A Savage Redemption (A Series of Savage Gentleman Book 3) Read online

  Then I hear Matt’s voice. “What the hell was that?!”

  I’m still turtled up—my hands covering my face as if I’m expecting a barrage of punches to be reigning down, only they’re not coming. This is just sparring, I tell myself, just sparring. I’m safe.

  “Hey man, you good?”

  Lucas didn’t even hit me that hard. It wasn’t brute force that sent me down to the canvas, it was something I haven’t felt in a very long time.

  Matt rushes into the ring as Lucas hangs over me. I finally take my arms away from my face and look up at them. They look down at me and I can see the concern in their faces. I’m concerned also.

  “What happened? Did Lucas...”

  “I barely touched him, coach, I swear.”

  “He’s right,” I admit, sitting up. “He didn’t hit me hard.”

  Matt looks puzzled. “So what happened? You went down like you took a clean right hook from Mike Tyson. What gives?”

  I stand up and dust myself off. The whole gym is looking over at us and I feel embarrassed. “I’m not sure. I think my knee buckled and I just covered up instinctually. It was weird.”

  “Shit,” Lucas says. “You hurt again? I swear you can’t catch a break.”

  “No, no, it feels fine now. Freak thing. Look.” I move around trying to cover up the lie that I just told to my best friend and head trainer. “It’s good now, I must have just stepped weird onto my back foot. I felt his glove on me and just went down. I’m cool, don’t worry. No injuries.”

  “Cool, man, I’m so glad.”

  Lucas and I tap gloves and the sparring session is over before it really began. Matt looks skeptical of what I just said, but he’s not going to contradict me without any evidence, so we just walk away from each other, letting my uncomfortable lie hang in the air.

  I get showered and changed. In the locker room, I’m alone and my mind is racing, trying to understand what the hell just happened in that ring. I text Harper.

  Me: Meet me for a drink later?

  Harper: I’m no coach, but pretty sure you shouldn’t be drinking.

  Me: I’ll have water. You can drink. Just meet me.

  Harper: How about eight?

  Me: Perfect. I’ll text you the address.

  I feel better that I’m going to see Harper, but that’s the second lie I’ve told in the last hour. My knee didn’t buckle in that ring, and there’s no fucking way I’m only having water later.

  6

  Harper

  I’m almost at the bar.

  I’m probably being paranoid, but I didn’t like the tone of Damien’s texts before—they had the distinct sound of ‘we need to talk’, and my insecurities come to the forefront thinking that he’s calling me here to break up with me.

  I get myself ready for the ambush and text him that I’m here, just to make it less awkward. He writes back immediately, like he’s been sitting with his phone in front of him.

  Damien: Thank God. I really need you.

  I read that one two times. He needs me? That sounds less breakup-ish than his last one. I take a deep breath and roll my eyes at my own femaleness. Stop being insecure, I tell myself, it’s probably just some fight stuff he wants to talk about.

  Inside, it’s crowded for a weekday. I scan the room until I see Damien sitting at the bar in his bright yellow Mohammad Ali Roots of Fight shirt. Damn he looks good in that shirt. It’s tight, but not in a douchey way—it frames that ridiculous body of his, and I love that I’m the only person in the room who knows that the guy in the yellow shirt could kick everyone’s ass in here.

  “So, I guess it was your turn to scare the shit out of me. Payback, I assume.”

  “Payback? What are you talking about?”

  “For the thing with Lucas,” I say, clearly seeing that he has no idea what I’m talking about. He looks lost. “Never mind. You okay?”

  “Been better. Sorry if I scared you.”

  “No, don’t apologize. I just want to make sure that you’re okay.”

  “I thought I was, but something happened today in training.”

  That doesn’t sound good. “I’m guessing you didn’t learn a cool new move that no other fighter knows. Not that kind of something?”

  “I wish. That’s not quite how my afternoon went.”

  “So what then? Spill it.”

  “I will. But first. . .” He calls the bartender over and orders a shot of whiskey.

  “Ummm. . . I know it’s clear and all, but that’s not actually water.”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  He takes that whiskey down as if it was water. “Shit, you really did have a bad afternoon. Are you going to tell me now?”

  I’m worried that I’m sounding like the nagging girlfriend—giving him side eye for having a shot and prodding him to tell me what’s wrong, but, then again, he’s the one who texted me.

  “I got knocked down when I was sparring with Lucas.”

  “Okay?” I say, not sure what to make of that. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Pretty bad, yeah.”

  “Do you feel like you’re not ready to be back yet? Did he catch you?”

  “He caught me, but not with anything special—it was a mediocre jab that I saw coming but didn’t move fast enough to avoid.”

  “And that knocked you down?” I don’t mean to sound so surprised, but I kind of am. “Did he just place it perfectly?”

  “Nope. I turned my head slightly and it bounced off my chin.”

  “Alright. So you’re gonna have to throw me a bone here, then. Why did you go down?”

  He doesn’t answer me, which scares me. Usually, when we have a banter going, he can keep up with me. But he seems like he’s somewhere else. He’s not even making much eye contact and I’m starting to worry a little.

