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

by Christopher Harlan

“I came for my lesson.”

  I’m confused. “Your lesson?”

  “Yeah. My Jiu Jitsu intro lesson. I called and scheduled with Matt. He said he had the perfect instructor for me—some guy named The Sinner or something like that—told me that he’s been training his butt off for a fight and teaching me might take his mind off the pressure. Something like that.”

  Ah, Master Splinter. I owe you one for this. “That sounds about right. I’m your guy.”

  “Maybe you should go clean yourself up first.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t want my first lesson from a sweaty guy like you—just eww.”

  “Are your serious right now?”

  “As serious as the deodorant that you’re going to go put on just to spare my nose. I’m that serious, Damien.”

  “But. . .”

  “Nope,” she says, interrupting me. “No buts. Just deodorant. I’m gonna go right over there and stretch. You’re going to go get un-smelly before we roll around on the floor together. Okay? Deal.”

  I don’t argue because she’s not wrong. “Alright. You get loose. I’ll be right back.”

  I run into the back—literally. I peel my rash guard and shorts off of my soaked body and then jump into the shower. Ten minutes later, I’m smelling fresh and changing into my own gi. Harper’s waiting for me on the floor and as soon as I see her, my gi pants get tight. I don’t know what it is about this girl—I’ve never been so instantly turned on by any woman in my life, but she has that power.

  I find her stretching and stand over her. “Aren’t you going to rise and greet your sensei?”

  She laughs. Even I can’t keep a straight face—especially after I made fun of Matt for using that old school expression that’s straight out of a Kung Fu movie from the 70’s. “Let’s get one thing straight, buddy.” She stands up and looks me in the eye. “You’re not my sensei—you’re my hot teacher who happened to be free for me to get my complimentary intro lesson. Nothing more. Get that straight. And I’m only standing because you’re kind of hot and I want to look at you.”

  I love this girl.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never done this before.”

  “My brother wanted me out of the way, remember? I’ve seen a lot of grappling, and I have the gist of the basic positions, but as far as actually doing it—I’m a Jiu Jitsu virgin.”

  “So that means I get to…”

  “De-flower me? Don’t get too big for your gi britches. But yeah, you do.” She smiles flirtatiously at me. “So, what do I do?”

  “Easy,” I tell her. “Get on your stomach.”

  Her eyebrow raises and each of us is thinking exactly the same thing, but we have to act professionally. Well, we have to act as professionally as two people like us are capable of acting. She gets on all fours and I literally stop realizing that anyone else is in this gym. Her ass is staring me in the face, and I want to take that gi off and have her right there on the mats—but I can’t.

  “What are you going to teach me?” she asks. She’s giving me that seductive voice she knows drives me nuts.

  “I’m going to teach you the most important lesson of Jiu Jitsu—position.”

  “You’re going to teach me about positions?”

  “Uh-huh. The dominant ones. The submissive ones. The ones where I’m behind you, and the ones where you’re on top of me—I’m going to teach you the importance of position.”

  “Well I can’t wait to learn. I’m on my hands and knees—so now what?”

  I’m going to get so hard. Shit, Damien, think of baseball or something. Fuck.

  “I’m going to get behind you. It’s called ‘getting your back taken’.”

  “Alright,” she says. “So take my back, then. What are you waiting for?”

  Challenge accepted. I climb over Harper, who’s still on all fours, putting each of my legs on the insides of her thighs and wrapping myself around her body. Once I’m on top of her, I fall to the side so that I have her back while she’s on top of me.

  “When I have your back, this is considered one of the most dominant and dangerous positions in Jiu Jitsu.”

  “Oooh. Dangerous? Like how?”

  “Because from here I have total control over your body, and you’re in danger of me taking my arms and. . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Wrapping them around your neck so that you’re gasping for air.”

  “Would it be really tight?”

  “So tight,” I tell her. “You’d have to submit to me for me to let go?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Instructor. Can you whisper that one to me one more time?”

