Defying the Odds (3 page)

“I guess.” Melody laughed, surprised at Hal, who usually didn’t say much. Get
him
started on this fighting thing and he got real talkative, which was nice. “You’d have to be a bit wild with that many prizefighters coming out of this little town.”

“Some small towns grow football players or gymnasts or swimmers. You always hear about Olympians coming from some
pissant
town because there
ain’t
nothing
else to do but learn a sport. So that’s what Garnet produces: corn-fed, all-American, extreme fighters.”

“Or marines,” Melody couldn’t help but observe, eyeing Hal with his buzzed blond hair, knowing he’d been a marine for several years before he got out and opened the diner. “I noticed there’s lots of marine talk round here.”

“That
ain’t
a lie. Course too many of our boys been coming home in boxes lately. I’m starting to wish they’d ended up in the UFC instead. Garnet boys are a little too brass for their own good.”

“Yeah,” Melody agreed. “But you look like a good bunch to me. I liked that Powerhouse guy. He seemed like good stock.”

“What the hell
kinda
sense do you have?” Hal laughed. “That boy’s meaner than spit.”

Melody refused to believe it. Sure he was intimidating at first glance. His eyes were dark as sin, and he was one of the biggest men she’d ever seen in person. She put him at six-five easily, with massive arms and a chest that was all muscle. He’d look out of place if there weren’t a lot of big guys walking around Garnet. She wasn’t real sure what they put in the water, but it seemed to make the men around here a little more built than normal. But big guys didn’t bother her. Her daddy had been a big guy with a gruff disposition, and he’d secretly been one of the nicest men she’d ever known.

“I think he’s just misunderstood,” Melody announced, remembering the fighter’s handsome smile over something as simple as a piece of pie. “Maybe he just acts mean ’cause people expect it of him.”

“Sounds like you’re looking for a new man to me.
Ain’t
you had enough of ’
em
? Showing up here homeless and looking for a job ’cause of a nasty ex-husband should do you in on all of us.”

“That’s the truth,” Melody agreed readily. “But just ’cause I picked a nasty one doesn’t mean I can’t make friends. I’m trying real hard not to hold his mistakes against the whole lot of
ya
. I’m not
gonna
be scared ’cause of him. There are good men in the world. You’re a good man. You gave me a job faster than I could say, ‘I’m broke.’ Then you got your buddy Terry to rent me that cottage with nothing but an IOU to give him. You’re sweet as can be.”

Hal laughed.
“If
ya
say so.”

“I do.” Melody tucked the strainer under her arm and walked past Hal, squeezing his big bicep more as a reassurance to
herself
than him. She needed to know she could still touch men, that muscles and brawn didn’t intimidate her. It was her statement to the world that she wasn’t scared, and she felt good about it. “I’m
gonna
get this silverware rolled, ’cause I’m dead on my feet.”

“Been working too hard.
You don’t need to work all those double shifts.”

“That’s the only way I’m
gonna
catch up,” Melody reminded him, keeping to herself that working hard meant she slept deeper, which freed her from the nightmares that still haunted her.

She grabbed a stack of napkins and headed out to the dining room. Christmas music lilted over the speaker system. She enjoyed it as she worked on polishing the silverware, then rolling up a knife, fork, and spoon into each of the large napkins, getting them ready for breakfast the next morning.

She’d worked as a waitress off and on for years, and she liked this prep job more than others. There was comfort in the monotony of rolling silverware, and Melody fell into a strange trance as she worked. There were no unhappy thoughts, certainly none of the fear that had been her companion for so long. She felt free and at peace because of it. Judy’s humming along to Bing Crosby’s “Twelve Days of Christmas” as she worked at mopping the front of the restaurant filtered past Melody’s work mind-set, and it solidified her feeling of well-being.

For the first time in a long time, Melody felt like she finally belonged somewhere.

Clay would have cursed if he had a chance to catch his breath. As it was, he growled from the pain radiating from his groin after a vicious knee to the balls courtesy of Sheriff Wyatt Conner.

Wyatt ignored Clay’s fury, following with a body shot to the liver. Clay actually found himself wavering. He was as shocked as anyone when he fell to his knees. Then he was feeling the full force of Wyatt’s striking ability, seeing stars from the powerful, lightning-fast hits that had always been his trademark. When Wyatt got him flat on the mat and nailed him with an elbow, Clay nearly tapped out to prevent an injury that might be difficult to recover from.

“Damn it, Wyatt! Lay off!” Shouts echoed outside the cage from Clay’s coaches. “You’re just his training partner. You’re not supposed to crack his skull before a fight!”

The hell with it.
Clay wasn’t giving Wyatt the satisfaction. His skull was thick enough to recover. Rather than tap, Clay wrestled for the dominant position. Being on the mat wasn’t an issue. He had a balanced skill set, but Clay was a ground-and-pound fighter all the way. The mat was his home, and if he ever got tired of the UFC, he could teach jujitsu for the rest of his days. He had a sixth-degree black belt to prove it.

Wyatt was a different fighter. His bedroom walls were lined with karate belts rather than jujitsu belts and wrestling trophies. He liked all forms of boxing, but grappling had always been his weak point, and Clay used that to his advantage. Wyatt was the one who’d taught Clay long ago that even the strongest sprawl-and-brawl fighter could fall to an experienced wrestler. Pinned on the mat, with Clay’s forearm choking the air out of them, there wasn’t much they could do with their fancy kickboxing skills.

