by Ora Wilde
Usually, he talked to me with reverence. Whenever I got myself in trouble, he would act mad but I saw how concerned he was underneath his facade of rage. And whenever I had to do something important, he would be a control freak - a trait which, admittedly, I probably needed from an agent-slash-manager.
That night, however, as we sat at the porch of my father’s house, he spoke with impertinence. Not the vindictive kind of impudence, though. Rather, there was a certain type of emptiness in his show of disdain... one of hopelessness and helplessness and fear.
“I know it’s fucking stupid, alright?” I told him. “But do I have a choice?”
“For starters, you can tell them that you suffered an injury,” he coldly replied. “I mean, why do you have to hide that fact? Why don’t you want them to know? It’s good for damage control. It’s a great way to rebuild your image. Conner “The Savior” McXavier... finally acting like a real savior... coming to the rescue of a hapless kid who would’ve met certain doom were it not for the bravery of the once fallen hero... that’s the stuff of legend!”
“Yeah... it’s good for the fucking image that you and Danny want to build for me,” I answered. “But it will cost me my title fight.”
Artemis lost it. He tried to tug at what little was left of his hair. He paced around the balcony. His attempt to be flippant and rude has failed, and his real self has been unraveled... distraught, alarmed, and panicky.
“God damn it, Conner!” he yelled. “What’s so important about that title fight that you’d risk your health for it?”
“Everything,” I calmly answered. “That title means everything to me.”
“Just tell them you got injured. They’ll postpone the fight.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Yes, they will!”
“No, they won’t.”
“What makes you so damn sure?”
“Johnny Jones will just use my injury as a reason to duck me.”
“He wouldn’t do that. Danny will compel him to fight you at a latter date...”
“Yes... a latter date that Jones will use to summon another mandatory challenger to comply with the ninety day defense rule.”
In an act of surrender, Artemis stopped being restless and rested his butt on the railing at the edge of the porch. He kept quiet for a minute or two, processing this thoughts based on what I just shared.
“A dislocated shoulder and a wrist fracture, and you think no one would notice?” he asked with an exhausted tone.
“The shoulder doesn’t need a fucking sling,” I reminded him. “And you’ll help me get rid of this stupid cast later,” I added as I raised my hand to reveal my wrist swathed in mold.
“Remove the cast? Are you even serious?”
“Yes. You’ll either help me or I’ll slam my wrist against the wall to crack open this fucking cement.”
“The cast is there to keep the broken bones together so they’d heal...”
“I’ll use a boxer’s wrap then.”
“That won’t be enough...”
“Yes it will and yes it should.”
“But your training... it’ll start tomorrow...”
Artemis was referring to fact that the members of my fight club, the Dirty Scoundrels, were arriving the next day. They’d set up camp in Susanville and we’ll conduct our preparations here. Danny’s production crew was tasked to film my progress in training.
“So?”
“You can’t start that soon, Conner. You’ll just aggravate your injury, especially since you’re planning to conceal it.”
“I’m tough. I can handle it.”
“But Conner, the doctor said...”
“I said I can fucking handle it, alright?”
Artemis knew me well enough to realize that when my voice turned resolute, there was no way he’d be able to change my mind.
A car’s honk disrupted our conversation.
A black RS7 Audi parked on the side of the road fronting the house. A man with rather long hair, which made him look like the Hansons’ long lost brother were it not for the fact that his hair was of a darker shade, stepped out of the driver’s seat and proceeded to the other end of the vehicle. He opened the passenger’s door and out came Margaret. She looked pretty that night - prettier than usual - what with her hair styled in an elegant ponytail and her tight-fitting, spaghetti strapped, black top revealing her finest assets.
She kissed him on the cheek. He said his farewell. Then he drove off and Margaret started to walk towards the house.
She was surprised to see us at the porch.
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” she asked me as she ascended the short flight of stairs.
“Was that your boyfriend?” I was curious to know.
