SAVIOR: A Stepbrother Romance

by Ora Wilde

  Still, the thought that he recognized me because of my resemblance to my father was pretty difficult to shake off. I didn’t look like him. Never have, never will. And if by some fucking joke of the divine that my features would morph into his likeness, I’d rather tear off my face than be mistaken for him.

  “Yeah, yeah... you’re Benny’s kid...” the old man wearing a Los Angeles Angels baseball cap, the only other customer there, enthused all of a sudden. “You’re the fighter guy, ain’t ya?”

  “Cheers,” I sarcastically acknowledged as I raised my bottle towards his direction.

  “What do they call ya?” he continued to say. “The Razer? No, no... that ain’t it. The Shaver? That doesn’t sound right, either...” His fingers rubbed the rough stubbles on his aging chin as he tried to remember what he thought he knew.

  “The Savior,” I callously uttered to spare him the agony of what could very well be the onset of his dementia.

  “Aye, that’s right!” he cheerfully replied. “The Savior! Why do you call yourself that, sonny? Is it because of ‘ya beard? Because ‘ya look like Jesus Christ?”

  I sighed, irritated by his persistent questions. I wanted peace and quiet, and obviously, the old man wasn’t willing to give me those.

  “I didn’t give myself that name,” I told him. “My damn promoter did.”

  “Ah... it’s because of... watchamacallit? Marketing purposes, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” My voice was as cold as ice, hoping that he’d get a clue that I wasn’t in the mood to carry on with the conversation.

  “Well... I think the name suits ya,” he said, as he raised his glass to salute me, thankfully ending the discussion.

  The name suits me?

  Ha!

  I am no savior.

  I couldn’t even save myself from my rage.

  It was a stupid monicker. The only reason why Danny and his advertising squad gave me that tag was because it rhymed with my first and last name. Conner ‘The Savior’ McXavier. I must admit, it is catchy. But it is hardly appropriate.

  Which reminded me...

  Johnny Jones...

  In an interview with ESPN last year, when the prospect of facing me - a relative upstart back then - was asked, he said something that really infuriated me.

  The Savior, eh? That wannabe can’t even save his own ass from the toilet.

  He ended that statement with a mocking laugh... a sound that echoed in my head for months, fueling my desire to be the best so that I’d get the opportunity to step in the octagon with him and take his title away from his filthy hands.

  Damn it! I really hated that motherfucker!

  My vision started to darken and my hands began to shake. Anger was devouring me once again. I had to regain control, least I make a scene in this disgusting town’s only watering hole.

  Focus...

  I needed to remind myself to focus...

  To channel my rage...

  Towards what I had to do...

  Towards what I always wanted to achieve...

  Focus...

  McXavier? That bitch isn’t even good enough to lace my boots.

  Focus...

  You’ll have your chance... and soon...

  So focus...

  When we meet inside that cage... I’m gonna make that McXavier squeal... and his cries will sound like queefs.

  My hand subconsciously tightened its grip on the bottle I was holding... so tight that I felt I could break it.

  Focus...

  I had to focus...

  His dad used to be a prizefighter huh? Well, he can bring him along and I’m gonna tie their testicles together in a knot.

  I slammed my fist on the surface of the counter, gaining the attention of the two people who were in the establishment with me.

  “Don’t... fucking... look... at... me...” I struggled to tell them as I tried my best to suppress my fury.

  Out of respect - or fear - they started to pretend that I wasn’t there.

  McXavier? Baloney! My sister hits harder than him.

  Sister...

  Sister...

  Margaret...

  Focus...

  Focus...

  I started to hear the soft music playing on the bartender’s radio. I started to feel the cool air that came from the split-style air-conditioning unit just above my head. My palm began to savor the cold moisture that was forming outside the bottle I was clasping.

  And the darkness that threatened to engulf my vision dissipated.

  All was back to normal.

  Except for one thing...

  A thought...

  A nagging thought that would plague me the rest of that day...

  Why did I suddenly think of her?

  And why did that make me calm down?

  Chapter Twenty

  MEG

  Dinner with Lucas’ family was quite pleasant... more than usual.

  Normally, his folks and his elder sister would be overly polite... so much so that they’d bring up insignificant subjects just to keep our conversations going. I appreciated their effort. But when we start talking about matters like backgammon (do you play board games?), oral hygiene (what’s your brand of toothpaste?) and babies of my own (has anyone told you that you’ve got good birthing hips?), I start to feel a tad too uneasy. Thankfully, that night’s dinner didn’t last two hours like the last time.