Ignoring the pain, he wrestled to gain the upper hand while Wyatt tried to jab at him, but it was already pointless. Clay decided he was winning. They were on the mat. He gained the dominant position quickly. Feeling vindictive, he wanted to win on Wyatt’s stomping ground just to throw it in his face later. He fought to get back to his feet while keeping a good hold of Wyatt, whose massive body felt like nothing under the weight of his anger. When he finally stood, he pushed Wyatt against the cage. Then he started punching hard enough to feel his knuckles through his glove from the force of the impact. His fist flew sharp and fast, really pounding Wyatt, letting a long night of frustration flow out through his fists.

“Hey, hey, hey!
Don’t kill the sheriff! We need him!”

Fuck that; if he was going to spend this morning getting stitches, Wyatt was too. When Wyatt slid down the cage to his knees on the mat, Clay was on him, wrestling once more. He got Wyatt into a naked choke hold, locking his right arm around his neck and sliding his left arm across his nape. Clay pushed his head against Wyatt’s, cutting off his ability to escape when he couldn’t reach around and pull Clay’s arms off him.

“Tap, you low-hitting motherfucker!”
Clay mumbled through his mouth guard as he tightened his hold, cutting off Wyatt’s air supply.

Wyatt tapped.

Clay let him go and fell onto his back, his chest rising and falling from the exertion. He could feel his heartbeat throbbing at his temples, setting off pain sensors in every sensitive place his best friend had hit. His side hurt; his balls hurt; his head was pulsating in pain.

“That was amazing.” Wyatt panted next to him, his bloody, spit-filled mouth guard in his gloved hand because he could never wait more than two seconds to pull the thing out.
“A fucking thing of beauty.”

Clay grunted his agreement. He loved this sport. He loved the
Cuthouse
Cellar Training Center that had grown into a dream facility for Mixed Martial Arts fighters. Most of all, he loved Wyatt, who was the best training partner in the whole goddamn world.

“Man,
Wellings
doesn’t stand a chance,” Wyatt said, wheezing, struggling to get his breath back but still yammering because that’s what he was best at. “I tried fighting dirty like him, and you still got me. I’m betting big money on this fight ’cause
ain’t
nothing stopping you, Clay.
Ya
got it, buddy. The title’s yours.”

Yeah, Clay knew he had it. If he could get Wyatt when he was fighting dirty, he could certainly take down Romeo “The Gladiator”
Wellings
. The media played it up like Clay was finally going to fall from glory with this fight.
Wellings
was a little too mean, a little too hungry. It currently had everyone believing Clay was on his way out, because he wasn’t as flashy. He didn’t run his mouth to the cameras and ham it up for the fans. The betting odds were against him, but he didn’t really give a shit. He knew what he was capable of.

“Damn, it’s a good thing we’re keeping the cameras out of the Cellar,” Tony
Hartings
, one of Clay’s coaches, announced as he walked into the eight-sided cage they’d installed in the
Cuthouse
Cellar to match the conditions of a real fight.
“’Cause that was three rounds of nasty to watch.
Wellings’s
camp might change their tune if they saw that.”

“Don’t count on it.
Wellings
is one cocky New York bastard. I can’t wait to watch Clay lay into him.” Wyatt rolled onto his side with a groan and reached up to wipe at the corner of his eye. His fingers came away bloody, and he lifted his head to Tony. “Christ, I
gotta
work in a few hours.”

“You need some stitches,” Tony said with a wince. “I
dunno
why you two insist on this level of training. I think you’re both certifiable. You kick the bloody shit out of each other for the fun of it.”

Wyatt grinned despite his split lip, showing off bloodstained teeth. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. In this sport,
ya
gotta
have a little crazy.”

“They been like this since they were kids,” Jasper Curtis said, coming into the ring behind Tony. “They’ve been beating each other bloody, black, and blue since middle school. It’s amazing both of them don’t have permanent brain damage.”

Clay pulled out his mouth guard, holding it in his fingerless glove. He blinked up at the lights on the ceiling, finding them haloed and hazed in a way that was familiar. “I think I got a concussion.”

“I’m awesome,” Wyatt announced, sounding pleased to hear it. He fell onto his back once more, bleeding onto the mat and contemplating the ceiling for one long moment. “Think I got one too. I’m seeing angels round those lights.”

Clay smirked. “I guess that means I’m awesome.”

“Sure enough,” Wyatt agreed. “No driving today. Looks like Harvey’s off desk duty. I’ll have my own personal chauffeur courtesy of the fine taxpayers of Garnet. I love being the boss.”

“I know you do.” Clay grunted because talking was hurting him. He might have a few bruised ribs. “But Jules is
gonna
tear into you for putting her on the phones.”

Jules might be Wyatt’s sister, but she was also the only lawyer for two towns. She didn’t have time to scratch her ass, let alone cover the phones at the station. Every time Wyatt was forced to turn to her as backup, she got pissed off to the point of violence.

“Eh, she’s all right,” Wyatt said dismissively. “That girl better do what I tell her to. I’m the head Conner in charge.

Despite his ribs, Clay laughed. Wyatt really must have water on the brain to say that with a whole handful of witnesses to hear him. Someone, probably Clay, was going to tell Jules, and that would make stitches and a concussion the least of Wyatt’s problems.

* * * *

Melody realized she might need a day off after all.

Facing her sixth double, she turned off her truck in the employee parking lot and blinked tired eyes at the back of Hal’s Diner. Her breath puffed out, clearly visible in the cold morning air since the heater in the truck had decided to give out. Right now it was uncomfortable; in another month it was going to be a huge issue.

She grew up in a small town about six hours outside Garnet. Melody knew how cold their winters were, and wasn’t looking forward to dealing with the lack of heating. She needed to get the truck fixed. She needed a lot of things and couldn’t afford to let a little exhaustion get the best of her.