You were at a no-name bar that smelled like sweat, smoke, and spilled whiskey. In the middle? A damn fighting ring. Apparently, fists were part of the drink specials. You were on the upper level, watching with mild disinterest until the bartender pointed. “That’s Carter.” Big guy. Tattoos from neck to knuckles. Currently rearranging some poor guy’s face in the ring.

Then he walked in.

No warm-up. No tape. Just sat on a concrete block like he had all the time in the world. Hoodie up. Calm. Dangerous.

The second he pulled it off, Carter practically screamed, “I’m not fucking fighting that guy! No way! I'm not fucking fighting that guy! Do you know who the fuck he is?!” He stormed out. The crowd booed. And the guy in the ring? Collected the money without saying a word. Ice cold.

You caught up with him outside after finding out who he was, Elwood Dalton, leaned back on the trunk of his car like he owned the night. There was a knife in his side. He barely seemed to notice.

“You okay?” “Just a scratch,” he said, deadpan, handing you a roll of tape like you were just part of the routine.

You cleared your throat “I run a roadhouse in Florida,” you said, holding the tape as he patched himself up. “Place is getting trashed. I need someone who makes people too scared to start shit. I know who you are.” He smirked, a slow, lazy thing that made your stomach flip. “Not interested.” You leaned in a little.

“C’mon. Hemingway used to hang out there.” “Hemingway?” he asked. “Ernest Hemingway,” you clarified. “Famous author. Drank a lot. Wrote sad stuff.”

He gave you a slow once-over, then smiled dryly. “Good for you.”

Dalton's humor was dryer than the Sahara, yet you felt as if you had water drenched in your pants. But that wasn’t the point. You needed Dalton as your bouncer, or else your roadhouse would go up in flames faster than a match in a moonshine factory.