The Savage Gentleman

by Harlan, Christopher

  But first, I have to train… hard.

  Today starts my journey.

  Let’s do this.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mila

  Holly comes over my apartment with a bottle of wine.

  I think it’s bad when your friends have too strong of an association of you with something like alcohol—they think that you drink day and night, and that’s only partially true. I actually haven’t touched the stuff since the last time all us girls went out together. Since my Jiu Jitsu lesson with Lucas, I haven’t even thought of taking a drink, but that’s mostly because I have’t thought about Brett. No memories of waking up in the hospital, or of having my orbital bone broken so badly that the surgeon told me it was one of the worst cases he’d seen in over twenty years of practicing medicine, and no memories of how long it took me to even get up enough courage to live on my own again.

  Six months doesn’t sound like a lot of time, and really it isn’t. It’s less than a school year. It’s about the length of a hockey season. It’s no time at all, except for when you’re trying to mentally and physically recover from almost being killed. Then, six months is a lifetime—the time it takes to develop a new version of you—one that isn’t a scared little girl who can’t do anything with her friends and family. Holly and Sophie were both things to me. You know what they say? That it’s only in the bad times that we see who our real friends are. Well I went through the worst time imaginable, and my girls were everything to me. There through thick and thin—mostly thick—and there to support me even when I needed them less and less as the months went on.

  Holly, in particular. She was my rock. And it’s her who I need to talk to right now.

  “You need to move into a building with an elevator, I swear. No more of this sixth-floor walk-up bullshit.”

  “Listen to yourself,” I joke. “You’re in the best shape of anyone I know. You ran the friggin’ Boston Marathon two years ago!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she jokes. “It’s not the same, though. There’s just something about having to walk up stairs that always sucks.”

  “And you think I’m the complex one?” I smile and she smiles back. Holly and I have known each other since we were kids. We grew up together in Queens and met at P.S. 104 when we were in the second grade. We’ve been best friends ever since. We both met Sophie the next year, in third grade, when her family moved into the neighborhood from New Jersey. Now we all live in the city, about a train stop or two away from each other.

  “You are. Hey, when are you going back?”

  “Back to?”

  “Your job,” Holly says. “The kids have to miss you.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  The kids. It was always my dream to be a teacher, and I fulfilled that dream after college. I was lucky enough to get a job right away teaching second grade at an elementary school in Brooklyn.

  “Probably not this year,” I tell her. “Actually, no ‘probably’ —I can’t go back this school year, I’m not ready.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mila. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve, I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay. I wish I had a different answer.”

  “I know.”

  I obviously had to take a leave after the assault, and despite all the other handicaps that came from what happened, one of the hardest was having to leave my job. The kids really help make my life what it is. I’m one of those teachers who truly loves what they do. I didn’t take the job for a paycheck, or because I get a few months off in the summer. I took it because I love giving the little ones the best experience they can have. But the truth is that they enrich my life as much as I try to enrich theirs.

  “On a happier note, I think we need to have a talk about our fighter friend. Spill all the tea.”

  “There’s no tea. We’re just... having a meal.”

  “You’re having a second meal! That’s two meals in two days—tell me you’re banging an MMA fighter?”

  “Jesus, Holly, no one is banging anyone. We’re just having dinner.”

  “Okay, just dinner.” I can hear the sarcasm dripping off her words. “But can I ask you one question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you shave your legs today?”

  “You’re too much.”

  “So, is that a yes?”

  “No,” I tell her. “For your information, I didn’t.”

  “Are you going to do it later?”

  She’s got me. “Maybe,” I say coyly. I can’t help but grin. She catches it right away.

  “Holy crap. You like Lucas. You’re gonna marry him and have a million little fighter babies.”

  “Shut up!”

  “I know you better than almost anyone in the world, Mila, and I haven’t seen that grin on your face in years. You like him, admit it.”

  I do like him. How much, and what that even means is something I haven’t decided for myself yet. I’m not sure how much I’m ready to get into this yet. “Of course I like him, he’s a nice guy.”

  “Nice? You’re giving me nice? Who do you think he is, the old lady in the apartment across the way who gives out whole Snickers bars to the kids on Halloween? She’s nice. You don’t describe someone as hot and dangerous as Lucas as ‘nice.’”

  Dangerous. I’ve never thought of him that way. But I guess he is. I mean, he hurts people for a living, and he gets hurt in return. I know he explained the whole violence thing to me, and it all made sense, but regardless, he’s still like a human weapon if he wants to be, and part of me is really scared by that—but also really excited.

  “What’s wrong with being nice? It’s a nice thing to say about a person, isn’t it?”

  “Listen to yourself, girl. You’ve used that word more than I have in the last year. Guys you want to fuck aren’t ‘nice’—you can describe them any other way, but not that way. So, is he just a nice martial artist you want to have a nice meal with and talk Jiu Jitsu, or is he a hot instructor you want to bang?”

