I grabbed Trey by the arm, and he took a swing at me. “He swung first,” I said conversationally. And then I plowed my fist into Trey’s washboard abs and followed it with a swift uppercut to his Instagram-famous jaw. He crumpled to the carpet, deflated and defeated. Entirely unsatisfying. “Byron,” I said as I walked past the man. “Price,” he grunted back.
