A Savage Redemption (A Series of Savage Gentleman Book 3)

by Christopher Harlan

  As I walk through the door, it has the look, sounds, and yes—the smell—of a typical MMA gym. The first thing I really notice is the size—this gym is much bigger than Damien’s gym, and, if I’m being honest, the equipment is nicer. On top of that, there are just a lot more guys who look like they’re elite level fighters.

  Still, to paraphrase UFC fighter George St. Pierre, I’m not impressed. I just want to do what I need to do and get out of here. I called Saturday and scheduled an interview with Johnny based on when the front desk girl said he’d be here, but I’m not seeing him anywhere.

  I go up to her to ask. “Welcome to the Brooklyn Fight Academy—do you have a lesson booked?”

  She’s saccharine sweet—maybe 19 years old and dressed a little scantily for someone who’s not training. “No,” I tell her. “I have an interview booked.”

  “Excuse me?” she asks, looking confused.

  “Sorry. Are you Meaghan?”

  “No, Meaghan works weekends only. I’m Jenna.”

  Of course you are. “Oh, okay Jenna. Well, I spoke to Meaghan on Saturday afternoon and she said that I could come in at one o’clock today to do an interview with Johnny about his upcoming title fight. Did she not tell you?”

  The very vapid looking girl starts rummaging through a desk drawer until she pulls out a bright pink Post-It note. “Oh, wait, here it is. Sorry.”

  “Wait, does this mean that Johnny’s not here?”

  That’s when I hear the deep voice from behind me. “Johnny’s always here, sweetie.” I turn around and there he is—looking like he belongs in a skeleton costume from The Karate Kid. “This is Johnny’s gym, and apparently I have to beat up some scrub in about a month. So, I’m always here.”

  That vomitus feeing is back. I find this guy physically revolting—from his smug grin, to his sense of entitlement – how did I ever find him attractive or even date him—all of it just spells douche bag. I can’t wait to get this over.

  “Okay, great,” I say, pretending like he didn’t just take a jab at my boyfriend. “So where can we do this?”

  “My place works,” he says with an arrogant grin. “But, if that’s too forward for you, we can always get a motel room or something. Jenna, does that place down the block still give hourly rates?”

  The dumb girl giggles as he makes inappropriate jokes—and it’s a real giggle. I’m starting to see the culture of this gym. I also notice that there are literally zero women training here. I understand why, being that their top star just boldly propositioned me right in front of everyone within earshot. Still, I decide to play it cool on the outside.

  “Nah, I’m all good, just the interview is fine. Is there an office or back room we can use? Or we could do it right here.” Why did I choose those words? I see the arrogant smile creep over his face and I instantly want to smack it off. “Don’t even say it.”

  I think he sees the seriousness in my face because he stops joking after I shoot him a look. “Fine,” he says. “We can do it right over there.”

  We walk over to an empty part of the gym and sit down on the floor. “When Meaghan told me, I was a little shocked to hear that you wanted to talk. Pleasantly surprised, actually.”

  “Look, let’s keep this clear and professional, Johnny. I’m here to do an interview with you because apparently you have a few fans who actually enjoy watching you fight.”

  “More than a few, sweetie.”

  “And you need to stop with the sweetie shit, you hear me? It’s not Madmen in here, get it? I’m not going to be treated like some 1950’s secretary. I’m here to do press, give my readers what they’ve asked for, so let’s just keep it appropriate.”

  He’s definitely not used to women speaking to him the way that I just did, and I never would have dreamed about talking to him like that when we’d been together – not until I threw him out of my apartment. His whole expression changes from cocky bad boy into kid-who-just-got-yelled-at-by-Mom. It makes me smile inside. I love making him uncomfortable.

  “So, Johnny, you have a fight coming up. A title defense of your welterweight belt against number one contender, Damien “The Sinner” Reyes.”

  “Yup.”

  “And how are you feeling about that?”

  “Honestly, when I found out that he had an arbitration hearing in front of the athletic commission to clear his name from a doping allegation, I was very reluctant to give him a shot. I’m a clean fighter, and the last thing I’d want is to give a cheater a shot at the belt. That would only encourage more athletes to take performance enhancing drugs.”

  He’s such a dick. “Right, I understand totally, but you are aware that he was cleared on all charges after the commission reviewed evidence he provided of a tainted supplement?”

  “I am, sure, but still.”

  “Still?” I ask.

  “He had the stuff in his system, didn’t he?”

  “In trace amounts. Small enough to set off a test but not enough to give him any physical edge. The commission said so in their comments. Or did you not read that part?”

  He knows what he’s doing, and that Damien isn’t a cheater, but he’s trying to sow the seeds of doubt in case he loses—Johnny can always call Damien a dirty fighter and get his stupid fans to actually believe him.

  “I read it. I’m just making a point. What’s that expression? Right, once a cheater. . .”

  “Why don’t we move on from that topic. How is training camp going? How do you feel the fight is going to go?”

