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.
He stared at it in the dim green glow of the dashboard lights. It wasn’t a trophy. It was a transaction. He had traded pieces of his body and a fleeting ugly glimpse into his past for a piece of copper and iron.
He put the truck in gear and pulled out onto the empty county highway. The headlights cut a weak yellow cone through the darkness. The cicadas were still screaming. The next morning the sky was the color of bruised iron.
A heavy summer storm was brewing threatening to soak the fields before he could get the wheat cut. Clayton stood at the parts counter of O’Reilly Auto sipping a Styrofoam cup of black coffee that tasted like burnt plastic. He moved stiffly every shift in weight sending a jolt of pain through his side. “Got it right here, Clayton,” Gary, the parts manager, said hauling a heavy cardboard box onto the counter.
