The Savage Gentleman

by Harlan, Christopher

  “You haven’t heard mine yet. What does it mean to cut weight?”

  “That’s not a dumb question at all, by the way. And it involves watching what I eat, but eventually I’ll be losing a lot of weight closer to the fight to get down to the weight I fight at, which is 205 pounds.”

  “What do weigh right now?”

  “240, so it’s not that much weight to lose.”

  “240! Holy crap, that’s actually a crazy amount of weight to lose. Why don’t you fight at a different weight then?”

  “Size and strength advantage. But it sucks to cut weight—it’s basically getting rid of water in your body so you shed pounds really fast, but then you gain it all back right after.”

  “That sounds not fun at all.”

  He smiles. “It sucks worse than I could explain. Be happy that you don’t know what it’s like. I’m not there yet, though, but I do need to watch my diet so I don’t balloon up and have to cut even more weight.”

  “I see, so you’ll feed me all the fattening food but you’re not going to eat any yourself. I see how it is.”

  “Trust me I’d love some carbs right now, but I know I’ll pay for it later. I read a social media post recently that said no food tastes as good as victory—I try to remind myself of that so I stay disciplined.”

  “And what about the wine? Can you drink when you’re training?”

  “Nope,” he says. “But I’ll have one sip and leave the rest to you.”

  “So, let me get this straight—I’m going to get drunk and eat all the heavy food while you eat veggies and drink water.”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  “Got it, just checking.”

  We spend the next few minutes getting to know each other even more as the pasta boils. I offer to help him set the table but he refuses and does everything for me. Brett wasn’t anything like this—none of my exes were—even before the incident. Brett never did anything like cook for me. I’m not used to a guy paying such close attention to everything that I say or taking care of things the way Lucas is doing. There’s a contradiction in him that’s making me so turned on—he’s a tough guy—someone I’ve watched on YouTube dishing out an ass whooping to other giants, yet I never feel like I’m with someone like that when I’m around him.

  “Do you like talking about it?” I ask. “Fighting, I mean.”

  “I like talking about whatever you want to ask me about.”

  “Nice answer,” I joke. “But seriously, we can talk about other things. You probably have fighting on your mind 24/7, so I don’t want to force you to talk about it.”

  “It’s true, I think about the fight game a lot—not just the actual fighting, but also my training, my career, the sport in general. Shit, I even come home and watch fights on UFC Fight Pass.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s an app where the UFC has all of their old fights and shows archived. You pay monthly, like Netflix, and you can watch all the fights you want. It’s pretty cool.”

  “And you don’t get sick of it? I think the last thing I’d want to do after training like you do all day is come home and watch guys fight in a cage.”

  He laughs. I can tell that he isn’t so into the topic, but he’s entertaining my curiosity. “Some guys are like that, but I love it so much. I can’t get enough. I’m as much of a fan as I am a fighter.”

  “Really?” I ask. “That’s interesting. I always thought. . .”

  “That people who fight have to fight because they have no other options?”

  The man’s a mind reader. Or maybe I’m just that transparent. Maybe both. I practically turn red when I hear him say it—it sounds so stereotypical and ignorant to hear, but it is what I’ve always thought. “Yeah, kinda,” I admit.

  “Don’t feel bad.” He reaches across the table and touches me on the hand. His touch is fire—electricity running through my entire body, and when he quickly pulls away I feel cold. “A lot of people think that, and it’s actually true for a lot of guys, especially old school boxers. But now it’s different—people go into MMA like they go into amateur wrestling—it’s a sport, and people of all different backgrounds take part in it. A lot of fighters actually have college degrees, small businesses, and are from backgrounds that you wouldn’t expect.”

  “Huh. I hate to say it, but that surprises me.”

  “How come?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I guess I can’t really understand why someone who could be making a lot of money in an office somewhere would willingly choose to get hit and choked out in front of crowds of people.”

