Page 11

The old courthouse ain’t seen justice in years, but we turned it into somethin' better. Gutted the place, left the judge's bench and pews for show, and built a damn fine wrestling ring right where they used to sentence men like me. Fitting.

We draw quite the crowd, so the bar out front in what used to be the public waiting area, serves a spread worthy of a king.

Place earned the name Heck’s Kitchen, cause the locals refuse to call the town Hell.

Now, the kitchen is open every damn day, dishing up the best grub in Paradise County, and our matches are billed as takin’ place at Heck’s Kitchen.

The Kings are posted around the place like sentries. Oaks by the old jury box, Bullet and Vandal near the back door, and Rye smack dab in front of the ring like he’s ready to tear into someone if they so much as flinch wrong. Derby paces near the bar, where Sophie sits.

She looks outta place. Classy as hell, hair pinned back all neat, lips the color of sin. That little black dress hugs her like she was sewn into it, and her eyes keep flicking from the ring to me like she don’t know what the hell she’s doin' here.

I’m just thankful there’s no naked mud wrestlin’ tonight. That’d scare her clear off.

But she here, seeing as we are guarding her and I can’t miss a fight. She showed up. That counts for something.

After a morning of questioning around fifty employees, at her farm, and coming up empty. I need to blow off some steam. Everyone there echoed Cornbread. They all love working at Paradise Falls and can’t imagine who’d be after Sophie or the farm.

I step into the ring, roll my neck, crack my knuckles. Across from me, Jax from Iron Vultures, not an MC but an Indie Pro wrestling team, cracks his own. Big bastard. Shoulders like a slab of beef. But slow. I can use that.

Bell rings. We circle.

He lunges, wild swing. I duck, come up with a shot to his ribs. He grunts, tries to grab me, but I twist out, slam my forearm into his jaw. Blood sprays.

Crowd roars. Sophie flinches.

Jax catches me in the ribs with a knee. I snarl, elbow him hard in the temple, grab him by the back of the neck and slam him into the ropes. One more punch. Down he goes.

Bell. Done.

I don’t raise my arms. I ain’t here for glory. People pay to see me win quick. I hear it’s a sight to behold. But to me it’s second nature.

I head back to the old judge’s chamber, the locker room, cleaning up as best I can. Peeling off my shorts, I wipe a towel across myself, wrench up my jeans and put on my cut. Good enough.

When I step out, the music's blasting through blown-out speakers, bourbon flows like water, and someone lights up a blunt near the old holding cells. A bunny is quick with my drink. High on my win, I slap her ass, nearly forgetting who’s here.

Sophie’s still at the bar, sipping somethin' as dark as mine, eyes tracking me like she’s takin' notes. I let her watch the ladies fawn over me. Let her see what she signed up for.

Becki slides up beside me, breath hot against my neck. Tight jeans, halter top, all attitude.

"You fought like hell tonight, Prez," she purrs, fingers skimming my chest.

"Always do."

She leans in. "Why don’t you come upstairs for a spell?"

I step back. Not harsh, but clear. "I gotta get back to Sophie."

Her eyes flare. "She don’t belong here, Legend."

"Maybe. But she’s under my protection."

"It’s not just protection if your heart's already in her hands." Becki knows too much ‘bout me.

I say nothin'. 'Cause she ain’t wrong.

She storms off, heels stomping like war drums.

I head for the bar. Sophie looks up, guarded.

"You win?"

"Always."

She smirks, but there’s something softer behind her eyes. A question she won’t ask. Not yet.

I slide onto the stool beside her. Close, but not touching. Not yet.

"You think I’m just a brute in a ring?"

She looks at me for a long beat. "No. I think you’re a man used to fighting for what he wants."

"Damn straight."

She sips her drink, gaze steady. "Maybe you should start fighting for something more."

And just like that, the noise fades. It’s just her and me.