  “The outcome is already clear. I win, he loses. There isn’t shit he can do to stop that from happening. It’s just a matter of how. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not underestimating him. We’re training for the best version of Damien there is—which, granted, still isn’t on my level—but we’ll be ready for anything.”

  “Including losing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I asked what your strength and conditioning routine is like. You know, for the fans.”

  He looks at me sideways. “Right. Well, I’m sure that the ‘fans’ will understand that I don’t want to give away any trade secrets that could get leaked to my highly unworthy, and potentially cheating, opponent. Not that anyone would do that—like, an unethical member of the press, for example, but still, better to keep training stuff close to the vest.”

  This was pointless. He’s not going to tell me anything that matters, so I decide to just wrap it up with a few generic questions and then get the hell out of here as fast as I can.

  “Alright, let’s finish this up then, Johnny.”

  “Finish? We’re just getting started.”

  “This is just for a short online post, not a New Yorker article, so I think we’re good. So last question—any final thoughts you’d like to share about your upcoming fight?”

  He looks up to think—always the sign of a moron—and then lets his last bit of venom spew. “Any last thoughts? Yeah, a few. It’s ridiculous that this little shit even thinks he has the right to be in there with me, so, in a month, come fight night, I’m going to make him pay. I’m not going to knock him out or submit him fast—I’m really going to take my time and hurt him. Count on my fans getting their money’s worth on fight night. And, with that, I have to go back to training.”

  He stands up and walks away—literally. Not a thank you for the press I’m going to bring him, or even a fake goodbye. He just turns his back and leaves like we were never speaking to begin with. That’s just fine with me, I can’t leave fast enough.

  I put my phone in my bag and head out to my car. I need to see Damien.

  28

  Damien

  God, it feels good to hit something.

  I know that sounds psychotic if you don’t understand the sport, but for me it’s a real catharsis to put my fist into something. Ever since my case got dismissed, and Matt was able to book the title fight with Johnny, I’ve been training my ass off. That dude has no choice but to face me now, even though I know he doesn’t w
ant to.

  I have some extra motivation now, and it has nothing to do with getting my revenge against Johnny.

  All this time—my whole life—I’ve been fighting for selfish reasons. It’s been all about me and what I want out of life. My dreams have only been about what I can accomplish so that I can feel like the best fighter who ever was. The title, the UFC contract, the money, all of it.

  That’s starting to change, and there’s only one reason why.

  Harper.

  Being off the shelf for a few weeks, while I was waiting for this whole steroid bullshit to pass, had a silver lining—it gave me the time to think about where I want my life to go in the future. I have to be honest, I never really thought about my future outside of fighting. I imagined the next months and years to include UFC fights, a championship, and even opponents I had my eye on, but I never thought about where I was going to live, or how I was going to make money after fighting, but lately I’ve been thinking about all of that, and there’s only one reason.

  It’s not just the amazing sex, or that I enjoy spending time with her—I’m head over heels in love with her, to the point where I can’t imagine my life without her. I’ve been feeling that way for a while, but it all got solidified when she supported me through some really dark times recently. A lot of women would have run away. But she’s not a lot of women. She’s one of a kind, and I want to keep her in my life forever.

  And there’s only one way to make that happen.

  The day after I was cleared by the commission, I lied to Harper for the first and last time. She’d asked me to hang out, wanting to celebrate the good news that I could fight again. I told her that we could grab dinner because Lucas had asked me meet up to start going over some game planning.

  In reality, it was me who asked Lucas and Mila to meet me somewhere very special. When we left, I had an engagement ring. Now, it’s hidden at my place, and I plan on giving it to her after my fight, win, lose, or draw. I realized something really crazy this whole time she’s been there for me—Harper means more to me than any championship, than getting into the UFC, or any other accomplishment. Even if I became the greatest fighter in history—which I still plan on doing—eventually I’ll retire, and the rest of my life wears her face.

  But, for the time being, I have to put that aside. I have a fight coming up. And, despite everything else, I still want to win. No, forget that, this is one that I need to win. Johnny has to go down, he needs to pay for what he did, and I need to prove once and for all that I’m better than him.

  Today was a late session. I finish my training for the day around six, take a much-needed shower, and then meet up with Harper for a drink. The drink will be hers—I’ll just have water.

  “So,” I say once I’m inside. “I have a few promises to make.”

  “Way to make an entrance,” she jokes. “I like it. I would have personally been satisfied with just a hug, kiss, and a ‘how are you’, but I’ll take any promises you want to make.”

  “Two things—first, which I think you know already, I won’t be drinking. Training camp and all that.”

  “Got it. And second?”

  “Secondly, I promise you, cross my heart and hope to die, I will not attack any guys who try to speak to you and almost beat them to death on the floor. Scout’s honor.”

  “Awww. Damien, that’s the sweetest thing a guy has ever said to me. You really know the way to my heart.”

  “Shut up,” I joke. “Here I go trying to be sweet.”