  No more fighting it. Now I’m hard. Luckily no one can tell but Harper right now. She’s turning me on so much that I’m not sure if I’m going to have to take this gi to the dry cleaners on the way home or not. “I said, you’d have to beg me to let you go.”

  “But what if I don’t want to beg?” she asks.

  I wrap my arms around her neck. “You have no choice. You’d have to submit to me or you’d pass out. Then you’d be totally helpless to anyone who wanted to do things to you.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Bad things,” I tell her. “Unspeakable things.”

  “Well that doesn’t sound very good. I guess I’d have to beg you then. Give into you. Submit, totally to your will.”

  I’m going to cum in my pants if she doesn’t stop. I feel her pushing her ass into me and grinding against my hard cock. She’s driving me crazy.

  “And then. . .”

  “Wait. Let me up a second.”

  “Now?” I ask. “Like, right now?”

  “Uh-huh,” she repeats. “Like right this very second.”

  I let go even though I don’t want to. As soon as her body is off of mine, I sit up and rest my arms over my lap so that no one sees the raging erection I have going on right now. “Where are you going?”

  “Home. I just wanted to see something. Thanks for showing me.”

  “Wait,” I say as she grabs her bag to leave. “What did you want to see?”

  She leans down and puts her lips against my ear. “You’ll see later on.”

  Yup. The dry cleaners. I’ll definitely be stopping there on the way home.

  18

  Damien

  Two Days Later

  Fight night.

  I live for this.

  These are the nights when I stop being Damien for a few hours, and The Sinner gets to take over for a while.

  It’s nothing personal—I respect my opponent—but he’s just another body in my way. I’m on a path, and that path stops at Johnny Altino. I know that fucker is going to be here tonight, sitting in the crowd and praying that I fall on my face and get my ass kicked. He has no idea what’s coming to him. I’m going to make that beating I got in the bathroom look like a gentle kiss on the cheek. When I’m done with him, no one’s going to recognize him.

  But the biggest mistake I could make is to underestimate the opponent I have in front of me now. Without beating him, I lose my shot at Johnny, probably forever. I can’t allow that to happen. Not to mention that a loss might be game over for my career, so, as hard as it is, I have to block out thoughts of Johnny or getting into the UFC, or getting revenge for what happened to me, and I need to focus on the scary ass Brazilian walking to the cage right now.

  I hear his music fading. That means that I’m next. Lucas and Matt are with me as always, and I have a nice sweat going. My heart is still beating at a normal pace. I’m not nervous and, as of now, I’m not anxious at all. If anything, I’m excited—excited to have the opportunity to get my life and career back on track.

  Once his music stops, there’s a three second delay before mine comes on, and we start our walk to the cage. “Let’s go champ!” Lucas yells, and I take a deep breath as I walk out into the crowd. I know Harper is here in the first row for her blog, and the fact that she’s been so supportive of me means everything. I think of her,
of Lucas, of Matt, and of all the fans who’ve been hitting me up on social media to lend their support.

  I get cage side and engage in the ritual that every fighter goes through before getting in there: shorts, slides, and shirt off, a hug to each of my corner men, Vaseline on my face by the alternative ref. They check my nails, my cup and my mouthpiece. All good. Now it’s off to the races. I feel a surge of energy as I face the crowd and raise my arms. Their applause means everything to me, but they won’t matter once they shut that cage door.

  Then it’s just him and me—nothing else.

  They announce our names and we meet in the center for the last referee instructions:

  “You’ve been given your instructions in the back. Fight clean, fight fair, and follow my instructions at all times. If you want to touch gloves, do it now.”

  We touch and step back to our corners. The referee yells “Let’s go!”

  The fight is on.

