Page 180 of The Clinch
“Knew you had it in you, champ.”
“We’re doing it on the record.”
That checks him.
“Nothing off-book. Cameras. Witnesses. Paperwork.”
His eyes narrow.
“On the record,” he repeats.
“Every second of it.”
He gives a short, ugly laugh. “You hiding behind paperwork now?”
“No. I’m making sure there’s no confusion afterward.”
Then I see it click. Not caution. Ego.
Humiliation makes men like Drake stupid. Vanity makes that stupidity useful.
“You think I need rules to handle you?”
“No. I think you need witnesses.”
A pulse jumps in his jaw.
“So when I drop you,” he taunts, “nobody calls it a story.”
Ray doesn’t move.
I don’t either.
Drake advances again, the swagger back now, rebuilt around the version he wants to believe. “You really want this on camera?”
“I want it where neither of us gets to lie.”
That earns me a grin. Mean. Certain.
He thinks I just made the mistake.
“Fine. Set it up.”
He points at the floor between us, then at me. “And when it’s done, everybody gets to see what your belt is worth.”
“Sign first.”
His grin widens.
“Gladly.”
Cameras. Witnesses. Everything on record.
Drake thinks that’s for me.
Ray doesn’t intervene.
He doesn’t need to.
