“The shit you don't,” Clyde says. “You have any idea what you did to my sister?”
I smirk at him. “Yeah, I've got a real good idea what I did to her,” I say. “She seemed to enjoy it too.”
He takes a step forward and his hands curl into fists at his sides. His face is literally inches from mine, and I swear I can just about get drunk off the fumes wafting out of his mouth. I'm half-convinced that if I lit a match, he'd explode.
“Keep talkin', asshole,” Clyde growls.
“What do you want me to say?”
“You stole my sister's virtue and ruined her reputation,” he hisses. “And put it all out there for the whole fuckin' world to see.”
Even drunk, he's still quick. His fist catches me in the side of the head, but it's a glancing blow. I stagger back and shake my head. Clyde gives me a menacing look and I'm sure if he had a gun with him, he would have put about a thousand bullets in me right then and there. Thankfully, he doesn't have a gun. That's a win for me.
With an animalistic growl, he rushes me, but I'm ready for him. He's quick, but clumsy and drunk, and I'm able to easily sidestep him as he passes and deliver a shot straight to his jaw. My fist hitting him makes a loud pop – it sounds like a baseball hitting a leather mitt – and he staggers, dropping to his hands and knees.
“Stay down, Clyde,” I say. “You really don't want to do this.”
“The hell I don't,” he grumbles as he gets to his feet.
I let out a long breath and steady myself as he charges again. When he gets close enough, I drive my fist forward. The crack of my fist meeting his nose sounds like a gunshot and blood begins to roll down his face.
“You motherfucker!”
His voice is nasally with a sudden lisp, no doubt from the busted nose and subsequent mouthful of blood. The idiot rushes towards me again and I punch him square in the nose. Clyde howls in pain and clutches his nose, blood seeping out from his fingers.
I feel hands grabbing me from behind. Clyde's buddies. Their hands are like iron shackles on my arms and though I struggle fiercely, I can't quite break free.
“Hold him,” Clyde slurs.
He steps forward and drives his fist towards me. When his fist connects to my face, there is an explosion of pain in my head and a burst of bright light behind my eyes. I try to break free from my captors, but their vice-like hands hold me fast. My mouth fills with blood as Clyde lands another shot. The air is driven from my lungs a few seconds later when he lands a couple of shots to my stomach.
Even drunk, he is as strong as a damn ox. If I can't get away from the guys holding me, this is going to get ugly real fast.
I fling myself backward as hard and fast as I can. It's a move that catches the two guys by surprise, and all three of us are launched backward, landing on our butts. Their grip on me finally loosens, thankfully, and I quickly scamper to my feet. One of the guys starts to rise, so I lash out, sending a vicious kick to the side of his face. He falls to the ground, motionless.
I spin around and deliver a solid punch to the face of the second guy. He falls flat on his back, clutching his mouth as blood pours out of the wound. Clyde's fist catches me in the small of my back and I stagger forward, the breath leaving my body in a forced whoosh.
My breath ragged, I turn back around to face him. A car screeches to a stop at the curb, the red and blue lights on top pulsing and strobing. They're making my head hurt more than it already does. Sheriff Burns steps out of the car, a hard, angry look on his face. He's a no-nonsense man and definitely not someone to be trifled with. He's stern, but fair. He's always reminded me of one of those old gunslingers from the Old West. Somebody like Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter or something.
“What the hell is goin' on here, boys?” Burns asks.
“Nothin' Sheriff,” Clyde grunts.
He looks from Clyde, over to me, and then to the two guys on the ground – with the first one still passed out cold. All of us have blood splattered on our faces and look like we’ve gone ten rounds with a heavyweight. Yeah, there’s nothing going on here.
“Doesn't look like nothin' to me son,” he says.
“Just a little disagreement, Sheriff,” I say.
“Three-on-one,” he says. “I'd say that's more than a little disagreement.”
“It's fine,” I say. “We're done here.”
“Like hell we are, Sheridan,” Clyde fumes. “We're just gettin' –”
“No, you're done,” Burns snaps, and we all fall silent. “All of you. Clyde, you and your buddies walk away. And I mean walk. If I see your drunk ass get behind the wheel of that truck, I'll run your asses in. You best believe that, son.”
“Sheriff –”
“I said walk away,” Burns growls, his voice low and gruff, cutting Clyde off. “Now, son.”
Clyde gives me a look that would have frozen the sun. He and his buddy help their other friend to his feet and together, the three limp off down the street. Burns turns to me, that familiar stern look on his face. I've had a few run-ins with him over the course of my life. Nothing too serious, but enough for him to label me a habitual troublemaker.
“Thanks, Sheriff –”
“Don't thank me, son,” he growls. “I didn't do it for you. Did it so the good people of this town don't have to watch a couple of idiots beat each other to death on the street.”
I deserve that. “Fair enough, Sheriff.”
He nods. “Now, let's go get a drink.”
I can't hide my surprise. “What?”
“A drink,” he says. “You and me. Let's go have one. We need to talk.”
Be it from the old man, my mother, or from a girlfriend, those four words, “we need to talk,” have never failed to fill me with dread. And yet, somehow, hearing them fall out of Sheriff Burns' mouth, it sounds ten times more ominous.
“Uh – okay,” I reply, uncertainty filling my voice.
“Relax, son,” he says. “I'm not takin' you out to shoot you. We're just gonna have a drink and a talk.”
“Good to know.”
“Not yet, anyway,” he says as a faint smile touches his lips.
I walk to my car and follow him over to the Hammer and Anvil, the oldest – and still most popular – bar in Folson Forge. The town has grown over the years as people have discovered that it's a nice, decent place to raise a family and settle down. It's grown more affluent and has attracted a number of high-end boutique shops and restaurants, as well as fancier chain stores. Classier bars have sprung up that cater to the hipsters and yuppy families who are making a home in Folson Forge, but we locals tend to prefer places like the Hammer and Anvil.
I walk into the bar and see Sheriff Burns at the end of it, a shot and a mug of beer already in front of him. A few of the old timers give me a nod as I pass by. A few of the others – Longstreet loyalists – give me a dark look of open hostility.
I flash them a smirk as I walk past and join Sheriff Burns at the bar. He motions to Leon, the owner of the Hammer as well as the bartender, who comes over and sets me up with a mug and a shot. Burns raises his shot glass to me, so I salute him in return before we down our drinks. The bourbon – my family's brand, naturally – slips down my throat and I feel that familiar warmth spreading throughout my belly.
Burns sets his glass back down and motions for Leon to give us another round. The bartender comes over and pours us another shot. Burns holds his up and looks at the amber liquid.
“I'll say this,” he says, “your family makes a fine bourbon.”
I nod. “That they do.”
We both down our second shot and set the glasses back on the bar. Burns grabs his mug of beer in one big, rugged hand, and turns to me.
“Headin' back to school?”
I nod again. “Day after tomorrow.”
“What comes next?”
I shrug. “I assume I'll take control of the company,” I say. “That's been the plan. Eldest son takes over when the father steps down.”
“Imagine your younger brothers ain't too thrilled with that.”
“Dalton and Q get it,” I reply. “But there will be roles for them all within the company when they're ready.”