He smiles. "Maybe we can think about that one day. I'd like that."
Then his energy snaps back. The volume cranks up again.
"But can we talk about the butter knife? Because you dismantled a predator with a pair of an old lady's brass knuckles and a butter knife!"
"It's not a butter knife."
"It is and you used it to scar a man for life. That's pure art, Stormy. That's the kind of thing that should be framed."
"Now you want to frame the pocketknife too?"
"Maybe we could do a curio cabinet. Put the brass knuckles in there too. It could be a trophy case. Mount it on the wall behind the bar. Right next to Dad's photo."
"It would be disrespectful to put brass knuckles next to your dad's photo."
"No, it wouldn't. He would've loved everything about tonight. He would've held Ron down himself if he'd been here. I'm serious, though. What you did tonight was the bravest thing I've ever seen. Standing in front of that man, in that shirt, and saying I am home, you're in my house now. That was the highlight of my life. Watching you become that person. Watching you in your full glory doing your thing. I was so damn proud of you I could barely hold on to him. My handswere shaking, Stormy. Also — and I need you to know this — when I called you'my goddamn boy' during the fight? That wasn't planned. That just came out. That was live. Unscripted. Pure Tex. And I stand by it. You ARE my goddamn boy and I want to keep you forever. I'm adding that to the sign. Below 'Big Tex's Roadhouse' another line that says,AND HIS GODDAMN BOY. Sheila will hate it. I don't care. I've never been so proud. I love you. I'm saying it again. God, I love you, Stormy."
He pulls me tighter against him, his chin resting on the top of my head.
"I'm going to be telling this story when I'm eighty," he says. "We'll be sitting out on the bar deck—the huge one, the one we're going to build this winter—and I'll be telling anyone who'll listen about the night Stormy put on a pink shirt and went to war. I'm going to tell it to all new customers. I'm going to tell it to the mailman. I'm going to corner people at Walmart and say 'let me tell you about the night my boyfriend put on a hot pink shirt and took down a predator with brass knuckles from a grandma's purse.' People will cross the street when they see me coming. I don't care. This story is my legacy. My obituary is going to say'beloved bar owner, devoted partner, was present for the greatest beatdown in Florida Panhandle history.' I'm having it pre-written. Sheila can proofread it."
"Tex, you're more wound up that I am. You should lay off the caffeine tomorrow and maybe the next day too."
"Sorry, I'm all jacked up on Mountain Dew," he says. "Or maybe I'm just excited. Probably too excited to sleep a wink, but it'll be okay. I want to enjoy this moment. This was the best night of my life."
I snuggle even closer to him. I'm lying in bed with a man who thinks the best night of his life was watching me hit someone. It was the best night of mine too.
Ron is gone. He's history. He won't be back. I know Ron better than anyone alive. I know that Ron's power comes from the mask, and when the mask breaks, Ron breaks with it. He can't operate without the smile. He can't charm his way through a room with a face full of stitches and a scar from cheekbone to jaw. The tool that kept him safe is gone and without it he's just a man who hurts people and the world will see him the way I've always seen him.
And beyond that is the legal situation. Mickey has the gun, statements, Sheila's 911 call. Armed. Intoxicated. Aggravated assault. Attempted kidnapping. The stalking pattern. My statement about four years in Alabama. Ron is not going home anytime soon. Ron is going to a cell and then a courtroom and then, if there's any justice left in the system that failed me for fifteen years, somewhere much worse.
And even with a worst case scenario that he doesn't go to jail, he still won't be back here.
I'm truly safe now.
I prop myself up on my elbow and look down at Tex. He's lying on his back with one arm behind his head and the other around me. His eyes are half-closed, a man who is content in every cell of his body. His chest is bare and the sheet is at his waist. He's beautiful the way mountains are beautiful—large and permanent and impossible to ignore.
"Hey," I say. "Remember this afternoon before all this happened? When you gave me the ultimate blowjob behind the bar? Are you still walking around with blue balls? Or are you too tired tonight?"
His eyes open. Both of them. The half-closed contentment replaced by definite interest.
"Stormy," he says slowly, "never in the history of the world will I ever be too tired for you."
I glance at my right hand. Swollen. Red. Covered in ointment. I flex it and wince.
"Well, I can't exactly use my hands tonight. They're not in great working condition."
Tex looks at my hands. The grin starts slow and builds enormous.
"That is a real tragedy," he says. "I don't know what you're going to do. I guess we'll just have to wait—"
"Be quiet. I have a mouth that works just fine."
"Your mouth did call a man a bitch tonight, which I think qualifies as a different kind of assault."
"Do you want a blowjob or do you want to do a comedy routine?"
He puts his hands up in surrender. The grin is so wide it's threatening to leave his face entirely. "I pick the blowjob. Absolutely the blowjob. I choose the blowjob. Final answer. No further commentary from me. Except, I just want to state for the record that you have offered me a blowjob approximately four hours after beating a man unconscious while wearing a shirt with my name on it. This is the greatest night in the history of nights. If someone told me this morning that today would include a blowjob behind my bar, a coordinated military operation involving sixty bikers, brass knuckles from Sheila's purse, a butter knife, and a second blowjob, I would have said that's too much for one day. I was wrong. It's exactly the right amount. Please continue. I'll shut up now."