  I should’ve savored the sense of relief I had as Lucas drove me home. But I didn’t. As I rested my body on the passenger’s seat of his car, a feeling of trepidation haunted my mind.

  I was worried.

  I was very worried.

  About Conner and his training and his upcoming fight and his injuries and his...

  I was very worried about a lot of things, all of which pertained to him.

  The thing with fear, my mother once said, is that the longer it is kept inside, the more it festers your soul.

  Was that the reason why I have felt so tensed and agitated the entire day, I wondered? Were my worries begging for someone else’s comfort? Would they disappear - or at the very least, be pacified - if I would share them with another person?

  A mother’s sagely advice.

  How could it be wrong?

  And so I told him. The person closest to me at that particular moment. The man dearest to my heart.

  “Honey, if I tell you something... incriminating... can you promise not to tell anyone?” I asked him cooingly.

  “Is this the part when you’ll tell me how often you masturbate?” he retorted with a chuckle, his gaze still fixed on the road as he drove.

  “Huh? No!” I quickly - and maybe, very defensively - denied. “It’s not that. It’s about... well... it’s about Conner.”

  “Conner? Oh... your newly discovered stepbrother! What about him?”

  “Well...” I pondered if I should really share with him Conner’s secret. But I trust Lucas. He’s my future husband. “Conner... you see... he has an upcoming fight...”

  “Yes, and he’s training here in Susanville while he’s being filmed by some TV crew, and he has a press con for the fight tomorrow at noon... you’ve told me these earlier, Meg. I don’t know what’s so alarming about those details...”

  “Lucas... Conner suffered an injury,” I finally revealed.

  “Athletes suffer a variety of injuries during training. It will heal.”

  “No. Not this one. This one’s bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “Really bad. His shoulder was dislocated and his wrist was fractured.”

  “Fractured? Simple or complex?”

  “Simple, but the doctor said that it’ll take at least three months to fully heal.”

  “And when is his fight?”

  “Two months from now,” I answered before falling silent as I remembered that it coincided with the date of our wedding.

  “And he’s still training for that?” Lucas reacted incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  “S
hit! That must be so painful! I dislocated my shoulder once, way back in middle school. I couldn’t even tie my shoelaces because it hurt like hell. I can only imagine how painful that shoulder would be if I punched on something like a hundred or a thousand times every day.”

  “I know! Oh Honey, I don’t know what to do. Conner... he asked me to keep it a secret. He doesn’t want anyone to know. He wants the fight to push through.”

  “Stubborn little bastard of a stepbrother you’ve got there!”

  “Should I force him to have the fight postponed?” I pleaded for his counsel.

  “Postponed? Hell no!”

  “No?” Lucas’ answer shocked me.

  “No!”

  “Even if it could - literally - break him?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s so... so... so ludicrous.”

  “No. Not ludicrous, Meg. He’s a man... and a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  CONNER

  “Ready?”

  Artemis just had to ask. He has been busy knotting my tie for ten minutes and I felt how nervous he was. His breathing, his trembling hands, his jittery fingers, the number of times he swallowed some air, and the loudness of his pulse that seemingly signified how much his heart wanted to explode.

  Ready? He probably meant to ask himself that question, but realized how stupid that would’ve been, so he pretended to ask me instead.

  “Fucking hell yeah!” I answered him with a wide grin that showed all my pearls.

  “There, done,” he said as his hands finally left my tie.

  I turned to look at the mirror, there, at the backstage of the Sierra Theatre, a partly shabby movie house that was transformed into what looked like an auditorium in a matter of hours.

  I tilted my body to the left, then to the right. Grey dress shirt. Black tie. And a pair of faded denims. My hair was knotted into a short ponytail. Just the way I liked it.

  “Listen, Conner,” Artemis started to speak once more. His tone was reverent but wary. “The media... they’re all here... and they’ll be waiting for you to make a mistake.”

  “What fucking mistake are you talking about?” I tried to clarify.

  “Any mistake... using the F word being one of them. Remember, it’s been less than a week since the Donner fight. What you did that night, it’s still fresh in their minds. It’s still fresh in everyone’s minds!”

  “What? They still think of me as a homicidal maniac?”

  Artemis didn’t reply, but the way he bit his lips told me everything I needed to know.

  “I just want to get this over with,” I told him. “After this press con, it will be official. Johnny Jones will be locked into this fight, and there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to duck me.”

  “The press, they will have questions. Lots of them.”

  “So? I’ll answer them all.”

