A Savage Redemption (A Series of Savage Gentleman Book 3) Page 12

I disengage to gain my breath back. I look up at the clock—the first round is almost over. I hear the ten second clap and I decide to go for broke to steal the round. When he throws his jab, I dive under him for a double leg takedown. My head is on the outside, so, without me realizing it fast enough to get out of it, he wraps my neck and starts to squeeze as we both hit the canvas. Now I’m stuck one of the tightest guillotine chokes I’ve ever felt.

  Fuck. This is not how I go out. Not this way. Not to this guy.

  I defend as best as I can, but it’s getting so tight that I think I’m going to go out. I just keep telling myself to fight a little longer, fight a little longer, fight. . .

  The bell sounds and I feel the pressure dissipate instantly. Johnny rolls out from under me, a huge smile on his face. As I get to my knees, and then my feet, all I can think of is how close I just came to losing. I get to my corner where Matt and Lucas are waiting for me.

  “I can’t believe he caught me like that.”

  “You took a lazy shot and paid for it.” I love Matt, and he gives great advice, but I always defer to Lucas. He knows what it’s like in there, so his advice always means a little more to me. “It happens. Fuck it. Don’t do it again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t fucking call me sir. Now go kick this guy’s ass.”

  That’s the kind of advice I need. Short and sweet.

  The bell signals round two. I need to be more careful—not put myself in dangerous situations like that. Johnny’s an asshole, but he’s a really good fighter. He’s champion for a reason after all. I know I can beat him, I just need to be careful.

  He comes out more confident than round one, being that he almost finished me at the end of the opening round. I know he’s going to be looking for that submission again since he thinks he can tap me with it. I decide there’s not going to be any takedown attempts this round on my part. Unless I’m on top, I’m going to try to keep this a kickboxing match because I know I’m better than him on the feet.

  I land a few stiff jabs that knock his head back. I decide to stay behind that jab, flicking out my left arm stiff and fast, breaking through his guard and slowly busting up his nose. The more I land, the more I realize something about Johnny—he doesn’t like getting hit. That may sound weird, but some guys are more okay with it than others. Even watching footage of Johnny’s old fights, we noticed that he shapes his whole game around not getting hit. When he avoids strikes, and can implement his game, is when he’s the most dangerous. The few times he’s struggled has been when guys put it on him, so that’s exactly what I plan on doing.

  I keep landing. He goes defensive and keeps his boxing guard up high, and that’s when I throw a hard kick to his body. It lands hard, and I can feel my shin digging underneath his rib cage. He’s hiding it well, but I know he felt that one. It gives me encouragement but I get greedy and go for it again. This time he catches it and charges forward to take me down.

  I’m on my back, trying to get full guard so I can defend myself from the ground-and-pound that I know he’s going to try as soon as he establishes position. I need to get back up to my feet. He lands a few punches before I scramble back to my feet. I hear Matt yell. “Good job, Damien. Keep it standing. Make it a fight.”

  Make it a fight. That’s the game plan. Get in his face, put your jab on him, and when he gets uncomfortable hit him with something he’s not expecting. That’s still what I need to do, I just have to make sure I don’t get too predictable.

  We dance around the rest of the round. Me jabbing, and him trying to take me down every time I throw something bigger than a jab. The bell rings with no clear winner, and I head back to my corner for the second time.

  “Alright. Better, but that was a hard one to score.”

  Matt’s right. That was one of those weird rounds where it’s impossible to tell how the judges saw it. Did they score my jabs higher than his takedown? Who knows? All I know is that if I have three more rounds like that he’s going to leave here with a decision win and the belt still around his waist. I can’t let that happen.

  Lucas jumps in. “Look man, you can’t keep dancing with him. He’s the champion, and he’s going to get the nod unless you finish. We didn’t come here to scrape out a decision, we came to fucking win. Right now, it’s possible you’re down two rounds already, so go out there and blast this kid. Put your hands on him!”

