“You look like hell, Eli,” Rusty grunted, sliding the sweating glass across the sticky plywood counter.
“Combine died,” Big Eli said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp. He took a sip. The carbonation burned the back of his throat. “Need cash.”
Rusty let out a raspy laugh, wiping down the bar with a rag that looked dirtier than the counter. “You ain’t going to find no loans in here tonight, just bad decisions.” He nodded toward the center of the room. “Though, if you’re feeling suicidal, there’s always the open challenge.”
Chapter 4: Fluorescent Confidence
Big Eli followed Rusty’s gaze. In the center of the makeshift ring, a 20-by-20 square of interlocking foam mats held together by duct tape, stood Trent Larson.
Trent was 24, aggressively tanned and smelled violently of aerosol body spray. He wore black board shorts and tightly wrapped hand tape. He was bouncing on his toes, throwing lightning-fast jabs at the empty air. A sharp snap-snap echoed as his punches broke the stagnant air. Trent ran a martial arts gym two towns over. He had three amateur MMA belts, a tribal tattoo wrapping around his bicep, and the kind of loud, unearned confidence that made Big Eli’s stomach physically churn. Not with fear, but with a bone-deep exhaustion.