So, I fuck her, hard and fast, letting her use my body to erase those memories and when she shatters for me, coming all over my cock with a loud cry, I follow right behind her with my own, spilling into her warm tight heat.
For a few seconds we stand still, in silence, her forehead resting on the cool glass, my cock still buried inside of her but then I wrap my arms around her as I slowly pull out and bundle her against me, listening toher breaths.
And then I help her shower and hold her in bed until her body relaxes against me and her breathing softens. Asleep and tucked in, I shut off the lights and grab my keys, locking up behind me so I can go to the one place I know will offer me a free outlet for all this rage bottled up inside of me.
The roar of my engine is loud in the quiet, underground lot and it’s late enough that the city streets are almost empty. I make it to the club in ten minutes, parking on the street before I get out.
Rain started a few minutes ago but it’s coming down in torrents, soaking me through by the time I’ve made the short walk to the side entrance. I slip inside and inhale the scent. It smells like shit, like body odor and stale beer but it’s a smell I’ve become so used to it actually eases some of the tension within me.
The noise steadily gets louder the further I walk inside until I’m stepping into the familiar ring. The crowd is thick and rowdy tonight, their cheers and hollers drowning out the noise inside my head as they watch the fight in the ring. Fresh blood has been spilled tonight and the fighter’s feet keep slipping in it as they tussle within the cage.
I head to the booth and throw my name in for a fight before I head to the bar and get a shitty tasting beer. I stay at the edge of the crowd watching and drinking that beer until the fight ends and my name is called.
This place always has treated me well, but I guess ithas more to do with the money I can make for them. I’ve never had to wait long for a fight.
I strip out of my shirt and toe off my shoes before I hop into the ring.
“Pretty city boy,” My opponent taunts. He’s a big man, covered head to toe in tattoos. I’ve seen him fight a few times and know he’s a good fighter, a pro but I’m better and with this rage still present, he doesn’t stand a chance.
“Did you get lost or something?” He continues, pretending he doesn’t know who I am. I scoff, everyone fucking knows who I am. My reputation follows me wherever I go, I used to like that but now? I’m not so sure.
I roll my neck side to side and he’s still fucking talking shit ahead of me, but I’ve drowned out the noise, even the sound of the crowd as they cheer and chant, ready for the next round of bloodshed. I didn’t want the fight to be over too quickly, I need this outlet, I need a target to fight back.
Training in a gym, using a bag has never helped me. I fucking love sparring, I love honing my body, but it doesn’t help the kind of anger I have within me right now. But you know what does? Making someone fucking bleed.
My opponent comes at me, quick and light on his feet and swings but I dodge, jabbing him with a precise and clean shot to the underside of his jaw, knockinghis head back. His feet stumble but I’m there, following and when he recovers, I hit him again, the shot landing on his cheek.
I haven’t even broken a sweat yet.
He tries another three times to land a hit but misses each one and at this point, this fight isn’t worth my fucking time. An enraged kind of howl sounds from him as he bends and withdraws a fucking switch blade from his pocket, the razor-sharp knife flicking out when he hits the button.
I don’t hear the jeers of the crowd, just my heartbeat. Weapons aren’t disallowed from the ring, but no one trusts a fighter who needs to use one. This is flesh on flesh fighting but this fucker can’t win with his fists.
He slashes out with his arm, low, aiming for my gut but I manage to dodge. He comes at me again, stabbing forward which I also get out of the way for but I’m in full defense mode, he’s blindly and erratically waving that fucking blade around. He doesn’t care what he hits as long as he hits something.
He comes at me again and I hop out of the way, managing to gain some space on him, enough that I can snatch a hand out and grip his wrist, disarming him with a quick and brutal twist that snaps his bone.
Broken.
A scream rips from him, so loud that it rivals the noise from the crowd, and I manage to catch the blade. I snap it closed and toss it over the cage, the thing landing in the crowd beyond the bars and then Ilose all control of myself.
Fist after fist slams into his face, over and over and over, skins splits and bone crunches with each brutal jab and in the end, he’s no longer standing, it’s me holding him up just so I can continue to beat him.
It’s then I realize what I’m doing. His face is a mangled mess of blood, bone and flesh and for a few long seconds I stare down into what used to be a face. Blood coats my hand and I feel it running over my face, my chest and the guy I’m still holding up, he’s no longer breathing.
I uncurl my fingers, watching his limp and lifeless body drop to the mat, blood gushing from his face and staining the floor beneath him.
The crowd is silent.
But the rage…
The rage is still a living, breathing thing inside of me.
Chapter Thirty-five
“Get me another fucking fight!” I snap at the guy in the booth. His eyes widen, fear coming over him, likely because I am drenched in the last guy’s blood and I feel fucking feral. My chest is burning from how heavy I am breathing, my muscles so damn tight it feels like they’re about to burst from my skin.
I just keep seeing her face, the damn tears and hearing the story she told in a voice edged in so much fucking pain. I am livid. I hate that I cannot fix this. I hate that she has to live with this.
