“The hell is that smell? Oh, it’s the farm boy.”
Bryce Holden shoved Andre Quinn’s chest in front of eight hundred people. “Look at this clown. Came to fight me barefoot, in jeans, like the broke dirt-picking nobody he is.”
Andre steadied himself. “I’m just here for the bet.”
“The bet?” Bryce snatched Andre’s towel and curled it. “Boy, you don’t belong in my ring. You belong in my yard, pulling weeds.”
“Then let’s get it over with.”
“Okay. Easy money.” The crowd cheered. “Twenty-five grand says I will break you in thirty seconds. Easiest payday of my life.”
Andre wiped his feet on the mat and said, quietly, “Okay. Thirty seconds.”
Bryce was right about the time. Dead wrong about who would be on the ground.