“I don’t think that concerns you,” she replied, “but if you have to know, his name is Lucas.”
“Ha! I guess that’s the shortened version of his real name...”
“What?”
“Lucifer.”
“Huh? No! His name is Lucas. Just Lucas.”
“Hrrnnnhhhh....”
“What’s that grunt for?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Should people always have a reason for the things they do?”
Margaret sighed in exasperation. But before she could deliver a retort, Artemis intervened.
“You guys do know you have an audience, right?” he said, still resting his buttocks on the railing.
Margaret didn’t even look at him. She just went on with what she wanted to say, as if Artemis wasn’t there.
“I just had a bad night... but the entire evening, I wanted to get home as quickly as I could. I wanted to ask how you’re doing,” she shared. “I wanted you to know that what you did earlier... that was a brave thing. I wanted you to know how much I admire you for that, and how much that incident changed my perception of you...”
Hmmmm. I guess I was getting on her good side.
“But then you just had to ruin it!” she continued as anger seeped from her voice. “You just had to be rude and disparaging and cruel! You just had to be... you!”
“And that’s a bad thing?” I asked with a smirk that I knew infuriated her even more.
She sighed louder than before and headed straight inside the house.
“You didn’t have to be shabby,” Artemis said. “She’s a nice girl... and more importantly... she’ll help you cover up your injuries.”
“I can’t help it,” I uttered as I dismissed his worry with a laugh. “It’s just too much... fun...”
“Fun?”
“Yep. Why? Is that hard to believe?”
“A little.”
“A little?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well... I saw you when you were gazing at her as he kissed that guy,” Artemis started to explain. “And the look on your face... that was definitely not the look of someone having fun.”
Chapter Twelve
MEG
“Conner McXavier?! You’ve gotta be kidding me!”
Chantelle couldn’t believe what I just said. Her eyes were as wide and as gleaming as the morning sun. Her voice, though trembling with shock, was brimming with excitement. Susanville was such a small town. The only celebrity who ever visited this place was Bruce Springsteen... and that was when I was four years old.
“Nope, I’m serious,” I told her as I petted Poochie, her pet chihuahua.
“And he’s your brother?” Chantelle continued to ask, still in a state of disbelief.
“Stepbrother... don’t forget the prefix,” I reminded her.
“What difference does it make?” she questioned.
A lot, actually. I never grew up with Conner. I never even encountered him before. I only met him two days ago, under the most infuriating of circumstances at that... and, that courageous episode with Zoe aside, he has proven himself to be an vexatious presence in my life.
; I failed to answer Chantelle’s question. She was too jolted to even notice, perhaps, as she just stood at their doorway without even asking me to come in. We stayed there for three minutes or so, staring at each other uncomfortably as words failed to come out of our mouths.
“He’s fucking hot!” she finally broke the silence, unleashing a wide and knowing and giddy smile.
I just shrugged.
“So... when can I meet him?” she asked very enthusiastically.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I told her.
“Why not?”
“Chant... you’ve been my best friend since like forever... I know you... and I know how you are when it comes to good-looking guys...”
Slim, fair skinned, blonde and with breasts the size of baby watermelons, Chantelle is a very attractive young woman. Guys literally go down on their knees just to win her heart. Too bad for them, Chantelle has a very particular taste in men - ruggedly handsome, rebellious, dangerous and rude.
The prototypical bad boy.
And Conner fits that bill perfectly.
“And how am I with good-looking guys?” she defensively asked, the zeal on her face was replaced by a frown.
“Chant... you’re practically a man-eater!” I reminded her. “I don’t know, and I don’t care to know, if that term should be taken literally... but you plus a gorgeous guy? That’s a formula for trouble.”
“You’re exaggerating,” she denied.
“Remember Brandon from junior high?”
“The motorcycle kid?”
“Yep. H’bout David from your OJT?”
“The one who was on parole?”
“Errr... yes. And Paul who you said you met at the Last Home Tavern?”
“The undertaker?”
“Exactly.”
