“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.
Chapter Two
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.”