  I take the center of the cage right away, like I always do. I want as much space behind me as possible just in case he tries to back me up against the cage. Matt watched all of this guy’s fights on YouTube and, apparently, he likes to get guys up against the cage and try to submit them. I’m not going to let that happen. I keep my hands up high and keep the pressure on him with a stiff jab and forward pressure. I don’t take a step back, even when he throws a few strikes at me to gauge what I’m going to do. Usually, this early in the first round of a fight is a feeling out process—fighters trying to see how their opponents will react.

  But I’m skipping that part. I’m going for the kill early—Antonio just doesn’t realize it yet.

  I work my way close to him and swing harder than I should, committing way too much on a single shot. I’m off balance when it misses, and Antonio dives right onto my hips for a double leg takedown. If I hadn’t been so over eager, I could have sprawled and stopped his takedown easily, but, since I’m already leaning so far forward, he drives in and puts me flat on my back.

  Now we have to grapple.

  He tries to pepper me with some shots from the top. Nothing crazy, a few little hammer fists with no real power behind them, and a few elbows. I block most of them, but a grazing left elbow slices me open just over my eyelid.

  I can feel the blood.

  Here’s the thing about cuts in a fight—not only do they suck, but they can end the fight by forced doctor stoppage if they’re in a bad spot—the exact spot I think I just got cut in, right over my eye. I know what’s about to happen when I see the referee standing a little too close to us on the ground. Then I hear the words that freak me out way more than being taken down and hit on the ground.

  “Stop. Stand up.”

  I know what’s happening. He’s going to call in the doctor.

  I force myself to focus on my breathing, just like Scott taught me to.

  He comes into the cage and puts his hands on my face. If the cut is seen as impacting my vision to the point where I can’t see properly, then the fight can be called in Antonio’s favor via doctor’s stoppage. I’m praying that doesn’t happen. He holds onto my face, examining my cut with a little flashlight and not saying a single word to me as he does it.

  My heart starts to race, not because I’m cut, but because this doctor holds my career in his hands right now. Breathe. His judgment on the severity of the cut can make the difference between finishing the rest of the fight or a loss on my record. This is worst case scenario right now. Breathe.

  After a few seconds, the doctor steps away from me and confers with the ref. I’m eavesdropping at this point, but I hear the doctor tell the ref what I’ve been waiting to hear. “He can go on, but keep monitoring it.”

  Yes. I’m back in the game, but we’re going to restart the fight in the same position we were just in. I lie down and Antonio gets back on me. The ref calls a start to the action and Antonio immediately starts going after my cut with short elbows, peppering that exact spot. I move to stop him. I’m not having this fight stopped by a doctor—he’s going to have to knock me out or submit me—otherwise I’ll happily bleed out right here on the canvas before giving up.

  I hear Lucas shouting instructions, and I try to listen. Lucas is a better grappler than I am, one of the best in the world, and he can see things I can’t at the moment. The only silver lining of Antonio’s takedown is that we ended up falling right by my corner. I hear Lucas yelling. “Hip escape. Frame and hip escape.”

  I frame and hip escape. It’s enough to get back to full guard—which is when I can wrap both legs around his waist and control his body more. I can’t stay on bottom and have any chance of winning. I need to either submit him from the bottom, which is a low probability thing, or get my ass back up to my feet and work him there. I throw up an arm bar just to threaten him with a submission. I know I’m not going to catch him with it, but I’m not trying to—I’m doing it so he’ll react and I can get back to my feet.

  It works.

  I scramble about as fast as my body has ever moved and get back to my feet, and that’s where I’m looking to change the momentum of this fight. I spent too much time on the bottom to win the round, but I can at least let him know in this last sixty seconds that he lost what was his only opportunity to win.

  I stick my jab in his face, again and again, occasionally following up with a hard leg kick to make him think again before trying to take me down.

  I get enough shots in to send my message before the bell rings, signaling the end of the first round. Back in my corner, Matt gets some Vaseline on the cut, but it’s bleeding pretty badly. Cuts make a bad impression. Even if you can deal with them, it looks bad when you’re wearing a blood mask for the majority of a fight—it’s an easy and cheap way to sway judge’s and doctor’s opinions on who’s actually winning the fight.

