Page 179 of The Clinch
I don’t move. Drake mistakes that for hesitation.
“You got something to prove,” he says. “I got something to settle. Let’s stop pretending this needs an audience.”
He’s still running the same play. I could set my watch by him.
“No.”
His smile flickers. “No?”
“I’m not wasting camp time on you.”
“What, you’re too busy?” he grinds. “Too important to finish one thing right?”
“I’ve got a defense to train for. You’re not on the card, Drake.”
He advances, just enough to show he still thinks proximity is pressure.
“This about the belt? You worried what happens if people see you bleed?”
“No. I’m worried about the smell.”
Ray’s mouth twitches.
Drake ignores it. Or tries to.
“You think you won something the other day because you played nice for the crowd?” he snarls. “That wasn’t winning. That was hiding.”
I stay silent.
He keeps going.
“Lillian is my wife. I’m not gonna let you cut in on my girl.”
That gets my attention.
Drake sees it. His expression shifts.
“There it is,” he says softly. “You can posture all you want, champ. You can stand between us on the sidewalk and play boyfriend.”
The whole place tightens.
He should have stopped there.
Instead he adds, “I let her have her little tantrum. But she’s coming home with me. One way or another.”
That’s when the math changes. Something cold moves through me, sharp as a blade.
Ray shifts beside me, coiled and ready.
I straighten off the post. Drake sees the movement and mistakes it for anger.
It isn’t.
It’s decision.
“You want a fight?”
His smile comes back slow. Victorious. Stupid.
