Clay's Unwanted Blondie

Chapter 50

♥⁠╣CLAY╠⁠♥

HE WASN'T MOTHER TERESA.

Never had been, never would be.

It'd taken losing his woman and his dog—Christ he'd even lost a dog he didn't like—to know he did everything he did because he was a control freak.

The type of chum who was concerned about how aged his thousand dollar Cabernet Sauvignon was and how white and crisp his shirts were.

Yet Mother Teresa or not there was no denying that Nacho and his mother needed help.

The kind of help his lonely penthouse uptown in LA couldn't provide.

The briny sea salt air hit his nostrils as he pinched his blunt taking a chug of smoke into his body, one hand on his phone, the other pinching his cigarette with displeasure.

"She's the best in this sort of business", Chase scoffed from the other end of the line.

"How efficient is she? And how is she with people? Cecile and her kid have gone through enough, the last thing I need is a fucking shrink opening new wounds for them"

"You asked for my help. One last time. This is me helping you, kid before you confront the shit I don't want to be part of. Take a fucking walk around, check into her, if she's not good for your little family, handle your shit"

They are not my family.

Clay wanted to say.

Even if Cecile slept in the main bedroom recuperating and even if he tucked a traumatized boy to bed for the last two days and even if...he had been cooking for them and checking in every half an hour to make sure they were good.

Damn he was Mother Teresa!

Clay leaned against his truck, looking at the remnants of his glowing ashen and burning orange cigarette.

"You know you are pretty sour for a pup in love, Chase. Thanks for everything but don't fucking forget without me you and Camila wouldn't have been a thing. You owe me for life"

Clay hadn't done a thing but hey he'd had a role to play in that story considering he was the one who approached Camilla in a brothel once and from then on the Chase-Camilla game had begun.

Chase didn't say a word. He fucking hung up.

Clay scoffed.

Something tiny moved in his periphery before he could tuck his phone in his pocket, flick his cigarette blunt somewhere across the road and walk down the path that led to Dr Megan Fox's building of psychoanalyzing people for a living.

"That's not very nice"

The thing talked.

The thing stared.

By the time he sighed and threw his blunt somewhere on the concrete, the thing stared so hard it was hard to miss it.

He stood straight, he turned around to face the thing squarely.

They said love at first sight was impossible. That love at first sight was something Disney made up to give people hope while stuff like wars, cancer and trafficking went on in the world.

This...this wasn't love at first sight.

This was... something else. Something utterly absurd.

It was guilt.

Heavy guilt?

Why? Because he'd been caught smoking by a two—no, one year old? How fucking small was she?