  “Yeah, I get that. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Can you try? I’m curious.”

  I really am. It’s so weird because I never thought I’d be interested in something like cage fighting. I grew up with a dad who watched baseball and football. There was never a boxing match on the TV, and I had all these preconceived notions about fighters and fighting. But now that I’ve met Lucas—now that I’m listening to him—I really find every aspect of this sport really interesting.

  “Yeah, I can try.” He does that thing again where he thinks really hard. I can see that he’s trying to put the right words together so that someone like me can understand the world he lives and trains in every day.

  “Fighting is for people who like challenges, but not challenges like in a math class. It’s for people who want to figure out just who they are, and how good they are at something.” He stops, almost like he’s not happy with what he’s saying. I can see the frustration on his face. “I’m doing a shit job here.”

  “No,” I say, reaching over the table and touching his hand like he touched mine, only I leave it there and look him in the eyes. “Keep going, you’re doing fine. What kind of challenges?”

  “We all lie to ourselves in some way, right? We tell ourself a narrative about who we are and what we can do. Sometimes it’s honest but a lot of times it’s just what we tell ourselves so that we feel better about who we are. Do you know what I mean?”

  I sure do, I think. More than you know. “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, fighting is the purest no-bullshit zone that exists. Inside the octagon—or even at the gym—you can’t lie to yourself. You can’t fool yourself. Narratives don’t matter because who you are is on display right there, for you and everyone else to see.”

  “Like, how?”

  “In every single way. If you’re a coward it shows. If you didn’t put in the hard work to learn a technique or get your cardio where it needs to be, it’ll show. If you think you’re tough but you really aren’t, it’ll show.”

  “Oh, I get it now. But is it a positive thing? You make it sound like it just shows you who you’re not.”

  “Oh no,” he says. “It does that too, but it shows you who you really are, whether you want to admit it or not. And if you’re not the person you thought, then you can either quit, or get better until you actually are that person. I’m in the second category.”

  Hearing him talk like this is doing something more than just interesting me in what he does for a living. I didn’t really understand at first, but the more he talks to me—the more he looks at me with that intense glare and talks about what fighting means to him, the more attracted to him I feel. Not just attracted. The more I want him.

  I try not to let it show on my face, but it’s the parts of me he can’t see that are really feeling him—I feel a tingle between my legs, something I haven’t felt in a long time, and as I’m listening to him talk about personal challenges, I also imagine what his body would feel like on top of me.

  “That’s amazing,” I say, mostly to distract from how I’m probably looking at him. “I get it, it’s just hard to imagine actually doing that for a living.”

  “It’s hard for me, too, sometimes.” He laughs at his own joke, and it’s cute. “But my dream—what I really want to do, is make it into the UFC.”

  Even I know those three letters. The UFC is the biggest MMA organizat
ion in the world, and I had no idea that he had these kinds of ambitions—yet another thing that makes him attractive to me.

  “The UFC? That’s incredible. Do you. . . I mean. . . not sure how to ask this, but. . .”

  “Am I good enough?”

  “You really have to stop finishing my sentences—it’s freaking me out a little.”

  “Sorry, but was I right?”

  “Maybe.” I can’t help but crack a smile on that one. He really knows what I’m thinking each time.

  “Here’s what I can tell you. Remember when I just said that this sport teaches you who you really are? Well, I know that I’m good enough to compete with the guys in the UFC—but I need to prove it to a few people who really matter. That’s what my next fight is all about.”

  “Oh, I see. And that’s why that knockout was so bad?” I regret it right as I say it. I was going out of my way to avoid bringing up that sore subject again, but I just let my mouth get in front of my mind. I really didn’t mean anything by it. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “No, let’s talk about it. I’m actually glad you brought it up.” Glad? That’s the last thing I thought he’d be.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. Relax, I can see how tense you are right now. I’m not going to bite, it’s okay.”

  Biting seems like a great idea right now. Fuck, I need to stop!

