Chapter 40 Stormy #2
"The brass knuckles were a surprise," I say.
"When Sheila threw them to me, they were cold and heavy.
And when I put them on my hand became a different thing.
A weapon. I've never had a real weapon before.
I've had my fists which are small and useless.
When I put those on my hand it was the first time in my life I've ever felt dangerous. "
"Trust me, you were dangerous. And sexy, too. I'll just throw that in there. I was holding him and I felt every single hit through his body. I could barely keep my grip on him with the force of your blows."
"I went for his mouth first. His mouth told me everything was going to be okay behind a gas station. That mouth smiled at you while it described the things he did to me while pretending to be talking about a motorcycle. I needed his mouth to stop running and for that evil smile to be gone."
"Oh, it is. Permanently."
"I knew exactly where to hit his ribs because I know exactly where they break.
Four times he broke mine. Four times. And every time, the sound was the same—this wet crack—and I heard it from inside my own chest. And tonight, I got to hear it from the outside.
The same sound. Exactly the same. And it was the best sound I've ever heard. "
"Better than the sound I made this morning behind the bar?"
I lift my head. "You're comparing the sound of ribs cracking to the sound of you getting a blowjob?"
"I'm just saying, it's a competitive field."
I drop my head back to his chest. "I love you, but you're insane."
"I know, keep talking."
"Okay. When I hit his hands… the right one first, because that's the one that—" I stop.
I breathe. Tex doesn't need to hear those things.
"That's the one he used the most. And when the bones broke it felt like breaking a key.
Like snapping the key to a lock that's been on me for four years.
That hand can't hurt me anymore. I broke his best tool the way he broke me. "
Tex's arm tightens around me in a strong hold that says I'm here and I hear you and keep going.
"And the pocketknife. He recognized it. He saw that little dull knife come out of my pocket and he knew what it was. He'd seen it before. And the look in his eye when I put it against his cheek was amazing. He was scared. Ron was afraid of little me and a dull knife that can't cut tomatoes."
"Your knife did just fine. It's been waiting years for its one special job to come along."
"Yeah, it didn't cut clean. It tore through his cheek. The scar is going to be ugly because of it. Ragged. The kind of scar people stare at and wonder what happened. And every time he sees himself in a mirror, he'll think of me."
I go quiet, and just like that the talking has run its course. Everything that needed to come out has come out. There's nothing bad left inside me to hold.
Tex has been patient while listening to me talk. Impossibly patient for a man who vibrates with energy. He's been lying still, listening, and holding me. The restraint must be killing him because I know he's been dying to talk about what happened.
He lasts about four more seconds, ten at the most.
"Okay, but can we talk about your first hit?
" His voice suddenly changes to animated.
The volume comes up. The energy comes up.
He's been a pot with the lid on and the lid just blew off.
"Because that first hit. When you stepped in, wound up and connected with his mouth?
The way his head snapped back? I almost lost my grip on him because I was so damn excited.
Your form was—I mean, you've never thrown a punch in your life and you stepped in like a middleweight and drove through the target.
You didn't pull back. You drove straight through.
That's instinct. That's natural. I couldn't have coached you to do that better. "
"Tex—"
"And the ribs! Oh my God, the ribs. When you hit the left side and I heard the crack—I felt it through his body, Stormy, I was holding him and I felt the rib go."
"You were giving a play-by-play right in the middle of it."
"The beat down deserved it. It needed to be documented. This was a historic event. This was like watching a high school football game where my kid just scored the winning touchdown and I'm the dad in the stands losing his ever-loving mind."
I lift my head from his chest again to look at him. He's beaming in pride. His face is so full of joy that the grin can't contain it and it leaks out through his eyes and his voice and the way his hands move when he talks.
"You sound like a proud dad at a football game right now," I say.
Then I stop and take a deeper look. His face lit up, his eyes bright, his whole body vibrating with the joy of telling this story.
A thought clicks into place in my chest that I wasn't expecting.
"You would make the best dad in the world, Tex. The absolute best."
The energy shifts. Tex's grin softens, becomes quieter, deeper. For a moment the man who never stops talking is silent.