  I’m not used to Lucas yelling, but he’s right. It’s time to become the savage I was born to be. I stand up before the bell rings and take a deep breath. I close my eyes for a second, and when I open them I’m not Damien anymore—I’m The Sinner, and The Sinner only sees bodies that need disposal.

  The bell rings a few seconds later. I charge to the center, keeping a low stance so he can’t take me down, and immediately start putting combinations in his face. I land a double left jab followed by a right cross and a low leg kick. I repeat it a second time, landing most of the blows in each exchange. He backs up and I follow him to the cage. He starts to shell up, keeping his guard high around his head, so I decide to go to the body.

  Sometimes in a fight, I told Harper the other evening, you can see opportunity that no one else sees. It’s a strange thing—like a real-life video game where you can see your opponent’s weakness, and then all you have to do is act in that split second to exploit it.

  I see that opportunity right now, and without hesitation I load up on a right hook to the body and throw with everything I have. It lands right where I want it, and I hear the wind fly out of him. It hits so hard that he instinctively drops his hands to his body. So I go to the head.

  If this were a game of chess, Johnny would be in check, desperately moving his king around the board to try and avoid the inevitable. It’s all in vain. I know this is my chance to win, so I dig deep into the recesses of my energy and let my hands fly. I hit him high, low, in the arms, in the face, in the body, kicks to the legs. I hit him so many times from so many angles that he can’t possibly defend all of my shots, and his brain is getting overwhelmed trying to keep up with my barrage of strikes.

  Johnny makes a valiant effort but eventually a right uppercut of mine gets through. I land clean, and I swear it looks like I’ve knocked his head right off his body—like some kind of Mortal Combat fatality.

  The crowd erupts as he hits the canvas. I don’t follow him down and I don’t try for more strikes. I know that I got him, and I do the walk-off as the ref throws his body between me and Johnny.

  I did it.

  I won.

  I’m the welterweight champion of New York Cage Fighting Championships.

  Epilogue

  Damien—A Week After the Fight

  My body still hurts.

  Badly.

  But I can’t complain. What I do have is greater than what I don’t have, and that’s the first time I can say that. I have my health, amazing friends and a great coach, a championship belt, and a woman I love.

  About that last part. . .

  Harper arranged a little get together with me, Matt, Lucas, Mila, and even Scott to come celebrate. But, before they get here, there’s something I need to do. I asked Harper to go grab some drinks at the grocery store about thirty minutes ago, and of course she looked at me sideways and asked why, and I quote, ‘my lazy ass’ wasn’t going instead. I told her my body hurt and that I needed her help. She agreed though, after a pretty thorough eye roll to boot.

  It’s all a ruse. While she’s gone, I get the ring that I bought her from my hiding place. I thought that fights made me nervous, but this is next level anxiety I’m feeling right now. It picks up when she texts me that she’s almost back.

  I leave the box in my closet and put the actual ring in my pocket. I do Scott’s little breathing exercise so that I get my heart rate down and don’t act weird. When she knocks, I open the door and help her with all the drinks she’s struggling to carry. “Wow, you did really good.”

  “I’m strong like bull.”

&n
bsp; Girl’s got a case of beer in one hand and two bags full of water bottles and soda in the other. I grab the bags from her and put them on the counter. I need to be an asshole just a little longer to pull this off.

  “Can you help me unpack?” I ask. I get the ‘are you kidding me’ expression I expected. “My body hurts.”

  “Sure,” she says, all annoyed. “No problem. You relax.”

  “Thanks.”

  I get that eye roll again, but she starts loading the fridge. While she does, I walk behind her and get the ring out. My heart is pounding. I drop to one knee and do my best to keep it together.

  “Harp?” I ask.

  “Hold on,” she says. “I’m finishing stocking your fridge.”

  “Harper,” I repeat. This time she turns around, and, when she does, the look on her face is priceless. It takes a second, but she finally realizes what’s happening, and she covers her mouth in shock.

  “Damien?”