  “Ummm. . . is there an in between?”

  “Between a guy you want to fuck and a guy you don’t? No, sweetie, there’s no in between for that—it’s one or the other. Yes or no. Left or right.”

  “Hmmm, interesting. If those are my only two choices. . .” I drag out the end of my sentence just to mess with her a little. I can see she’s hanging on my every word.

  “Yeah?”

  “Then I’d have to say ‘yes.’”

  “I knew it!!! Yes!!!”

  “Relax,” I tell her. “He is still someone I want to have a meal with, and saying that I just want to fuck him makes it sound so. . . shallow.”

  “Shallow is fine. Look, I know better than anyone how traumatized you were, and I’m not trying to make light of your recovery, or to push you into something you’re not ready for.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But. . .”

  “How did I know there’d be a but?”

  “Cause you’re psychic,” she jokes. “But I’m your friend, not your therapist, and that means I’m going to take a different approach than someone licensed by the state who you see once a week. They get paid to see you and, no matter how many times you go there, your doctor will never know what you’ve been through the way I have.”

  “I agree with all that. So, what’s your prescription, then?”

  “I think that you’ve come back from the kind of experience that would break most women, and despite the fact that you still get anxious, and that you haven’t thought of any guy the way you’re clearly thinking of our cage fighting friend, that it’s okay that you pursue an opportunity when it comes along. You’re a strong woman, Mila—one of the strongest I know, and you deserve to feel normal again. So, when you meet a hot guy and you want to see how far it will go, I say go for it. Why not?”

  Why not is right? Yeah, I still have some issues—more than some—but I can’t just sit in my apartment all day waiting to feel like my old self before I decide to start living again. I needed to
hear her say what I was already thinking all along—I deserve this.

  “This is why we’re sisters,” I tell her. “You tell me the truth when I need it the most.”

  “And I always will. And so will Sophie.”

  “I love you guys so much.”

  “We love you too,” she tells me. “And that’s why you need to never refer to Lucas as ‘nice’ in my presence again—I don’t care if the man reads to blind children on the weekends. In public, call him by his name—and to me, he’s Lucas the Fuck Buddy Esparza. That’s his new fight name.”

  “You’re the worst, Holly.”

  “I know,” she jokes. “That’s why you love me.”

  “It is. It really is.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lucas

  There are a few expressions in fighting that everyone who fights knows—tried and true sayings that you forget until they happen to you, and then you remember their particular wisdom. I just experienced one.

  You win, or you learn.

  Losing is for losers, in other words. Either you win a competition, or you learn what you need to do better for next time. I just got a hard reminder of that in training. George submitted me ten times. But that’s not what I’ll remember. I’ll remember that I need to work my offensive guard a little more; that I need to control my opponents posture better—I’ll remember the little things my coach always tells me that I never listen to.

  After George played with me on the mat I did some hard cardio and waited for Matt “the Second” to come by. I told Master Splinter that I wanted to keep working with the kid even though I was in camp. He still has big issues at school, and I don’t want to abandon him now. I remember what that’s like.

  When I was getting shit at school, I told only two people—my science teacher, Mr. O’Brien, and my guidance counsellor, Mr. Mackey. O’Brien was one of those teachers who wanted to be cool with his students, so he basically told me that I was exaggerating when I told him what some of the guys were saying and doing to me. He didn’t go so far as to call me a liar, but that’s exactly how he made me feel. Mackey was another story—that guy was a dick—the type of adult who should have never been put in a position to help kids with their problems. He did all but call me a pussy. Told me to stop complaining, and that maybe if I was more ‘social’, I wouldn’t have been made fun of so much. I’ll never forget how betrayed I felt, and the last thing I want to do is treat Matt’s problems like my teachers did to me.

  After waiting around for about ten minutes Matt calls me over. “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Kid cancelled. You have your afternoon free.”

  “Cancelled?” I ask. “Did he say why?”

  “Nope. Dad wouldn’t say—just that the kid had a bad experience at school or something, and that he didn’t feel like coming in.”

  Bad experience? That’s usually code for ‘other kids gave me more shit than I can handle’—I hope it wasn’t anything too serious, the kid was just starting to gain some self-confidence.

  “Shit. I hope he’s good.”

  “How’s he doing with you?”

  “Good,” I tell Matt. “We didn’t drill any techniques yet or anything—been working some self-defense fundamentals with him—like good posture, eye contact, and how he carries himself. That, and we just started some fitness stuff.”

  “That all sounds good. I’m sure he’ll be back.”

  “Yeah, I hope so.”

  Soon as I know I have some time to myself I get changed and head off to the sauna to sweat a little bit. The intense heat always makes me feel better after a hard workout, and today was pretty fucking hard. I guess I should suck it up—this is only the beginning.