  “As long as you’re okay talking about it. I didn’t exactly bring it up in the best way.”

  “No, it’s okay, I promise.” He stops and looks at me so intensely that I feel like he’s looking right into my soul. His voice is deep, and every inch of his face looks like it’s been chiseled from pure granite. “And you can ask me anything you want. I’ll always tell you the truth.”

  I just fucking melted.

  “Okay. So, tell me, how disappointed were you?”

  “That’s really hard to put into words. Imagine something you worked for for months—a singular purpose that you put all of your time, money, and effort into. Now imagine feeling great, feeling prepared, doing all of the right things, except for one small mistake that ruined everything. That’s how it felt. I disappointed myself, but even worse, I feel like I let my entire team down. It’s the worst feeling in the world.”

  “I’m so sorry. I really am. That sounds heartbreaking.”

  “That’s exactly what it was. Not just because of the loss. I do hate to lose, but I can deal with that. It’s more that I felt like I let everyone down—all the people who believed in me and put their blood, sweat and tears into making me this war machine. And on top of that, the guy who beat me got a deal with the UFC—he posted on his Twitter recently. He got a three-fight deal that should have been mine, if only I’d held my hands up higher to block that shot.”

  He exhales deeply. That’s a lot to let out on a first date, but I feel so honored that he trusted me with something that’s still obviously painful to him. “I know you’re going to make it one day. I realize I don’t know you that well yet, but you have a great attitude, and you said that you’re only one fight away, right?”

  “I don’t actually know, but I think so. If I can beat Jason, and do it in spectacular fashion, I think that I’ll impress the right people and get that deal. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed about.”

  “Then you’ll do it. I know you will.”

  I don’t know that. I don’t know it at all. But I believe in him, and more than anything else I want to take that frustrated look off of his face and never have it return.

  “Thank you. I really appreciate that. Now, can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything.”

  “Why did you come to take self-defense classes? I meant to ask you.”

  “How come?” I ask. I know it sounds defensive, and I don’t mean it to, but he threw me off guard with that question. I don’t know why, I should have expected it at some point, but I got so caught up in our discussion of him and his career that I forgot about me for a while there. Now I have to decide how to handle this.

  “I always like to know why my students take lessons,” he goes on. “It doesn’t matter to me at all, I just like to know, and you never told me. I’ve been telling you all about me, which I don’t mind, but I feel like an arrogant asshole talking about myself all night. I want to know about you too.”

  What the hell do I do here? I don’t want to lie to him—I know that, but I’m also not sure that telling him that I was almost killed by my ex is something that I want to get into right now. It’s not a simple thing—it’s a long, complicated thing that has about a million follow up questions that I’ll have to answer. I decide to go with a half truth, and hope that’s enough for now.

  “I was. . . I was attacked about a year ago. Some guy robbed me when I was coming home alone. He beat me up and I was in the hospital for a while. It was bad.”

  I look down as I tell him, but when I look back up I’m taken aback by the look he’s giving me. He looks so concerned that I almost start crying. His brow is furrowed, and he’s looking at me with gentle eyes.

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me that at the gym?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “I was in a bad space when I met you—I didn’t really want to be there. I thought the whole thing was stupid. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, you were a victim. I’m so sorry you got hurt. You said about a year ago?”

  “Yeah. I had some pretty bad injuries. It was touch and go for a while. The recovery was worse than the attack.”

  “Did they catch the guy? Tell me that motherfucker’s rotting in a prison cell right now.”

  “They caught him. He’s in prison, but he only got a few years.” I feel like shit leaving out the most important detail of this story. I tell myself it’s not so bad because I’m mostly telling him the truth, but I still feel guilty.

  “A few years? That piece of shit should rot away the rest of his miserable life in a cell.”

