The Savage Gentleman

by Harlan, Christopher

  “Wait,” I say, a little nervous. “How are we going to do that?”

  “I’m going to pretend to be the fake robber or rapist. I’m going to grab you, and you’re going to try and do any one or more of the moves we just drilled to try to get out of it. Understand?”

  I nod because I don’t know what else to do, but when he says it like that, I get really uncomfortable for some reason. I feel strangely comfortable with Lucas, and I had no issue with him touching me or literally being on top of me moments ago, but I start to feel my old friend anxiety as soon as he frames it like an attack. I know it’s fake, I know it’s an exercise, but part of me feels like I’m not. . .

  “Ready? Here we go.”

  Before I have time to protest or explain myself, he positions himself behind me. I instinctively stay still, waiting for him to put his hands on me as my anxiety rises. I should stop this whole thing—walk away and explain the situation so that he understands why this isn’t a good idea, but something in me just freezes. That’s when I feel his big arms come over my shoulders and drape across my chest like he’s going to choke me. And that’s exactly when I freak the fuck out.

  I scream.

  Not a polite little yell. Not a pull away to let him know I’m not okay yell. I scream like he’s really an attacker and I’m really being attacked. The anxiety becomes a fight-or-flight response without me even realizing it, and I turn into him and push with all the strength I have in my body. Even with the adrenaline coursing through me, I can barely move Lucas an inch—he’s too big and too solid, but I try anyway because I’m insane right now.

  Everyone looks over, and once Lucas puts his hands up like he’s surrendering, my brain finally calms down. And once I’m calm, the embarrassment starts to settle in. I look around the room and everyone is watching me, and I start to get really angry at myself. Only instead of just letting myself feel that, I externalize it.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I scream.

  Lucas opens his eyes and looks at me. “Huh? What am I doing?”

  “Yes!”

  “I was trying to test how much you learned so that you could leave here and use a self-defense technique if you needed to.”

  “Well that’s a shitty way to do that—just grabbing someone like that.”

  “Mila.” I’m so crazy that I barely hear my name being called—I just turn to the feeling of a soft hand on my shoulder. “It’s just me.” Holly is standing behind me looking horrified. She takes her hand back right away, probably because she’s worried I’ll flip out again. I feel so embarrassed.

  “Look, lady. . .”

  “It’s Mila!” I yell back at Lucas. “What kind of teacher doesn’t remember his student’s name? But I guess you miss things a lot.”

  He looks at me a little more sharply—almost curiously. “What the hell does that even mean?”

  “Well you missed that blow that knocked you out in your last fight. I just watched it on YouTube.”

  “Mila!”

  I don’t need Holly’s reprimand to know that I went way too far. This man didn’t do anything wrong, and I just gave him a verbal strike right to the balls. He just looks at me. He doesn’t yell back. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t tell me to go screw myself and to never come back to his gym. He just looks at me in total silence. That’s when I turn around and storm out. No more words. No more embarrassment. I turn my body around and walk out and wait by Holly’s car. She follows me out a second later.

  “Mila, what the hell happened in there? You looked like you were having a good time.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “When he grabbed me like that it just reminded me. . .” I start crying. I can’t help it. That’s when I fall into Holly’s arms. She squeezes without needing any more of an explanation from me. It’s a best friend hug. It’s all I need right now.

  Chapter Nine

  Lucas

  What an absolute bitch! A hot bitch, but still, that doesn’t make up for it.

  I can’t believe that she brought up my last fight a few minutes after I met her! I didn’t say anything back because she’s obviously screwed up and I’m not about to bully some mentally ill chick. But, still, the balls on her to freak out on me like that. As soon as she stormed out, I grabbed Matt and pulled him into the back to have a talk about it.

  “What the absolute fuck, dude? You setting up privates at the mental institution now?”

  “I’m sorry, I had no idea. . .”

  “Wait,” I said, interrupting him. “Didn’t you say something about her last night? Like she was a metal case or something?”

  “Not quite what I said, but you’re not totally off. What I told you was that she was fragile, delicate.”

  “And is ‘fragile’ Master Splinter code for ‘crazy bitch’? ‘Cause that’s what she was out there. Did you see everyone staring? Did you hear what she said?”

  “Yes and yes. Everyone did. And I can’t get into it, so please don’t ask, but she’s been through a lot, and she’s clearly not totally over it just yet. Try to be patient and understand that.”

  “So, am I done with privates now? Can I just focus on fighting? If that’s not a prime example of why I should be training on the mats and not teaching on them I don’t know what is.”

  “First off, I’m sorry she did that. If I’d known she was going to have that reaction I wouldn’t have given her to you. Holly told me that Mila was doing better, so that’s on me. But, as to your other question, no, you’re not done. Teaching is part of this gym—you’ll always do it as long as I’m your trainer.”

  “Great,” I said sarcastically.

  “But, I will definitely pull back your schedule the closer we get to a fight. Best I can offer.”

  “Then I guess it’ll have to do.”