  “Harper. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. You’ve been with me through thick and thin, and I can’t imagine my life without you. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  “Yes! Of course I will! Now get up!”

  She pulls me to my feet and we kiss. I’ve never been so happy in my entire life.

  Everything is right with the world in this moment.

  I beat Johnny Altino and am now the new Welterweight Champion. The woman of my dreams just said she’ll spend the rest of her life with me. The rest of the important people in my life should be here any minute. My life is complete.

  I keep my arms wrapped around my fiancé – I love the sound of that – and lock my lips with hers again. We’re interrupted a few moments later by a knock on my door. The rest of the gang is here.

  I open the door and see the smiling faces of Matt, Lucas, and Mila – Scott had said he’d be a little late. They come in and immediately congratulate me when I tell them Harper said yes. Mila gushes over the ring I picked out for Harper, even though she was there when I bought it.

  “Congratulations, brother. Welcome to the club,” Lucas says, slapping my shoulder.

  “Thanks man. I know what you meant about asking Mila to marry you being more nerve-wracking than being locked in the cage with a trained killer. That shit was intense,” I admit.

  “I told you. The cage is nothing compared to that moment.” He smiles as he looks over at Mila and Harper still huddled together talking about their rings, and probably starting to wedding plan already.

  Matt wraps his arm around my shoulders and says, “You saw what you wanted, Damien. And you worked hard to get it. Both in the ring and with Harper. I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

  “Master Splinter, that really means a lot.”

  “Will we ever drop the Master Splinter name?”

  “Never,” Lucas and I say in unison.

  Matt rolls his eyes as his phone starts to ring in his pocket. Without looking at his phone, he excuses himself to the hallway to take the call. Lucas and I join our women while we await Matt’s return.

  “You did a great job with Harper’s ring, Damien. I’m impressed,” Mila says with a wink that Harper doesn’t catch.

  “He pays attention to details,” Harper boasts, linking her arm through mine and resting her head on my shoulder.

  “I try,” I joke, kissing her hairline.

  Just then, Matt rejoins us and he has another of his signature blank looks on his face. He just stares for a minute, not saying anything. We’re all curious about the call he got but he remains mute. Lucas is the first to prod.

  “What’s with the face?”

  “Got a call.”

  “Yeah, we got that part,” Lucas says. “And?”

  My heart is thudding in my chest. After the drama from my last fight, I’m not afraid to admit that I’m worried some bullshit call is going to try to overturn my victory over Johnny.

  “Johnny crying for a rematch already?” I joke, trying to play off my anxiety.

  “No, I’m sure he won’t be itching for a rematch any time soon,” Matt says. “You may not be available to accept anyway.”

  Now I’m even more confused.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What does that mean exactly?” I ask.

  “That call,” Matt starts.

  “Yes?” comes from the four of us waiting for Matt to just spill it already.

  Matt straightens. “Oh nothing. Just be at the gym tomorrow at 10AM sharp.”

  His sudden change of topic throws me for a loop. Everyone looks confused.

  “Well, I planned on coming in in the afternoon. Any reason I need to be there at ten?”

  “I just figured you’d want to be there with me when I return the call to the UFC,” he deadpans, cracking open a drink. He looks back at me as a smile slowly makes its way onto his face.

  “YES!!” Lucas yells, thrusting his fist into the air.

  “Oh, babe,” Harper cries as she throws her arms around my neck.

  “Way to go, Damien,” Mila adds, clapping.

  It takes a second for Matt’s words to register in my brain. Slowly, a huge smile breaks out on my face. I wrap my arms around Harper and spin us around. My lips lock with hers and my heart races once again.

  I look back over at Matt. “I’ll be there for that call. You better believe it.”

  I can’t believe it. It’s really happening. I made it.

  Now, it’s time to take over the fight game.

  If you want to catch up with your Savagery, make sure you check out “The Savage Gentleman” and “The Savage Sinner”, and enjoy these free sample chapters.

  The Savage Gentleman (A Series of Savage Gentleman

  Book 1)

  My name is Lucas “The Ghost” Esparza.

