Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4), Nick Pirog [classic children's novels .TXT] 📗

stopping for conversation. I wondered if they knew Miller was a police officer. With only five officers in town, I was sure they did.

Wheeler didn’t answer.

I was about to say something when Jerry took a step forward and said, “Why don’t you keep it moving, buddy?”

“First, my name isn’t buddy, it’s Officer Miller. And second, fuck off.”

“Come on, Miller, there’s no need for that,” Randall said calmly.

I willed him to say it, to call Randall a nigger to his face so I’d have a reason to beat on him. Or attempt to at any rate.

Miller glared at me, then back to Randall. He didn’t have the balls to do it.

Coward.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, then started past us. But he kept close, too close, to within a couple feet. When he was parallel with Wheeler and me, he turned on his heel and flung his drink. I’m not sure if he was aiming for me or Wheeler, but Wheeler took the brunt of the drink in the face.

Jerry was the closest one to Miller and he lunged forward to grab him. Miller easily sidestepped him and pushed him to the ground.

Randall went after him next, but with the same result.

I took two steps forward. I didn’t know what to say, so I said the first thing that came to my mind.

“I volunteer as Tribute.”

Miller grinned.

This was what he wanted the whole time. Everything he did was to provoke me into this showdown. So he could kick the shit out of me in front of Wheeler.

“Don’t,” Wheeler said, pulling at my arm. Her hair and face were wet, her mascara beginning to run from her eyes. “He’s not worth it,” she said.

“Of course he’s not,” I said with a sneer. “But you are.”

Someone from the bar must have heard the commotion because half the patrons had spilled out and surrounded us.

“You know what you’re doing?” Randall whispered in my direction. “You remember what happened last time?”

Yeah, I sure did.

And so did nine million YouTube viewers.

“Get your phone out,” I told Jerry.

He did.

The crowd circled around Miller and myself. No one appeared remotely interested in stopping the fight. In fact, all the bowling alley employees had joined the group of onlookers.

Matt Miller was ten feet away from me. He’d thrown his hat to the ground and kicked off his flip-flops. He didn’t do any stretches or any fancy MMA pre-fight bullshit. He just stared me down.

I closed my eyes and tried to teleport. When I opened them, I was still in the bowling alley.

Dang it.

I reminded myself that I wasn’t the same guy I was six weeks earlier. That was Fat Thomas. Slow Thomas. Weenie Thomas. Now I was Fit Thomas. Strong Thomas. Hero Thomas.

Miller took a couple steps forward. I matched him. Four feet separated us. He moved his right foot back into a fighting stance. I glanced down at his foot. At the foot that had turned me into the Elephant Man.

I thought back to all the videos of Miller I watched. All his fights. He had two knockout moves. One was a left hook. The other, a spinning back kick, the same one he’d used on me.

I found my fighting stance. I knew he would wait. Wait for me to make the first move.

I took a step forward and threw an overhand right. Miller ducked it and hit me with a left hook to the liver. It knocked the wind out of me and I doubled over.

I forced the pain away and lunged forward with an upper cut. I grazed Miller’s cheek. He countered with a straight right into my ribs.

There was a collective gasp from the onlookers as I fell to my knees.

He was toying with me.

A cat with its prey.

I fought back the rising bile in my throat.

Come on, you can do this.

You’re Thomas Fucking Prescott.

I pushed myself up.

I glanced back at Wheeler. She looked like she’d just eaten some two-week-old gas station sushi.

There was no way I could compete with Miller in these normal exchanges. He was too quick. Everything I threw was telegraphed. Fighting was a science to him. If I did this, he would counter with that.

I needed him mad. I needed him to go for the knockout.

“What did you do with the rings?” I said.

He eyes flickered.

“Did you get your money back at least?” I prodded. “Or do you sleep with them under your pillow?”

I took a step forward.

I watched his feet.

His toes flexed.

And he spun.

It was lightning quick.

A beat quicker than the last time if that’s possible.

Luckily, I started ducking when I took a step toward him. Still, his foot only missed my head by half an inch.

As Miller planted from his failed kick, my arm was already in motion. I pushed down on my back foot, the power coming from my legs and hips, channeled through my shoulder and into my fist.

Miller’s head whipped around, his eyes open wide as my right fist smashed into his jaw.

If I had a thousand punches, I couldn’t have hit him with a more pure, more powerful punch.

I heard his jaw crack.

He fell to the carpet, his eyes rolling backward. His mouth was open and one of his front teeth was chipped in half.

Everyone was silent as I took the card from my wallet, the one Dr. Roberts D.D.S. had given me, folded it up, and put it in his pocket.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The receptionist’s eyes opened wide at the sight of me. I half expected her to have resigned from her post. But apparently, she decided she wasn’t to blame for Mike Zernan’s murder. Or she buried the guilt down somewhere where only three glasses of wine could find it.

I didn’t tell her why I was there or whom I came to see. I simply strolled past her desk and made my way to the back of the room.

Sitting at a desk, halfway to the back, was none other than Officer Matt Miller. Apparently, he was confined to desk duty for the