C4 antho - Chamber Four

Dragon ~165~
second one on his nose before he can cover up. His nostril
lets go a gush of blood. She brings her feet around, the sweat
pants still at her knees, and begins kicking at him. “Fuck you,
you bastard,” she says. “Who do you think you are?”
Wyatt, startled by the onslaught, grabs for the door handle
and tumbles onto the street. She throws his coat after
him. The Suburban drops into gear with the engine winding,
tires screeching as she drives away.
Wyatt’s head swims. A gust of cold prairie wind cuts
through his thin clothing. He picks up a dented can from the
gravel and throws it after her. “What the hell kinda name is
that?” he yells, his ragged voice echoing from the abutments.
Wyatt feels his left eye swelling shut. He holds a finger
alongside his nose and walks out to the main road, following
the street lights back toward the tavern’s rainbow of neon.
It’s near midnight and the streets are empty. Simms and
Darla are still in their booth; she’s nuzzling him as he holds a
cigarette over the table.
Simms looks up. “Jesus, Big Boy,” he says. “What the
hell happened to you?”
Darla stares at Wyatt. “Where’s Melania?” she says.
“The bitch went crazy,” he says. “I swear, I never touched
her.”
Darla gets up and trots across the dance floor, punching
numbers into her cell phone.
Simms howls and bangs the table. A few sullen drunks
look over from the bar. “This is too goddamn good, Ames,”
Simms says. “You better take that shiner home to Mama.
Looks to me like you done screwed the pooch around here.”
* * * *