  I’m the best MMA fighter in the world that you’ve never heard of, but if I have my way, I’ll be a household name soon enough. My life’s been nothing but hard training, crazy partying, and fast women, and that’s just how I liked it. No man had ever gotten the better of me inside the cage, and no woman had ever been able to slow down my lifestyle outside of it.

  And then it all came crashing down.

  When I tasted defeat for the first time in the biggest fight of my life, I was a broken man—my pride destroyed and my dreams of greatness deferred.

  That’s when Mila walked into my gym.

  When my trainer told me I had to give her self defense lessons because she was a ‘special case’, I had no idea what he meant. All I knew was that she had a body to die for, and a face that made me forget my own name. I’d been with my share of women, but she was easily the sexiest I’d ever laid eyes on.

  There was only one problem—we hated each other with a passion!

  I thought she was whiny with a bad attitude. She thought I was full of myself. But then something happened that changed everything between us. She gave me the confidence to pursue my dreams once again—to be a champion, to make it into the UFC, and to be the savage gentleman that I was born to be.

  Damien

  Lucas

  I’m a bad motherfucker.

  The sooner we get that fact out there, the better.

  But let the stereotypes go. I don’t come from the mean streets of. . . wherever—I grew up a suburban boy—I went to a Catholic school that cost my parents six thousand dollars a year, and I played baseball on Saturday afternoons with my friends. I finished high school with a decent GPA, and then got my undergrad degree at the local university. I’m normal kid from a middle-class home—the guy next door—except for one thing.

  I fuck people up inside a cage for a living.

  I guess saying that I’m normal is a little misleading. Better to say that I grew up normal, but I have a different mindset than most people. I didn’t start fighting because I had no other options in life, or because I was trying to work my way out of poverty. I fight for two reasons—one, I have a bad temper that demands satisfaction, and two, I have a burning desire to prove that I’m the best there
is at this game.

  Now, before we go any further, let me ask you a few questions—when was the last time you got punched in the face? How about the last time you got leg kicked so hard your body fell over? Or maybe you can tell me all about the last time you got choked out and had to tap your hands on another person’s body to make them stop before you passed out from a lack of blood to the brain?

  I’m guessing that for most of you the answer to all these questions is a resounding ‘never’. But for me, those question don’t even apply. The right question to ask someone like me isn’t how many times I’ve gotten hit, its how many times did the other guy miss, and how many times did I hit him back?

  And the answer to both—a fucking lot.

  I’m a professional fighter—Lucas “The Ghost” Esparza—maybe you’ve seen some of my fights on YouTube. Probably you haven’t. I’m not a famous fighter just yet, but if I have my way tonight, I won’t ever have to introduce myself to you again. You know Conor McGregor? Ronda Rousey? Jon Jones? Of course you do, everyone does.

  They’re crossover successes—fighters with multiple world championships, TV deals, endorsements, and more money than they could spend in a lifetime. One day I’ll be a household name like they are, but for right now I’m just a hungry kid working his way up the ladder of the local New York amateur circuit, trying to get himself into the show of shows—the Ultimate Fighting Championships—which you probably know better as the UFC.

  I might be giving you the wrong impression. I’m not a violent man, per say, but I do have violence in me. Who knows where that comes from. That’s one of the many stereotypes that exist about men like me: that we’re sociopaths, that we like to hurt people, that we come from abusive homes where we were taught how to be aggressive. Bullshit. Just plain bullshit. But I don’t blame people for thinking that. A lot of it comes from where the sport started.

  MMA was banned in most states when it first appeared on people’s radar in the early 1990’s. Back then there were no rules. You could literally stomp on a guy’s face while he was on the ground, elbow someone to the back of the head, and do almost anything else, except eye gouging and biting. It was a circus back in the day—there were no weight classes, everyone (and I mean everyone) was on steroids, and calling it a sport would be a giant misnomer. Senator John McCain famously called it ‘human cock fighting’, and helped to get it banned in most states.