  I need to finish him. Lucas agrees.

  “You’re going to need finish him.”

  I swear Lucas and I are brothers from another mother, sometimes sharing the same brain. “Was just thinking the same thing. Knockout?” I ask.

  “Don’t chase anything,” Matt says. “See what he gives you, but as soon you see an opening—knockout or submission—take it and capitalize. Let’s not make this a twenty-five-minute war if we don’t have to. That cut’s bad enough, we don’t need a mandatory doctor suspension. Get it done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The bell rings and I have a new sense of urgency. I rush to the middle again, only this time Antonio thinks that he can catch me coming in. He tries to throw a knee up the middle but I see it coming a mile away. I shift out of the way and I see my opportunity.

  It’s a split second—nothing a normal person could ever perceive, but I see it: an opportunity to capitalize on a mistake. A left high kick is there, and I act instinctively. I throw it hard and fast, hoping that he doesn’t block it. I feel my shin connect with his face as my foot wraps around the back of his head. A split-second later, he goes stiff and falls to the canvas like he just got shot. I know I’ve knocked him out, so I don’t jump in and follow up with any punches.

  A walk off leg kick knockout is just fine with me. I’ll take it.

  The ref jumps in between us and waves the fight off. I won.

  19

  Harper

  I might not have a voice after I’m done screaming.

  I just watched my man hit a highlight reel knockout of one of the toughest guys in his division.

  I seriously can’t stop screaming. After all he’s been through, I’m so happy for Damien. I’m sitting in the first row of press around the cage and I could hear the thud when Antonio fell. Now I’m practically going deaf from all the screaming this packed house is doing.

  I watch Damien do a victory lap around the cage. His arms are up, and, even with the blood pouring down from that cut he got in the first, he’s the sexiest savage I’ve ever seen in my life.

  The doctors attend to Antonio. The way he fell I was worried for him, but now he’s sitting up and responsiv
e. It still freaks me out when guys get dropped like that—especially knowing what my brother is going through with his head trauma. But he’s okay, for now.

  The referee calls the fight for Damien, and, since his fight was the main event, he gets to do an in-ring interview just like the UFC does. I can’t wait to hear what he’s going to say, but I think I already have an idea.

  We didn’t talk about it at all before the fight, but we both knew that Johnny Altino would be here in the audience tonight. I caught a glimpse of him before, sitting like a cocky asshole with the belt around his waist like it’s an actual belt, smiling that smug smile of his. I swear that expression never leaves his face. It’s a struggle to even look at the guy.

  Damien jumps on the mic. “That was one of the hardest moments I’ve had in this cage. Nothing but respect for my opponent and his team—thanks for agreeing to fight me, and you have an open invitation to train at my gym anytime you’d like.”

  The crowd cheers, and the commentator pulls the mic back in. “Gracious words, Damien. What’s next for you now that you’ve had this come from behind win?”

  Damien takes the commentator’s wrist and pulls it towards his face. “There’s only one fight next—one man who needs a proper ass whooping like only The Sinner can dish out. Johnny Altino!” he yells. “Where you at boy? You can’t duck me any longer—it’s time for you to come and get some.”

  I look over to where Johnny was sitting with his team, and they’re holding him back from jumping over the gate. He’s yelling and waving his arms, taunting Damien to come down into the crowd. Damien grabs the mic again. “There he is—the paper champion who lets his boys do the fighting for him. They ain’t going to be able to save you when it’s you and me locked in here, bitch. Sign the contract that’s coming your way, and keep that belt shiny for me, just the way I like it.”

  He drops the mic and exists the cage. Johnny is literally trying to jump over the gate and it’s taking three guys to hold him back. I hope Damien knows what he’s doing. While Johnny’s still struggling to be held back, I leave my seat and head back to the locker room. I told Damien that I’d meet him back there, one way or the other.