Ford

 

Goddamn I'd needed that. I hadn't had a good lay in a while, and Micah was better than any I could remember. The way she ground against me, panting, begging for more. I was getting excited all over again just thinking about it.

 

I dropped her off on a back road near some kind of estate, then turned around and headed back to the roadhouse. Maybe, if I got back there soon enough, I could catch Samuels and Gomez and get back some of my bankroll. That was, of course, if they still had a spot open at the table.

 

Look, I knew they hadn't cheated me. It had just been shitty luck. But I was looking at a deadline here with my loan shark, who just happened to be my boss. When my house burned down, he lent me some cash to get by. He didn't mention, though, that he was charging me his normal rates.

 

Now I was stuck doing the real shit jobs for him. Last week it had been wrecking some little old lady's yard shop. The week before, beating some college punk kid's ass and breaking a few fingers. I could handle the old work, because I was generally going after some real sleazeballs.

 

This kind of work, though? I was the fucking sleazeball, and I knew it.

 

I pulled the old Pontiac into the packed dirt square that counted as a parking lot for the beer joint and headed inside.

 

“Back for more?” Samuels asked with a grin growing on his lips, splitting it like a wounded gash. In front of him were his chips, what used to be my chips, but there were considerably less than I remembered. They'd probably been drinking all night and starting to spend on the women who'd finally begun to show up.

 

I took a seat and threw down what little money I had, grumbling as I looked at the reduced pot. “I'm in for what I got.”

 

Gomez leaned forward, peering at the money. “Barely enough there to keep you going through just a couple hands, the way you've been playing.”

 

“Just fucking deal, all right? Quit giving me grief.”

 

I played carefully over the next couple hours, slowly building my bankroll back up. I ended up driving them out of the game. Only problem was, I was still about five hundred short.

 

“Sorry we couldn't keep it all around for you,” Samuels replied with a smirk as he leaned back in his chair, balancing on just the two legs. “Guess you're lucky you didn't spend it all on that whore you ran outta here with.”

 

I'd been scraping my winnings together and cashing them out, but I stopped at Samuels' words. I stared daggers at him from across the table. I could feel my blood boiling already, canceling out any sense of victory I'd had at getting back at least a portion of my bankroll. “What the fuck you say?”

 

“That girl that was in here,” he said, pausing to take another sip of beer as I stuffed my winnings in my pockets. “The one you gave a ride to. She's a fucking whore for Daddy Williams.”

 

I didn't even bother to respond. Not with words, at least. I slammed the table forward, its legs scraping across the sawdust covered hardwood as I slammed it into Samuels.

 

“What the fuck?” he yelled as he toppled over backwards, his beer going flying, his hands flailing in the air. He hit the ground with a loud crash, and I was up and around the table before any of the other players, or his buddies, could respond.

 

He scrambled up from the ground and tried to get to his feet.

 

I kicked him hard in the ribs, sending him back to the ground. “Stay the fuck down, Samuels!”

 

A hand grabbed my shoulder and went to spin me back around, but I fixed that interruption with my fist. I knocked Alex Gomez flat on his ass in one swing, his eyes rolling back in his head as he went out with a light. I huffed and puffed, then spun back around and knocked Samuels back to the ground.

 

I was on him in a flash, my fists flying as I pummeled him into a bloody pulp, cutting my knuckles open on his teeth. He tried to fend me off, but I just batted his hands away like he was a child, and kept whaling on him.

 

I got in at least a half-dozen solid punches, practically turning his face into ground meat, before the rest of the guys got me off him. Two men grabbed my arms and kept them pinned back while the others began to soften me up in the ribs and stomach. One swung for my head, but I ducked forward so he caught my forehead with his knuckles, instead of my nose. I heard a satisfying crunch, and he screamed in agony, pulling his hand back.

 

The pain didn't affect me. Not really. I'd had worse. Besides, these guys hit like pansies. I managed to wrench my arms free of their grasp, and got to one of the chairs at the poker table.

 

Chairs, decent, sturdy ones, at least, don't break like they do in the movies. It's more like people that do the breaking. I slammed it down on the nearest guy, one of Gomez's buddies, and he crumpled to the ground, then I spun and knocked two more off balance.

 

They started to come back at me, this time more focused and harder to fight off. I backed up, the chair in front of me like I was a lion tamer.

 

“Don't let him get away!” one of them shouted.

 

“The fuck I care?” shouted another one in reply. “You wanna get hit with a fucking chair? Be my fucking guest!”

 

When I backed up to the door, I threw the chair away and ran, jumping back into my Pontiac. I started up the car as a couple of the guys ran out after me into the parking lot, and I took off, the car swerving as the tires lost traction in the dirt.

 

“Fuck you, Ford!” one of the men yelled as he jumped out of the way.

 

I didn't bother yelling back, or even honking my horn. I just took off into the night, laughing. I had some of my money back, and I'd taught those bastards a lesson they wouldn't soon forget. And the only price I’d had to pay was a dozen bruises.