Clay's Unwanted Blondie

Chapter 48

THREE YEARS LATER

✯ CLAY *VEGA* CERVANTES ✯

I WANT YOU gone, I want you to disappear! From me, from here, from the face of the earth I don't know.

Fucking amateur.

The Mohawk Menace (a name the kid outrageously thought made him tough) punched like a ten year old girl. Though saying ten year old was being a bit merciful.

Straddling Vega like a goddamn striper, he flung his hand back before the knotted fist collided with Vega's chin for the—tenth time in the night.

And everytime the kid did that, the more pissed Vega got.

Turning the match around was as easy as counting sheep in an open field; if he as much as stood up the hundred pound 'Mohawk Menace' would have been easy game.

Two punches to the kid's smug face and the kid wouldn't walk straight for two damn weeks.

That sounded tempting.

Fuck, it was so tempting as Vega tasted the metallic taste of his blood, listening to the crowd cheer on for the wimp who thought he was Donald fucking Trump.

But this was the reality.

And this reality was fucking better than staying in an empty shitty apartment looking at HER pictures, cutting himself piece by piece by every damn word she spewed the last time they saw each other.

The last time he let go and she chose to live.

The last time she showed him that he was the problem, he was the reason she wouldn't get to live, he was the one she hated the most.

That was three years ago. Three fucking years with this shit.

But this shit kept him sane.

The first time he entered this very ring, everything hurt, nothing made sense. Three punches to a dislocated jaw, a couple of loose teeth, a black eye maybe two and this was his cure.

He was no longer Clay Cervantes. The man who liked to be in control, to handle business contracts like they were the only thing that existed in the world, to wear brands like Rolex, Bvlgari, Burberry, Gucci suits like it was his day job.

No. Here.

Three years later.

He was Vega.

A bum who got beat up every other day of the week except weekends—when he was drinking his ass off at another shittier bar downtown.

By the time the kid was done and his chicken victory dance had wowed the rich fucks who paid to see men like Vega get beat up, he hardly felt that pain he craved for.

No broken ribs.

No torn lip.

Nothing relevant and that was bad.

Not feeling pain in his body spiked another pain in his heart he didn't want to feel.

"Don't waste it all on stale beer Vega", Tommy snickered throwing him a white towel and a wad of cash wrapped in a thin red rubber.

"Can't make any promises", Vega hissed, taking out the black hoodie he wore like armor.

Black like his soul. Black like his fucking heart.

"You know...we could make this interesting if you hit something instead of getting hit"

Tommy was at it again.

While the fifty something old man was okay for a man who didn't ask too many questions, the suggestion of Vega fighting in the ring always turned him sour than facing wimps like Mohawk Menace who didn't do any significant damage to his body.