by Ora Wilde
One down, four to go.
Two of them started running towards me with their hands clenched into fists, ready to strike.
Two-on-one. Nothing new.
One of them threw the first punch. I sidestepped and it grazed my beard. I pivoted and turned my body, striking his nape with my elbow. He flung forward. I kicked his spine and he completely fell on the pavement.
Now for the other one.
His stance told me that he wasn’t used to fighting. His fists were positioned like they were clasping the handle of a grocery cart. No. Like he was showing me his newly manicured fingernails. It was fucking funny. The anxious look on the kid’s face reinforced my observation. He probably just got dragged into this by the people he was associated with.
I kicked him on the knee and his entire body collapsed. He cried like a baby as he squirmed on the ground.
Three down.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” the other guy mumbled. Bruce Jenner slapped his chest to compel him to calm down.
“You’re fucking crazy to pick a fight with me,” I uttered with a deriding laugh. I pitied them, actually.
I’ve beaten three of them. How hard could it be to finish the remaining two, the pipsqueak included?
Then I noticed something.
Bruce Jenner... he should’ve shown a sign of nervousness. But he didn’t. Instead, he was smiling. A cocky smile. Something wasn’t right.
A loud thud.
A blow from a blunt object.
From behind me.
I fell on the ground.
Fuck!
There weren’t five of them.
There were six.
My eyes rolled towards the unknown assailant. He was hovering over me, holding a baseball bat... the damn, fucking baseball bat the first guy dropped. I was such an idiot! I should’ve kicked it away.
I tried to get up.
Then, a kick to my nape, and I fell on the concrete floor again.
“Stay down!” the voice said. It was Bruce Jenner’s.
Kicks rained on me. I should’ve covered my head, protected myself from a concussion. But I didn’t. Instead, I challenged them further.
“Those the best you’ve got,” I screamed. “You’re a bunch of pussies!”
The kicks got more violent, with blows from the baseball bat thrown in between.
I kept taking the hits. In MMA, I was trained to sacrifice my body to absorb the blows... for as long as I was attentive enough to wait for an opening. It should come. Every time an opponent strikes, there is that small window where I could sneak in a punch or a kick or a takedown attempt.
As they kept kicking me, I waited.
Then I saw it.
The guy who hit me from behind. Whenever he kicked, he jumped to add more force to his punts. An opening. If I could time it correctly, I could bring him down by pulling his other foot just as he hopped.
A couple more kicks to the head and he jumped again.
I grabbed his foot and dragged him towards me. He went down. That was my opening.
I quickly mounted him and drew my fists for a punch. I had him. He was a second away from being beaten.
Then it snapped.
My shoulder.
My fucking shoulder which was dislocated two weeks ago.
I wanted to scream in pain, but I didn’t. I shouldn’t show any signs of weakness which they could capitalize on. My mind was hellbent on pulverizing his ugly face... but my body...
My body gave up on me...
A kick to the back of my head and I was down again.
They kept kicking me for about a minute or so...
Darkness started to blacken my vision. I was losing consciousness. I didn’t know if I would survive that fight. I didn’t care. I just wanted to win. So I fluttered my arms wildly, hoping to ward off their kicks. A blow to my injured shoulder made me stop. I held it tight, biting my lip to prevent myself from groaning.
“Get up, you motherfucker!” Bruce Jenner yelled. “What’s it like to be beaten, huh? MMA fighter my ass! You’re a fucking sissy!”
And they kept kicking. More feet struck me. The other guys who I have defeated got up, it seemed, and they joined the party.
“Stop!” someone shouted from the other end of the street. A familiar voice. A man’s voice.
Oh shit...
My assailants scampered to run away. I could barely open my eyes. The blows just stopped coming and I heard their loud footsteps leaving the area.
I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn’t... at least not completely. The fuckers really did a number on me.
“Oh no... Rob... he’s badly beat,” said another voice, female’s, familiar as well.
“We gotta call Danny,” the male voice suggested.
“N-No...” I struggled to say. “I’m... I’m a-alright...”
“The hell you are!” the male voice argued. “We’re bringing you to the hospital...”
“No!” I said firmly. “Just... Just bring me... home...”
I tried my best to open my eyes... to see who they were... to verify my suspicion...
My vision was hazy... but their images were unmistakable.
Robert and Ana. Two of the members of the TV crew.