  “I bet you will,” Artemis responded with a semblance of resignation. “I have no doubt you will, Conner. The question is... will you give them the right answers?”

  He left the backstage area before I could even reply.

  Much as I hated his pusillanimous behavior, I knew that Artemis was only that paranoid because he had my best interest in mind. I may not agree with what he was saying, but I’d be stupid if I don’t even consider them.

  Will I give the right answers?

  Fuck! Whatever comes out of my mouth is the right answer! I have always been truthful... honest... too honest to a fault, even. They’d ask me why I gave Donner that kind of a beating? Shit! I’ll tell them the fucking truth: because he called me a faggot, political correctness be damned. They’d ask me if I always had these issues with controlling my anger? There was no point saying otherwise. There are like a million... no, a billion... people out there who have anger management problems. The only difference is that they’re pussies and I’m not.

  A tap on my shoulder.

  I turned around and saw the light shining on the bald head of a rather short, stocky middle-aged man. It was Danny Might.

  “Conner? Are you ready?”

  That fucking question again.

  “Yeah,” I simply muttered, albeit with a deep sigh.

  “Come then,” he beckoned. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  Waiting for me? I bet they are. All... what? Twelve or fifteen of them who travelled to this ugly and backward town just to help sell a PPV fight that was a good seven weeks away?

  A short flight of stairs connected the backroom to the main stage. A curtain separated both areas. Danny walked ahead of me. He parted the curtains and smiled, gesturing for me to go out first.

  And I did.

  And to my surprise, the entire theatre - with a seating capacity of around a thousand - was completely filled. Some were even sitting on the aisles, while more were standing at the back.

  As I entered the stage though, I didn’t hear them clap or jeer or hiss.

  I was met with silence.

  The irritating kind of silence. The kind that makes you immediately know that they’re whispering things about you. The kind that was contemptuous with its stillness and scoffing with its uncertainty.

  I tried to disregard their unexpected reaction. I proceeded to the long tables that were set up on stage. There were two of them, separated in the middle by a rather large podium. It was the typical arrangement for MMA press conferences... though none of those I’ve been to before were held in a small town at the edge of obscurity, in a theatre that was brimming with people, and an audience that were more quiet than a dead rat.

  Two tables. One was most certainly meant for me and my team. The other, for Johnny Jones and his goons. It didn’t take me long to figure out which table belonged to us. The table nearest me was still empty. Coach Mikey, Pearson and Jersey were already at the farthest side. Artemis joined them immediately. Pearson held his hand up to call my attention, asking me to come to them.

  They were my team. It was our table. But there was one person in that group who I didn’t recognize. He was sitting near the middle, just beside the podium - a spot usually reserved for the fighter or for his head trainer. He was a tall, thin man in a suit, with graying hair and a crooked smile. He looked at me, and his grin got wider.

  “Who the fuck is this?” I asked my team as I passed by the old man.

  “Errrr... that’s the mayor,” Pearson answered as he bit his lip in shame.

  “Yes, I am the mayor,” the old man corroborated. “Jarvis O’Toole at your service.” He extended his hand to shake mine.

  I just let out a loud laugh. O’Toole. His name was so apt.

  “This fucking small town in the middle of nowhere has a mayor?” A rhetorical question I mumbled as I walked towards Coach Mikey and sat by his side.

  “You’d be shocked to discover what other surprises this small town hides, Mr. McXavier,” he retorted quite ominously.

  Before I could reply, Danny Might entered the stage and proceeded straight to the podium. The audience began to murmur, louder and louder with each passing second. Soon enough, they were clapping their hands... in excitement, I presumed.

  “Yes, yes... good morning, or is it afternoon? I never can tell when it comes to noon,” Danny delivered his icebreaker. “I’m not really a morning person, and noon is still too early enough for me.”

  Some of the audience politely laughed.

  “Why noon?” a person from the crowd yelled.

  “Why noon?” Danny repeated his question. “Because we’re at the outskirts of the Nevada desert. The place where great wars in the Wild West were held. Gang feuds. Duels. Battles. Showdowns. And today, we’re going to announce the biggest showdown of them all... at high noon, when the sun is at its highest! Blood will spill in the desert, ladies and gentlemen! Blood will spill!”

  More applause followed. Danny always knew how to be ostentatious enough to win the attention and excitement of his audience.

  I started to tap my foot. I was
getting impatient. I wanted it to begin. And where the fuck was Johnny Jones? Was he going to disrespect me by arriving late to our fight’s press con?