  He snickers. “I went down because I felt something I haven’t felt since I was a little kid.”

  Captain Cryptic strikes again. “What did you feel?” I ask.

  “Fear. I felt afraid, and it literally took me off my feet.”

  “Afraid?” I ask. “Afraid of what? Of Lucas?”

  That time I get a real laugh. “Hell no, not Lucas. It wasn’t about him, per say. It could have been anyone in there with me and I think I would have reacted the same.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ve been having some. . . issues since I left the hospital. I didn’t think much of them, like they weren’t that big of a deal – but after today, maybe they are a big deal. I haven’t mentioned them to anyone because I didn’t want to sound crazy.”

  “You clearly don’t know my family, Damien. There’s nothing you could say that would make me think that you’re crazy. Just tell me what’s going on.” I scoot closer to him and take his hand. I don’t know if he wants it or not right now but I’m not letting him go.

  “I’ve been getting really bad anxiety. Like, bad-bad. It comes out of nowhere and it’s crippling. I’ve only heard about things like this in movies and TV shows. It made me feel something I’m not used to feeling anymore—afraid and insecure.”

  It’s kind of shocking to hear him say all of this, not because I don’t get anxiety, just because he’s always been so stoic and tough around me. I’ve never seen him. . . not confident in himself.

  “That’s terrible. Like, how often? And why didn’t you tell me before this?”

  “It sounds dumb, but I was afraid of admitting that I was afraid. But it’s not regular fear. I’m not scared of anything—it’s like my brain has this switch that I can’t control, and, once it’s switched on, I just get this terrible feeling like something really bad is about to happen, then I freeze.”

  “I think I need a drink. Hold on.” I keep my hand on his, and with my other I flag the bartender back our way. I order my own shot—tequila—and down it pretty quick.

  “I’m making you drink, huh?”

  “No one can make anyone drink, don’t worry. I was going to have this anyhow. N
ow listen, you just described anxiety with what sounds like a little bit of a panic attack. You never had this before?”

  “Never in my life.”

  This sounds familiar. It sounds way too familiar. “You’re not going to like what I have to say, but I have some experience with all this. You know that already.”

  “You mean with your brother?”

  “Uh-huh. More experience than I’d like to have.”

  My brother, Michael, is an ex fighter who was known for his exciting, fan friendly style in the octagon. Unfortunately, ‘fan friendly style’ is a euphemism for the human version of Rock-em-Sock-em Robots. Michael took a lot of blows to the head—more than anyone should, and, now that he’s not actively fighting anymore, I’ve been dealing with the fallout symptoms of the brain trauma he’s been suffering from.

  “His is from getting hit, though, right? I’ve barely been touched my entire career, it can’t be the same.”

  “I don’t think you’re suffering from CTE, Damien. It’s too soon in your career, you don’t get hit much, and those symptoms don’t come on suddenly like that. I think it’s something else.”

  “What?”

  I hate playing the armchair psychologist girlfriend, but I don’t know what else to do. “It might be because of what happened to you. The attack in Vegas.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like PTSD, sort of.”

  “PTSD? Isn’t that a thing that soldiers get?”

  “Among others, yeah. But, did you know, that outside of soldiers, abused women are the number one sufferers of PTSD?”

  “I think you just compared me to a battered wife.”

  He’s getting defensive. I think maybe I need to approach this a different way. “I didn’t. I’m comparing anyone who gets attacked. Solider, spouse, fighter—it doesn’t matter, everyone’s brain processes the same way.”

  He thinks about what I said for a second. “Maybe. What do I do then?”

  “Most people see someone.”

  “Like a shrink?” He laughs. “I’m not Tony Soprano. I’m not the pour-my-feelings-out-to-a-stranger type. I express myself with my fists.”

  “You sound like a caveman right now. And you won’t be expressing yourself in the cage if you’re getting random panic attacks while people are swinging at you. You need to address this before it gets the better of you.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “I need to think it over. Hold on, okay, I need to run to the bathroom. How about we get Chinese or something after this and go back to my place?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Alright, I’ll be right back.”

  He gets up and goes to the bathroom and I’m really worried about him—another man in my life—another fighter—with issues that hit a little too close to home. I want to help him, but he needs to acknowledge what the problem is or he’ll never get the help he needs.

  I check my phone to see if I missed any messages, and that’s when I get a really strong whiff of bad liquor breath, followed by a hand on my shoulder.

  7

  Damien

  All that water I drank before I got here is definitely catching up with me.

  But, I’m realizing as I stand in this bathroom, that maybe there’s something to what Harper just pointed out to me. I don’t mean to be an asshole, but the idea that I’m weak and need help is something that’s hard for a man like me to accept. When she first said it, I wanted to tell her that she was completely wrong, but now I’m noticing my anxiety rising as I stand in front of this urinal, just like I did before I got jumped.

  This is the last thing that I need right now.

  I finish my business and head back into the noisy bar to grab Harper. I think Chinese and some Netflix with my girl is about the best medicine for me right now.