Motherfucking hell!
They were filming the entire thing!
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MEG
“Ouch... that fucking hurts!”
He actually squealed. The Conner McXavier actually squealed! I would’ve found that funny were it not for the state he was in when Robert and Ana brought him home. Bloodied and bruised, he could hardly stand on his own two feet.
I waited for him to come home. I wanted to talk to him. About what happened... or what almost happened. About us. About how to end things before they could even begin.
I guessed that had to wait.
At that moment, I just wanted him to get better.
I wanted to patch him up at the living room but he requested for someplace else where our folks won’t be able to catch him. He didn’t want them to see him in that shape. He didn’t want them to worry.
No, that wasn’t it. That’s not in his character.
Maybe, he just didn’t want them to know that he had his ass kicked which, from the look of things, was exactly what happened.
“When will that fucking thing end?” he asked, as I wiped his busted eyebrow with a cotton bud tipped with mercurochrome.
“When all your wounds are cleaned up,” I answered in a hush. “Now, be still and be quiet. You wouldn’t want to wake them up, right?”
“When did you become so... bossy?” he asked in jest. It was quite a relief to know that he was still in good enough shape that his sense of humor hasn’t abandoned him.
“What happened?” I asked with a worried tone, something that didn’t escape his attention.
“Ran into a bunch of guys,” he said as he looked away. “They’re drunk I think. They were looking for a fight.”
“And you gave them one?” I questioned incredulously.
“Yeah, well... I don’t back down to nobody.”
“How many were they?”
“Errr... around three?”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“It’s an answer.”
“You’re not sure how many they were?”
“Couldn’t tell. It was dark.”
“Nothing like that happens in Susanville, y’know? Did you do something to instigate the fight?”
He didn’t reply. His eyes rolled up towards the ceiling as if he was in deep thought.
“Conner?” I called his attention so that he’d remember to respond to my query.
“What?” he asked, as if he didn’t hear my question.
“Did you do something to start the fight? Did you taunt them? Call them names? Cursed them?”
He sighed.
“No... I didn’t taunt them, I didn’t call them names, I didn’t curse them...”
“Then wh
at did you do? Why did they beat you up?”
“I didn’t do a fucking thing, I swear!”
Somehow, I doubted that. He was too stubborn to admit the facts, so I just let it go. I tended to his wounds... his busted eyebrow first, then the gash on his left cheek, then his swollen lips. Blood was trickling from his sleeves so I grabbed his arm and elevated it to check what caused the bleeding.
He grimaced in extreme pain.
“Oh no... did they wreck your bum shoulder too?” I asked. I was already worried about his dislocated shoulder, and its state at that time only made me fret even more.
“Nah... I aggravated it myself when I was pulling my arm for a punch,” he answered.
“And now it’s worse?”
“Not really.”
“Don’t lie to me. You didn’t wince like that before.”
“It’s nothing, alright?”
“How’re you supposed to train? How’re you supposed to fight with a broken shoulder... which is even more broken right now?”
“I told you it’s nothing.”
“Conner,” I uttered as I looked at him straight in the eyes, “I’m worried about you. You’re so... obsessed... with this fight that you’re sacrificing your own welfare just to get it...”
“I sacrifice my welfare in every fight, darling,” he answered. That word, darling, made my body tingle and I hated myself for it. “It’s the nature of the game.”
“But not like this... not with an injury as severe as yours.”
“Well, at least my wrist has healed.”
I grabbed his hand and twisted it a little. He let out a loud groan.
“Healed, you say?” I commented rather triumphantly.
“Geez, girl... some moves you’ve got there. Ever consider an MMA career?”
“I barely wrung it. You’re still hurting.”
I helped him remove his shirt to check the bruises and wounds that were surely on his torso.
I gasped once the tee was off.
I have seen him naked before... well, half-naked... but never that close. His body was solidly built... and I do mean solidly. It was like its was sculpted from granite. Every inch seemed like it was as hard as rock. And the form... muscular but not overly so, but tight... very, very tight... nevertheless. He had a lean physique which made him look masculinely athletic. The tattoos that adorned his body, a mixture of tribal and contemporary designs, only made his appeal even more... enthralling. The most prominent of his inks was a word - no, a name - in artful letters that were embellished across his rigid chest: SAVIOR.
Whatever his monicker meant, he took it seriously.