"You really think so?" he says.
"I know so."
He smiles. "Maybe we can think about that one day. I'd like that."
Then his energy snaps back. The volume cranks up again.
"But can we talk about the butter knife? Because you dismantled a predator with a pair of an old lady's brass knuckles and a butter knife!"
"It's not a butter knife."
"It is and you used it to scar a man for life. That's pure art, Stormy. That's the kind of thing that should be framed."
"Now you want to frame the pocketknife too?"
"Maybe we could do a curio cabinet. Put the brass knuckles in there too. It could be a trophy case. Mount it on the wall behind the bar. Right next to Dad's photo."
"It would be disrespectful to put brass knuckles next to your dad's photo."
"No, it wouldn't. He would've loved everything about tonight.
He would've held Ron down himself if he'd been here.
I'm serious, though. What you did tonight was the bravest thing I've ever seen.
Standing in front of that man, in that shirt, and saying I am home, you're in my house now.
That was the highlight of my life. Watching you become that person.
Watching you in your full glory doing your thing.
I was so damn proud of you I could barely hold on to him.
My hands were shaking, Stormy. Also — and I need you to know this — when I called you 'my goddamn boy' during the fight?
That wasn't planned. That just came out.
That was live. Unscripted. Pure Tex. And I stand by it.
You ARE my goddamn boy and I want to keep you forever.
I'm adding that to the sign. Below 'Big Tex's Roadhouse' another line that says, AND HIS GODDAMN BOY.
Sheila will hate it. I don't care. I've never been so proud.
I love you. I'm saying it again. God, I love you, Stormy. "
He pulls me tighter against him, his chin resting on the top of my head.
"I'm going to be telling this story when I'm eighty," he says.
"We'll be sitting out on the bar deck—the huge one, the one we're going to build this winter—and I'll be telling anyone who'll listen about the night Stormy put on a pink shirt and went to war.
I'm going to tell it to all new customers.
I'm going to tell it to the mailman. I'm going to corner people at Walmart and say 'let me tell you about the night my boyfriend put on a hot pink shirt and took down a predator with brass knuckles from a grandma's purse.
' People will cross the street when they see me coming.
I don't care. This story is my legacy. My obituary is going to say 'beloved bar owner, devoted partner, was present for the greatest beatdown in Florida Panhandle history.
' I'm having it pre-written. Sheila can proofread it. "
"Tex, you're more wound up that I am. You should lay off the caffeine tomorrow and maybe the next day too."
"Sorry, I'm all jacked up on Mountain Dew," he says. "Or maybe I'm just excited. Probably too excited to sleep a wink, but it'll be okay. I want to enjoy this moment. This was the best night of my life."
I snuggle even closer to him. I'm lying in bed with a man who thinks the best night of his life was watching me hit someone. It was the best night of mine too.
Ron is gone. He's history. He won't be back.
I know Ron better than anyone alive. I know that Ron's power comes from the mask, and when the mask breaks, Ron breaks with it.
He can't operate without the smile. He can't charm his way through a room with a face full of stitches and a scar from cheekbone to jaw.
The tool that kept him safe is gone and without it he's just a man who hurts people and the world will see him the way I've always seen him.
And beyond that is the legal situation. Mickey has the gun, statements, Sheila's 911 call.
Armed. Intoxicated. Aggravated assault. Attempted kidnapping.
The stalking pattern. My statement about four years in Alabama.
Ron is not going home anytime soon. Ron is going to a cell and then a courtroom and then, if there's any justice left in the system that failed me for fifteen years, somewhere much worse.
And even with a worst case scenario that he doesn't go to jail, he still won't be back here.
I'm truly safe now.
I prop myself up on my elbow and look down at Tex.
He's lying on his back with one arm behind his head and the other around me.
His eyes are half-closed, a man who is content in every cell of his body.
His chest is bare and the sheet is at his waist. He's beautiful the way mountains are beautiful—large and permanent and impossible to ignore.
"Hey," I say. "Remember this afternoon before all this happened? When you gave me the ultimate blowjob behind the bar? Are you still walking around with blue balls? Or are you too tired tonight?"