.
It had been a while since he’d geared up like this. The Sultans didn’t believe in protection for a fight. They believed in scars and wounds. Disfigurement was a way of life for those guys—a badge of honor. The more you tainted yourself in the name of the club, the more teeth you had knocked out, the better. He had a bent finger or two to prove it, since drunken brawls were the norm in Naglestown, Maryland. Followed by drunken fucks, of course. Jesus, he missed that part of it—the brawls, not the fucks.
“You gettin’ those taken off?” Sheriff Mullen interrupted Clay’s reminiscing as he pulled out some boxing gloves. He threw a pair at Clay, along with headgear. “Bit late for the doctor to be workin’ last night, wasn’t it?”
“Just makin’ sure she was okay.”
“Hmm,” the small man said, sounding dubious. “What kinda fightin’ you done?”
“Regular kind,” said Clay with a hint of a smirk.
“Yeah? Let’s see what you got.”
Out on the mat, the little guy hit his gloved fists to Clay’s and moved back with a spring in his step. So he’d be fast. That was okay. Clay could handle fast—although maybe not today, all shaky and hungover.
And he was right. The little guy came in quick and low, arms up in a defensive position that was tough as hell to get through. He was tiny, but wiry and strong, and going up against him, Clay felt like a big, slow oaf.
But he felt good too, even as he absorbed a couple of quick, tight little jabs to the head and shoulders. The pain was right. The speed, the adrenaline. Oh, man, what a relief. He ducked and struck with an uppercut that would have stunned if he hadn’t pulled back. His opponent’s eyes were bright—as bright as his, probably—and his excitement ratcheted up a notch or two. Man, this was what it was about—the physical perfection of confronting a worthy opponent.
A jab, roundhouse, push, push, and the other man stumbled, but then, before he knew it, his foot snaked out, and Clay was down, with a crash that sounded loud and hollow in the room. It was quiet, besides their breathing, and he realized the other guys were watching them—the main event.
There was a jangle of bells at the door, and more people came in, their voices fading to nothing as they entered the space and caught sight of the two mismatched fighters in the back. Ah, hell, he’d seen enough fights, where big boxers came out looking like losers on the ground, and here he was, the smaller man’s arm wrapped around his throat like an unbreakable noose. He’d hoped to just fight it straight, maybe a little dumb, but…
His body moved faster than his brain, and before he’d thought it out, his arm rammed into the crook of the guy’s elbow, his hand to his shoulder. God, he loved jiu-jitsu. And he’d missed rolling with someone who knew what he was doing.
The sheriff’s arm remained around Clay’s neck. Christ, he was strong for such a lightweight, but he’d left his ankle out in the open, and Clay went for it—pushed up on his legs, threw the little guy up, up, over his shoulder.
Past the blood rushing through his ears, he heard a murmur in the room. He was providing the entertainment. Fucking Fight Night Challenge over here. Shit. He’d blow his cover if he wasn’t careful.
But it had worked, that move, and he liked it, loved coming out on top in a fight, could see that the sheriff had enjoyed the challenge of being one-upped—and now Clay wanted more.
They shared a painful fist bump before the man pulled him straight into a clinch. “Not just a street thug after all,” he said into Clay’s ear in something just above a whisper. “You ex-military?”
Clay shook his head.
“Hmm. Let’s see some more like that,” he yelled and pushed away, going straight for the feet.
Fuck, he should stop. He had to if he didn’t want the guy to know he wasn’t a civilian. But civilian life was overrated, and this felt good—way too good to put an end to it.
* * *
At the knock on her door, George looked up.
“You’ve got a visitor,” said Purnima.
“Oh?”
Expressionless, as always, the nurse nevertheless managed to convey something with her look. “Andrew Blane.”
She took a big, shaky breath in. “Oh.”
“Shall I…?”
George stood, breathed out. “I’ll be right… No.” She sat back down. “Send him in. Please.”
“All right. You want me to stay with you?”
