Page 35 of Dirty

He swung a hard left hook that barely missed my chin. His left side was mine for the taking.

Thank you.

As he recovered from the punch, I swung a right cross that glanced off his left cheek.

His eyes shot wide.

Apparently, he’d either never been hit. Or at least not hard. Getting smacked seemed to really piss him off.

He lowered his chin, tucked his elbows, and began to crowd his way toward me.

Come on, you big dumb, son-of-a-bitch.

I’ve got plenty more for you.

I noticed a drop of blood where my knuckle caught him. If I continued to pound the left side of his face in the same spot, his eye would be closed in no time.

He swung a few jabs that were intended for my face. I dodged most of them, but one glancing punch caught my left shoulder. His hands were quick, he had good form, and his punches had considerable power behind them.

I threw a quick four punch combination to get him on his heels, and give me a little more room to fight. As he stumbled back to avoid the punches, I took a step toward him and swung a right uppercut.

My bare knuckles crashed into the left side of his jaw.

See what you think about that, you big dumb fuck.

The uppercut, at least in my opinion, was my best punch. With me being over 200 pounds and solid muscle, there weren’t many men who could take a solid punch from me and walk away.

Yet.

The punch simply appeared to piss him off.

Fuck.

He came at me, swinging like a mad man. His punches weren’t wild, nor were they haphazardly thrown. They were well-placed and powerful.

After four jabs that I leaned away from, he swung a left hook that caught me in the ribs.

The air shot from my lungs.

Naturally, I tucked my elbows close to my midsection, which lowered my hands.

The next punch caught me straight in the jaw, knocking me three or four steps back. As I shook my head to regain my senses, he swung another hook into my ribs.

Hell, I hadn’t even found my breath since the first punch.

Mother…fucker.

Through my ringing ears, I heard Crip’s unmistakable voice. “Beat that motherfucker’s ass, or turn in your patch, Cholo!”

“Hear that, Cholo?” Butcher taunted. “Your Beaner ass is unfit to be a biker.”

I was one of those people who was accurately described in the old cliché you can dish it out, but you can’t take it. I would talk a mad line of shit to another man, but as soon as anyone said something derogatory to me, I was ready to fight.

And, what he’d said was enough to make my blood boil.

“I’m half Beaner, half Mick, asshole,” I seethed. “And the Irish half of my blood gives me a temper I can’t control.”

I shifted my stance to southpaw, and his eyes shot wide. He glanced at my right side, undoubtedly trying to figure out which was my lead hand, and which was my rear. I threw a quick right jab to catch him off-guard, and then swung a left cross toward his jaw with every ounce of my being.