  That was earlier in the day. Now it’s midnight and I can’t sleep—again. I’m not angry at what happened, more shocked than anything. Lucky for her, I don’t offend easily. Having a thick skin is a big part of being a fighter. How mad could I be? She was telling the truth, but she still shocked my ass.

  But it’s not my ass I’m thinking of right now. It’s her ass.

  Mila was annoying, but there was something about her that I can’t stop thinking of. I haven’t had a girlfriend in over a year—and and I’m using that word pretty loosely. It’s hard to be a professional fighter and have time for a relationship. Unless you’re dating another fighter, most women just don’t know how much time you have to spend at the gym to get to the highest levels of this game. It’s hard to find someone who’s understanding enough to deal with you never being around.

  That’s why I’ve had a lot of women, but not a lot of legit girlfriends. Speaking of those women—when I was on my winning streak I had them lined up. It was like I was in Motley Crue back in the day. The girls would wait outside the fights to introduce themselves, or follow our team to the after party at whatever bar I was drinking at after a win—and I’m pretty sure I hit just about every single one at some point. I liked to party.

  Lying here in bed I’m not thinking of my partying days, and I’m sure as fuck not thinking about a relationship right now—I’m focused on the giant hard on I have thinking of her sweet ass pushing into my crotch as I walked her through some self-defense drills. I think about her mouth as she her straddled over me, and how hard it was to concentrate on technique when all I wanted to do was strip her clothes off, grab her by the hips and have her. . .

  Snap out of it, Lucas!

  I didn’t even realize it at first, but there are little beads of sweat gathered on my forehead. That, and my boxer briefs feel about two sizes too small for me with my cock popping against them. How did that woman have such an effect on me? I literally can’t stop thinking about her. She was annoying. She was rude. She was. . . fucking hot.

  I don’t know what she got out of the whole thing, and why she stormed off like that, but I kind of hope that she comes back another time. Who am I kidding? Who’
s ever stormed out of the gym then come back again? No one.

  Oh well, at least I’ll always have the memory of today, and a little something to dream about once I finally get to sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Mila

  The Next Day

  I feel awful.

  I was a real bitch to that instructor Lucas. He was just trying to do his job—he didn’t know about. . . the incident. I wish he did know, because, maybe if he did, he wouldn’t have been so aggressive about me trying things, and I wouldn’t have flipped out or stormed off. But I liked him, despite the fact that he was a prick. I don’t know what it was—maybe his self-assurance, or his knowledge, but he had an energy that really drew me in, even though the other part of my brain was an anxious mess.

  I want to go back and take more lessons.

  And it’s not just to learn self defense.

  I hate to admit this to myself—but I found Lucas really attractive. I hated his cockiness, but it also intrigued me. The confidence that came off of him was like no one I’ve ever seen before. I guess fighters have that, especially ones as big and as good as Lucas must be. He showed me some amazing moves like it was nothing, and then he had the confidence to let me do them on him.

  I liked having my hands on him. I like him having his hands on me even more. . .until I freaked out. God! I need to get over this anxiety shit!

  But it wasn’t just the martial arts that made me feel good yesterday. My body hasn’t felt anything like I experienced yesterday with a guy in a very long time. I wasn’t even sure if I was capable of that feeling any more since everything happened with Brett, but it was unmistakable. Lucas was kind of a jerk, but part of me liked that. Plus, he’s tall, muscular, and can beat the shit out of almost anyone.

  When he got on top of me like that, part of me forgot we were in a gym, and I just wanted to open up his gi so that I could feel the pecs that were peaking out from underneath the open lapels of his gi. I don’t know what’s come over me—I went from fantasy to crazy freak out in no time at all. And on top of that, I was really rude to him. I should never have said what I said about him losing his last fight. That was a really low blow, and I feel like an asshole for going there.

  It’s not the same thing at all, but I know what it’s like to get beaten unconscious and to wake up not knowing what the hell happened. I know what that did to my body and mind, and I understand he signed up for that possibility, but it was still something that I shouldn’t have said to him.

  I want to make it right. He was trying to help me and I lashed out.

  As soon as I get my ass out of bed and shower, I’m heading back there to apologize.

  I hope he accepts.

  Even if he doesn’t, I can’t wait to look at him again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucas

  I have my work cut out for me with this kid.

  Our first actual lesson has nothing to do with fighting—and it had everything to do with body language. “You need to stand up straight,” I tell him. “You slouch. You also have bad eye contact. I want you to practice looking people in the eye when they’re talking to you. That’s your homework.”

  “I get homework?”

  “You do. That’s it. Shoulders back, better eye contact. You’d be surprised what a difference that will make.”

  “What do those things matter?”

  “You ever watch those Nature Channel documentaries—like the ones in Africa that follow a pride of lions or something?”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “Let me ask you a question. When those lions hunt, do you ever see them going after other lions?”

  “No,” he says, laughing a little. “Of course not.”

  “And when they hunt gazelles, or whatever, do they ever go after the biggest, strongest male in the group?”

  “No.”

  “Right. Who do they go after?”

  “The weak ones. Usually the babies or the sick ones.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And why do you think that is?”