  He’s worked up and I don’t expect it. It frightens and excites me at the same time. His anger makes me nervous at first—a remnant from the attack—but the fact that it’s in my defense, and that he’s genuinely angry for me makes me want him even more than I did a few minutes ago.

  “I know. The courts suck sometimes.”

  “Obviously. I’d love a few minutes alone with that guy, whoever he is. I’d take care of what our criminal justice system clearly couldn’t.”

  “You don’t just have to say that to make me feel better, you know?”

  “I’m not,” he says. “I don’t do that. If I say something, I promise you that I mean it. I’d beat that man within an inch of his miserable life. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Look, I know it’s not my place to say this, but you’re doing amazing. Really fucking impressive.”

  “Really?”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re stronger than half the fighters I know. You think it’s easy coming back from something like that? It isn’t. I’ve been beaten up, and I’ve been beaten unconscious, but I signed up for that risk, and it’s something I do willingly because I love it. You got assaulted when you were just trying to walk home. That must have screwed up your head as much as it did your body.”

  You have no idea. No idea at all.

  “Yeah. It did.”

  “I guess we make a good team, then. Two people who are a little screwed up from our recent experiences—only yours is way more serious than mine.”

  “I don’t think you’re screwed up. You’ll be fine. You’ll come back stronger than before.”

  “You, too, Mila. You even more than me. I know fighting, and I know fighters, and not every fight happens in a cage. The hardest ones happen in our living rooms, under the covers when no one’s around, when we’re dying inside but have to keep a smile on our faces. You’re a fighter as much as I am—maybe even more so.”

  I can’t explain what comes over me, but something does. It’s unco
ntrollable—a wave of attraction crashes over my entire body, and I reach over and grab him by the collar of his shirt. The kiss is passionate and intense, and as we kiss we move away from the table and towards the couch. He tastes as good as he smells, and even though I’ve taken him off guard at first, he adjusts pretty damn quick. He grabs me by the hips and pulls me towards him. His grip is so strong it’s almost intimidating. His hands are huge, and when he cups my body I feel like a doll in his grip. I press into him—into those hard muscles hiding just below his shirt, and I’m suddenly aware of how wet I am, how much I want him, and how right this all feels.

  I don’t hesitate, and I don’t think about the past at all—I just act, slamming my body into his, and then. . .

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lucas

  There used to be this old myth that sex during a training camp was bad luck—it was even a line in Rocky when Mickey said, ‘. . .women weaken legs.’ The no sex thing is total bullshit, but old Mickey was a wise old man, because my normally steady legs are weak as hell right now. When Mila first started kissing me I didn’t expect it at all, but I adjusted to that surprise pretty damn quick, let me tell you!

  Now, I can tell she wants to do a lot more than just kissing. She’s rubbing her hands all over my body, ripping at the buttons on my shirt like a rabid animal, and smashing her lips against mine violently. I’m not used to a woman being so sexually aggressive, and I definitely didn’t expect it from her—but I’m fucking loving every second of this.

  I can tell that she loves to kiss because she does it with uncontrolled passion. Her lips are warm, comforting, and she knows just how to use them. My cock is so hard that I don’t know what to do with myself. She wants to make out, but all I can think of is fucking her uncontrollably. This kissing is only going to last so long. I wait a few more seconds, and in that time, she pushes her tongue into my mouth, making me even harder. It’s not just my cock—it’s my entire body, from my hair on the back of my neck down to my toes—all of it is turned on—all of it wants her. I’ve had enough.

  I pull back and separate us, but only our mouths. I keep control over her body and start to undress her. I pull her shirt up, then her skirt down. Now she’s standing in front of me in her bra and panties, her hair a total sexy mess, her cheeks red and flushed from how turned on she is. It’s not just her face or her hot body standing in front of me that’s driving me nuts, it’s the crazy look in her eyes. She’s looking at me like she hasn’t eaten in a week and I’m a T-bone steak—like she wants to devour me—and that’s exactly what I’m going to to let her do.