Part 2
“Derek, let go of her wrist!” Marissa screamed, her voice cracking as she held her phone out like a shield. “Do you have any idea who she is?!”
Derek didn’t look at the screen. He was too drunk on his own ego and six cans of cheap lager to care. He tightened his grip on my wrist, tugging me forward a half-inch. “I don’t care if she’s the Queen of England. In this house, she does what she’s—”
He never finished the sentence.
I didn’t swing. I didn’t yell. The motion was pure muscle memory, refined over eight years of professional fights and hundreds of hours on the mats.
I rotated my thumb toward his weak grip, breaking the hold instantly. Before he could react, my hand shot forward, grabbing his wrist while my foot stepped inside his guard. With a quick, fluid pivot of my hips, I loaded his fifty extra pounds of “gym muscle” over my shoulder and brought him crashing down onto the wooden deck.
The sound of his back slamming into the cedar planks was like a thunderclap.
Ice spilled everywhere as his legs hit the cooler. All the air exploded out of Derek’s lungs in a violent, wheezing gasp. Aaaaghh!
Silence hit the backyard—absolute, deafening silence.
Diane dropped her wine glass. It shattered against the flagstone patio, red wine pooling around her designer sandals.
I didn’t hesitate. I dropped into a knee-on-belly position, pinning Derek to the deck. My left hand gripped his collar, while my right hand cocked back, hovering three inches from his nose—perfectly poised for a ground-and-pound knockout.
Derek lay there, eyes wide with pure, unadulterated terror, clutching at his ribs and choking for air like a fish out of water. The arrogant bully who had spent the entire afternoon mocking his brother was suddenly staring down the barrel of a professional fighter’s right hook.
“Claire… Claire, please!” Marissa sobbed from the doorway, her phone shaking as the commentary of my 2016 championship bout echoed softly from her speakers. “And Evelyn Carter takes down her fourth undefeated opponent in the first round!”
I looked down at Derek. His face had gone pale, his confident grin replaced by trembling lips.
“The last man who put his hands on me,” I said softly, my voice completely level, “spent six weeks eating his meals through a straw. Do you want to see if your jaw is stronger than his?”
Derek frantically shook his head, his hands flying up to protect his face. “N-no! No! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“Apologize to my husband,” I demanded, pressing my knee just a fraction deeper into his solar plexus.
“Ryan! I’m sorry, man! I’m sorry!” Derek squeaked, tears of pain and humiliation welling in the corners of his eyes. “I shouldn’t have hit you! I’m sorry!”
I held the position for three agonizing seconds, letting the silence settle over his mother, his sister, and the rest of his family. Then, slowly, I stood up, smoothing down my shirt and stepping back.
Ryan was standing near the grill, holding a napkin to his bleeding lip. A small, proud smile broke through his pain as he looked at me. He walked over, picked up a clean dry towel from the outdoor kitchen, and gently handed it to me so I could wipe the rest of the beer from my hair.
Diane stumbled forward, her voice trembling with outrage and fear. “You… you’re a monster! You could have killed my son!”
Ryan stepped right between his mother and me, standing tall.
“She didn’t kill him, Mom,” Ryan said coldly, his voice stronger than I had ever heard it. “She spared him. And if either of you ever disrespects my wife, touch her, or invite us to one of your miserable dinners again, you’ll be dealing with both of us.”
Ryan took my hand, his grip warm and steady.
As we walked toward our car, leaving Derek groaning on the deck amidst melted ice and his mother’s shattered wine glass, I squeezed Ryan’s hand.
“You did good back there,” I whispered.
Ryan grinned, wiping a drop of blood from his mouth. “I had a great coach.”