  An hour later I get out of the sauna, sweating from places that I didn’t even know existed on my body. Afterwards I take a shower and check my phone before heading out of the gym. There’s nothing new from Mila, but I start to think about what’s happening later on. There are a few cool new restaurants around, but I have no idea what she likes. Plus, she probably knows about them already. I start to think, then I have an idea and decide to text it to her.

  Me: Hey. Don’t know if you’re comfortable with this, but, if you want, how about I cook something for you?

  I’m kind of nervous sending that text, and I have no idea how comfortable she’s going to be going on a first date at my place. Maybe it was stupid to even. . .

  Mila: I love the idea. Didn’t take you for a cook.

  Me: I’m full of surprises. It’s not weird to come to my place?

  Mila: How about we have sex right away to get the awkwardness out of the way. Then maybe a glass of wine.

  I read that line about five times, faster than I’ve ever read anything in my entire life. I’m deciding whether or not to ask if she’s serious when she sends the laughing face emoji. I send one back.

  Me: I’m not going to argue with you there. I kind of assumed sex, wine, then dinner. As long as we get to all three, the order doesn’t matter.

  Mila: Agreed.

  I like this girl. I never thought I’d say that after our first encounter, but she’s really cool—has a great sense of humor, willing to apologize when she was wrong, and what’s most important—hot as shit! For real, her body and face are something out of a movie, and she doesn’t seem to even be aware of it. Some girls are stuck up—completely conscious of the fact that they’re beautiful, but if Mila knows how gorgeous she is then she isn’t showing it at all. I like it. I can’t wait to see her later.

  Now I just have to figure out what the hell I’m cooking.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mila

  Legs shaved, dress on, bottle of my favorite wine ready to go. With my checklist all done, I head out to drive over to Lucas’ place. Maybe I’m crazy going over to a guy’s place when I barely know him, but I felt a connection the other day, then felt it again at lunch, that I want to explore. Part of me feels normal—like a woman who wants to be with an attractive man—and the other part of me still feels like Brett’s victim, afraid to do anything without a full-fledged panic attack ensuing. But I tell that bitch to shut up and pretend to act like the woman I want to be—I’ll fake it until I make it.

  When I get to his place I ring the bell and get suddenly nervous. Not only am I going to his place, but he’s cooking a meal for me, which is super hot. A man who can kick ass and cook is a rare thing, and yet another stereotype I had in my head gets destroyed. I’m actually excited to be out doing something instead of sitting in my apartment watching TV.

  I hear his footsteps approach and my heart starts racing, in a good way. When the door opens, I hardly recognize him. To say that the boy cleans up nicely would be the understatement of the century. He’s dressed to the nines in a nice pair of black khakis and a white button down. The shirt is tight enough to outline all the muscles of his chest perfectly, and I catch myself staring a little.

  “You look beautiful,” he says.

  If I blushed, I’d be blushing now. I do my awkward smile thing instead. “Thank you. You look great too. I’m not used to seeing you outside of in a gi.”

  “I do own other clothes. I have a closet and everything.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  He laughs and invites me in. His place is nice—small and a little messy, like I’d expect of a young guy who lives alone, but the smell of something delicious is filling the air.

  “Did you find the place okay?”

  “Uh-huh. What the hell did we do before GPS was invented?”

  “Learn how to figure things out, I think, but I barely remember that. You didn’t have to bring the wine, I have some.”

  “So, my friends think I’m a wine-o, which I’m totally not, but I am very particular as to what I like and what I don’t.”

  “Okay, red or white? Let’s start with the basics.”

  “Red, always.”

  “I have red,” he says. “But what kind?”

  “Guess my favorite
kind.”

  “Oh, I’m no good at that. You think I know all the different types of red wine?”

  “C’mon, you have to know at least one. Try.”

  “Merlot?”

  “Good job. But not my favorite.”

  “Ummm. . . Cabernet is one, right?”

  “It is, and I like a good Cab, but not what I brought with me.”

  “I’m tapping out,” he jokes. “It’ll be the first time doing that in a while, but I have no idea of any other red wines. Tell me.” I pull the bottle out from behind my back and hold it out for him to see. “What the fuck is Shiraz?”

  “It’s an Australian red. This one isn’t too dry.”

  “Oh good,” he says, being more than a little sarcastic. “I hate when wet things are too dry. That sucks.”

  “Shut up.”

  I try not to make it obvious that I’m checking out what’s on the menu. I look over his shoulder into the kitchen while he uncorks the wine and see he has a big pot ready to boil pasta, and I smell some amazing aromas coming from the oven. He catches me looking everything over as he starts pouring us each a glass.

  “Pasta primavera,” he tells me. “But I’m not having the pasta. I have some grilled chicken cut up in the fridge to go with the veggies.”

  “How come?” I ask. “It smells delicious.”

  “Thank you. And fight camp. I’m not quite cutting weight yet, but I’m still on a strict diet. Basically, no refined carbs until after the fight. I’ll have them at my celebration dinner.”

  “Can I ask a stupid question?”

  “There are no stupid questions.”