  Wait, what the hell?

  I look over at the bar, and, where I was just sitting, there’s some dude with his hand on Harper’s shoulder. She’s pulling away from him, and the guy looks a little aggressive. I rush over.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the guy.

  “You’re excused, bud,” he says back. “Now kindly get the fuck out of here so I can keep talking to this girl here.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you. I told you that already.”

  I try to stay calm by taking a few deep breaths. It’s not working very well. I’m already on edge from the bathroom and this is just making it worse. I need this feeling to go away—I need this guy to go away.

  “The lady said she doesn’t want to talk to you—so I’m just going to take my girlfriend and. . .”

  I reach over and take Harper’s hand to pull her away so we can leave, and that’s when this douche puts his hands on me. At first, I don’t really believe what’s happening. I look down at my chest, where this guy’s hand is resting to block me from taking her. I must look crazy because Harper squeezes my other hand.

  “You’re not taking her anywhere. Stop cock blocking, bro.”

  “Trust me,” Harper says. “It’s not him that’s cock blocking. My boyfriend and I are leaving.”

  “I’d listen to the lady if I were you,” I warned.

  He’s misreading the situation to dangerous levels. He’s a big guy, clearly drunk and obviously douchey. Guys like this—guys who are big and don’t train—have a long history of being able to push people around with little resistance. The regular world is like that—laws of the jungle apply to almost all situations—the bigger, stronger, tougher male almost always is able to impose his will on any given situtation. Martial arts levels that playing field. Most people know that by now, but I guess this gorilla never got the memo from the early 90’s.

  “Or what?”

  I laugh. “Or nothing, dude. We’re leaving.”

  I pull lightly on Harper’s arm and she jumps off her stool. I turn my back on the big guy and start to walk out. That’s when I feel the blow. Something just hit me.

  I turn around see that the guy threw a glass at me, which hit me in the back of my neck. I feel the remnants of a drink dripping down the back of my shirt, and I feel the throb of where the glass hit.

  When I turn around and realize what just happened, I lose it. Harper realizes what’s about to happen, squeezing my hand tightly and telling me to forget it. I’m not a monster—I can ignore rudeness and anything verbal—but once you put your hands on me there’s only one way that situation is going to go, and it ends up with you in a hospital bed.

  I charge the guy. Respect for him being too brave or too stupid to think about running. He just stands there, like he’s probably done a million times when guys tried to fight him. Only this time is different, and I’m about to let him know why. He tries to swing at me, but I duck under and land a single overhand right that drops him to the ground.

  I can hear Harper yelling for me to stop, but I’m seeing red. I just keep hitting him as he turtles up on the ground. Eventually, a few bouncers pull me off and I stop.

  It’s been a while, but I’ve been in this situation before. I know what happens next. Now, all that’s left is to sit and wait for the cops.

  8

  Damien

  Something tells me this conversation is not going to go well.

  I feel like a kid in trouble.

  I walk out of my holding cell, expecting to see either Matt or Harper, and I get my formal apologies ready like an actor memorizing his lines. But, when I get to the front of the station to sign out, I see Lucas standing there, waiting to escort me out of here. He doesn’t look as judgmental as I thought he might.

  We go outside without speaking a word to each other, then we stand there on the street, staring into space, neither of us saying a word. Finally, Lucas breaks the silence. “There’s a Dunkin about two blocks from here.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, Dunkin sounds great. Let’s go.”

  “Great. We can walk off whatever the hell that smell is coming off of you.”

  “Trust me, I didn’t come here smelling like that. Ask Harper.”r />
  “I wouldn’t speak to her right now if I were you.”

  “Oh, fuck. She mad?” I should’ve seen this coming. I was too much in my own head to even think of it, but, now that I am, I’m not surprised that she’s pissed.

  “Mad is a polite way of saying what she is—at least what she was when I spoke to her after you got taken off to the slammer.”

  “Slammer?” I joke. “What are you, Al Capone?”

  “Look at you—glad to see the slammer didn’t rob you of your sense of humor. Tell me you didn’t drop the soap though.”

  “Even if I did, I’d fuck up the first guy who tried something, don’t worry.”

  “See, that’s the kind of attitude that got your freedom taken away in the first place—albeit temporarily.”

  “I need that coffee. Badly. Let’s move our feet while you lecture me, alright?”

  “You got it. And no lecture here, dude, you’re a grown man and I’m not your dad. Our trusted Master Splinter on the other hand. . .”

  “I can literally hear the words he’s going to say to me when I see him.”

  “I already heard them.”

  “Fuck, dude, you made the rounds before getting here, huh?”

  “Let’s examine that statement for a second. You got arrested last night, not too late. I was at the gym, teaching the black belt grappling class.”

  “Wait, sorry to interrupt, but I can’t believe you’re still teaching.”

  “Matt insists on it. And, to tell you the truth, I like it. I used to fight against that shit with my entire being, but I realized that teaching is fun and rewarding. Plus, it helps me sharpen my technique. But stop deflecting. Back to what I was saying.”