  “After your fight, we’re going to have to start boyfriend training so you can understand that sweet means bringing me Chinese food when I least expect it, not the absence of an assault in front of me.”

  I start laughing. “Fair enough. You’re right. I’ll go traditional. How was your day?”

  “Besides almost stabbing Johnny Altino several times and leaving his body on the floor? Awesome.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Oh, I should have told you. I’m sorry. I had to interview Johnny for my blog.”

  “You had to? I’m going to need you to explain every single part of that. Why in the hell did you have to be anywhere near Johnny?” I must look a little intense because she recoils a little when I mention his name. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to snap.”

  “No, it’s okay, that one was my fault. That wasn’t a time for my patented sarcasm. Let me explain.”

  She explains what happened, and when she’s finished I want to roll my eyes at what a jerk Johnny is. “I can’t wait to smash that dude in the face. I’m going to take his title and embarrass him like he didn’t even know was possible. What a prick.”

  “Those were my impressions too. Although, I can’t actually do those things to him, I can certainly live vicariously through you doing it. I’ll be close enough to get some of the blood splatter on me.”

  “There’s my girl! I can’t wait for this one. I feel like everything is going to change after this one. The future is looking up.”

  “You’ve been through so much to get here—more than anyone knows except a few people. You deserve this.”

  “I don’t deserve anything,” I tell her. “That’s what Matt has always told me. Never expect anything just because you are who you are. Earn it. Earn everything that you want.”

  She rubs my hand. “That’s good advice. And I know you will earn it.”

  I sure will, baby. You don’t realize it yet, but I’m not talking about my fight.

  29

  Harper

  “Can you tell me?” I whisper to him as we lie naked in bed.

  “Tell you what?”

  “What it feels like to fight someone.”

  “Why do you want to know that?” he asks.

  “I’ve always been curious. I’ve been around fighting my entire life but I’ve never been in an actual fight.”

  “That’s a good thing, Harp. Most people have never been in a real fight—street or professional—and that’s probably the way it should be.”

  I sit up. “Yeah, that’s true, but, still, I want to know. You’ve told me everything else—why you need to fight, your dreams about your fight career, how it felt to get bullied and abused. You’ve told me everything except what it actually feels like when you’re in there fighting another human being. Can you tell me that?”

  He sits and ponders what I’m asking for a few seconds, and then finally he speaks. “Okay. It’s terrifying, first of all. Anyone who tells you it isn’t is either a psycho or lying—neither is good. Of course, it’s scary, and not just the danger of it, but the fear of letting everyone down, of losing in front of your friends and family, all of it is terrifying.”

  “Does that ever go away?” I ask.

  “Sure. Everyone’s different, but for me it’s when they announce my name. For other guys, it’s the warm up, or hearing their walk out music, or even when the first punch gets thrown. But for me, it’s hearing my name—Damien “The Sinner” Reyes—that’s when I let my alter ego out. It’s like hearing his name spoken out loud wakes him up.”

  “I’ve gotta be honest with you, it’s freaking me out a little that you’re speaking about yourself in the third person.”

  He laughs. “Don’t be freaked out. I’m not having a psychotic episode, don’t worry. I’m just trying to explain how I think—the kind of mental state I have to get into so as not to not panic when another trained killer comes running towards me trying to hurt me. I can’t just be Damien then. Damien is just a man, and a man can run away. A man can panic. I have to be more than a man—I have to be The Sinner. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to get in there.”

  “That’s really interesting. I’ve never heard it put like that before.”

  “Like I said, everyone’s different. That just works for me. But if you want to know the actual feeling of being in a fight, it’s harder to describe.”

  “Can you try? I want to know.”

  He takes a deep breath and searches for words he’s
probably never had to string together in his entire life. “It’s like I’m in a trance, and I’m moving in slow motion and fast forward all at the same time. It’s like a dream. You can smell the other person—literally. You can hear him panting when he’s tired, you can feel the sweat pouring down your skin. You can feel the sick satisfaction when your fist goes into another man’s face. And then, that moment comes where it gets hard—everything slows down. You hesitate for just a brief second, while. . .”

  30

  Damien

  One Month Later

  Another man tries to knock you unconscious.

  That’s how I described it to Harper when she asked me, and that’s exactly how I’m feeing right now. Johnny just threw a spinning wheel kick, of all things. It missed by a mile, of course, but the crowd gasped like I was about to get my head taken off.

  I dive in with a Superman punch but Johnny dances out of the way. The momentum of the punch has me crashing into him, and, as we clinch up, we each throw short knees. His lands harder than mine, and I feel my breath leave my body. I don’t show that it hurt me, but it knocked me silly.

  To cover, I spin around him around and press him to the cage. This is the part of fighting that’s boring to watch for most people. It looks like we’re just locked together and stalling against the cage, but there’s so much more technique to it than that. I get an undertook, looping my arm underneath his armpit, and then I return the knee that he gave me earlier. We’re close enough that I can hear him gasp when it lands, and that sound gives me the little confidence boost I needed to recover.