“Are you going to stare all day?” he asked, much to my shock.
I tried my best to regain my composure as quickly as possible.
“Eh? What do you mean?” I responded with fabricated innocence.
“Are you just gonna stare or are you gonna tell me how bad they are?” he clarified, to my relief. He was pertaining to the abrasions and contusions on his body.
I didn’t even notice them.
I looked again and saw welts and discoloration all over his torso. They didn’t blend with his tattoos. His injuries were quite prominent.
“Uhm... it’s bad,” I said as I flinched.
“Nonsense. They’ll be gone by the morning.”
“No, they won’t,” I corrected him. “Let me get some ice.”
I was about to stand up when he grabbed my arm. His touch was strong... warm... comforting...
“You don’t have to,” he pleaded for me to stay.
I think he miscalculated his own strength. He pulled me back to the side of the bed where we sat with so much force that I fell on his lap. He didn’t intend that. The surprised look in his eyes told me as much.
The surprised look in my eyes revealed that I was just as equally shocked...
But it also disclosed that it was something that I didn’t exactly loathe.
Our eyes met, just like how they did almost two weeks ago when we almost kissed.
“I...” I started to say, mumbling and fumbling, though I didn’t know what to tell him.
“Hush, it’s alright,” he reassured.
But no... it wasn’t alright. Being that close to him, it wasn’t right. I had to pull away. I just had to.
But the strength of his hold, the tepidness of his touch and his eyes filled with yearning... I was left paralyzed, unable to move, very weak to resist.
His lips approached and I tried to will myself to avoid his kiss.
But I couldn’t.
I was mesmerized by the moment and enchanted by his proximity. I was so close to him. I could feel the rough solidity of his body. I could smell his distinct scent of manliness and blood, a kind of savage fragrance that declared the perils of his company and the risks posed by his affection. I could sense a kind of thirst from him... the type that was unwavering and resolute, deep and consuming.
His mouth inched closer to mine.
I could just stand up and walk away... but my feet were frozen in place.
And so, I just tipped my head slightly to the left, and the edge of his mouth touched the edge of mine.
And he whispered.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?” I asked in an equally hushed tone.
“For being me.”
Angry, brash and conceited... there was a lot about him to hate, and there was a lot about him that he could apologize for.
But I despised none of them.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I assured him, the side of my lips never leaving his.
“Yes, I do,” he insisted. “Margaret, I....”
“You?”
A long pause followed as I eagerly awaited what he had to say.
It didn’t come.
“I... I have to go,” he told me instead.
“What? Wait...”
“I really have to go,” he repeated. His lips left mine and he withdrew his body from the pseudo-embrace we found ourselves locked in. He stood up and proceeded to the door.
“Conner... I haven’t finished patching you up...” I uttered, a disguise for a plea to make him stay, a convenient excuse to satisfy what my defiant heart hungered for.
“Thanks, Meg,” he replied, without looking at me. “I’ll be okay.”
With those words, he left my room.
And I was left wondering...
And longing for his presence...
Chapter Twenty-Nine
CONNER
“You look like shit!” Coach Mikey screamed at me as I wrestled the training dummy on the mat, grappling every imaginary limb I could find and twisting them in a variety of holds.
“I don’t feel like it, though,” I assured him.
“What the fuck happened?” he asked with a tone that demanded an immediate and honest response.
“Just ran into some drunks last night,” I lied.
“Bullshit! Drunks don’t have the faculties to do that kind of a beating!”
“Well, maybe there weren’t that drunk, I wouldn’t know.”
Robert and Ana and two other people were filming our training session that morning. I looked at them from the corner of my eyes, wary that they might say something about what they witnessed the previous night. They kept their mouths shut, though Ana’s face was visibly oozing with guilt and restraint.
Training went on as usual. Coach Mikey didn’t talk about the matter any more. The film crew soon packed up a few minutes before our session finished. They had what they needed for the stupid documentary they were making.
I went to the bench where my gym bag was placed. I unzipped it and grabbed a towel. A hot shower would refresh me for the weight training I have scheduled that afternoon. Coach Mikey, Jersey and Pearson have said their goodbyes, leaving me alone in the training area. They knew that there were days when I’d put in some extra work, like a few pushups, sit-ups and crunches, and that I’d rather be alone when I’d do them. They
respected that and they left me alone.