  “Because it’s easier. Less work and they get to eat.”

  “Now do you get my point about your posture and eye contact?”

  “So, you’re saying I’m like a sick baby gazelle? Easy prey.”

  “Easy prey. Don’t make yourself easy. Make yourself look like a challenge—a fight that isn’t worth the effort. That alone will solve 95% of your issues. The other five is what we’ll work on here. But I don’t ever want to see you looking down at your shoes when you’re talking again, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Good.

  He’s like a soft ball of putty, and I need him to toughen up. I don’t know too many ways that are better than a run. He looks at me like I’m crazy when I tell him.

  “I don’t really run,” he tells me.

  “Now you do. Let’s go.”

  A mile later, he’s about ready to collapse. He’s an overweight kid. Right or wrong, that’s another box to check for bullies. Losing weight will be part of our journey together. After we finish our run a little bit from the gym, he falls over and looks like he’s about to puke.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, Professor. I’ve never really run before.”

  I laugh. He looks like he’s about to die. “Yeah, I can tell. You’ll be okay. I had no stamina when I started training, either.”

  “You’re a fighter, right? Like a real one?”

  “I’d like to think so, yeah. Like a real one. But I used to be just like you. I used to get fucked with at school all the time. Fucked me up.” I probably shouldn’t be saying ‘fuck’ so much around a kid—I should be a good influence and all that, but I can’t help myself. I have a terrible mouth.

  “You? Really? I’d never think. . .”

  “That someone could bully me? Think again, kid. I was a late bloomer—short through most of school, scrawny, and I looked down a lot, just like you. I was the sick baby gazelle, and there were a lot of lions. There are always a lot of lions.”

  “I didn’t realize. It sounds messed up, but if you turned out this way then maybe there’s some hope for me.”

  I feel bad for the kid. I can tell he’s nice and really smart. He just happens to be forced to share space with pricks who make him less than he could be. It’s not okay, and I’m gonna do everything I can to help lift him up. “There’s always hope. Never forget that. And I was thinking, even though you’re not going to fight-fight, like me, it might be cool if you had a fighter nickname. Everyone at the gym has one, and since you’re taking private lessons with me, you shouldn’t be any different.”

  “What do you mean?” he questions.

  “Like a nickname. In between your first and last. You ever watch MMA or boxing?”

  “No. I don’t like fighting.”

  “Alright,” I say, realizing that I asked a stupid question. I can’t even imagine this kid sitting in front of a TV watching two guys fight in a cage. “Well have you ever heard of Mike Tyson?”

  “Yeah, of course, that dude from ‘The Hangover’, right?”

  Oh. Sweet. Jesus. “My man, did you just refer to arguably the greatest heavyweight boxing champion of all time as ‘that dude from The Hangover?’”

  “That’s where I know him from. I remember he punched Zach Galifianakis, right? That makes sense now!”

  “Holy shit, kid, are you kidding?”

  “Ummm... sir... I mean Professor. . . I don’t think you’re supposed to curse at me.”

  “Well I’m sorry, kid but it’s a sin to think that Iron Mike Tyson is just ‘that guy who punched Zach Galifianakis’ in some movie. I mean, yeah, he is that guy, but the whole reason he was even put in the movie was because he’s one of the most devastating hitters of all time.”

  “Oh, wow. Didn’t realize.”

  I roll my eyes at the kid and exhale dramatically. “Boy, you’ve got a lot to learn about combat sports. But we can get into that another day. Your parents didn’t
send you to me for a history lesson. But you still need a cool name. My point with the whole Tyson thing is that his nickname was “Iron.” Evander “Real Deal” Holyfield, “The Notorious” Conor McGregor.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know him. The Irish guy.”

  “Right. The Irish guy.”

  “What’s your nickname?” he asks.

  “The Ghost. I’m Lucas ‘The Ghost’ Esparza.”

  “Did you choose it?”

  “You never choose your own nickname, kid. It has to be given to you. Matt, the gym owner, gave me mine. He’s also my head trainer.”

  “Why ‘ghost’?”

  “Because I’ve always had really good footwork. When guys go to hit me, I’m usually not there. I’m invisible in there, like a ghost.”

  “Oh, I see, that’s really cool. But why do I need one?”

  “Are you arguing with your professor?”

  “No,” he says, looking down. He can’t tell that I’m kidding around with him so I back off the stern routine. I joke around a lot and Matt’s a little fragile. Don’t want to scare him—that’s not the point of all this.

  “I’m joking, Matt, relax. Remember what I told you about breathing?”

  “You mean to do it?” he smiles. It’s nice to see a sense of humor underneath all that fear. He’s probably a great kid who’s learned how to hide himself after he started getting bullied. That’s what that shit does to you. It makes you retreat into yourself so you don’t get hurt.

  “Right,” I say, smiling back. “Always remember to breathe. Especially when you’re under stress. That’s when your body will try to not breathe, and that’s when it needs oxygen the most. Always breathe.”

  “Okay, Professor. I’ll try.”

  “Now, since you and my head trainer have the same name, we need to give you a nickname so that I can keep you two straight.”