“What do they have to do with me and your stepbrother?”
“Didn’t you sleep with all of them?”
“Hmmmm... I suppose,” she answered with a hint of hesitation.
“And how did those end?”
“I dumped them?”
“Honestly now, Chant...”
“Okay, okay... they left me.”
“And that’s because?”
She bowed her head, in resignation more than shame. She finally realized what I was trying to say.
“Because I’m too easy...”
“No honey,” I tried to comfort her. “It’s because you tend to give everything you have for them. You tend to choke them with your love. You give so much of yourself that, in the end, you’re left with so little...”
“Awwww... that’s so sweet of you, bestie,” she responded, the smile was back on her face.
I smiled back. I was happy - and relieved - to know that she has come to realize the error of her ways and that she has changed for the better.
“So, we can schedule a double date,” she suddenly remarked. “You and Lucas... and me and your stepbrother!”
It was my eyes’ turn to widen in shock.
“It’s gonna be so much fun, Meg!” she enthused. “I’ll be kind to him, I promise. And you won’t even have to worry. You’ll be there. You can stop me if you I do something wrong...”
Oh no...
“Or maybe... you can stop him if he will find me... I dunno... irresistible,” she added with a naughty grin.
“A... d-double date?” I stutteringly asked for a clarification.
“Yes! Tomorrow night! At Jarwin’s! See you then!”
She suddenly slammed the door on my face before I could even say anything.
Two seconds passed and she opened it again. I expected her to say that she was just kidding, and laugh hysterically at me for being so gullible.
“Poochie come to mommy,” she said cooingly as the chihuahua, who was left outside with me, came running towards her.
Then she shut the door once more.
And I was left there dazed...
About the idea of Conner hooking up with Chantelle...
About the thought of having to spend an evening with that jerk...
About what could possibly happen...
Everything transpired so quickly that I even forgot to inform her about the purpose of my visit.
I wanted to tell her that Lucas and I were getting married. She always told me that she wanted to be the first to know if and when I do decide to tie the knot. I went to her place to tell her. I wanted to invite her to join us that special day...
But then, I realized that the wedding Lucas had in mind didn’t really require any guests.
Chapter Thirteen
CONNER
A mini bus ferried them from Vegas to an old, abandoned building near a street named Haunted Grounds just between Highway 22 and Main Avenue. Haunted Grounds. What the fuck?! Who the hell would name a street like that?
Pearson and Jersey went out of the vehicle first. They were carrying some bags and training materials. They greeted me with wide smiles. I just nodded at them. I didn’t want to be overly friendly with my eventual sparring partners. Pleasantries can wait after the fight. They knew me well enough to understand that.
Next to alight from the coaster was a balding old man, fifty something years of age, with a face that has been jaded by time and pain, and a body that was stockily built to last longer than his life. He was Mikey O’Hare... my coach.
Almost all MMA fighters employ two coaches. One is their striking coach. The other is their grappling coach. I didn’t have to train under two mentors. Coach Mikey served both purposes. In his prime, Mikey O’Hara was an exceptional, albeit underrated, boxer. Legend has it that he knocked out Thomas “The Hitman” Hearns with a single punch when the latter tried to hit on his date in one of those Vegas after-parties. Coach Mikey never confirmed nor denied that story.
As for his wrestling background? Coach Mikey was an NCAA Division I semifinalists in all of his five years in college. His perennial tormentor was a guy named Marquis Lakes... who happened to be Johnny Jones’ trainer. Hence, my upcoming match wouldn’t only be personal for me. It would also be personal for Coach Mikey.
If there’s one person who I respect in this world, it’s Mikey O’Hara. He has stuck with me through thick and thin. He took me in when I was a nobody who just wanted to beat people up without having to land in jail. He thought me everything I knew... and I will be forever grateful to him.
“McXavier,” he acknowledged my presence as soon as he saw me. There was no glee in his voice. It was cold without being callous.
“Coach,” I greeted him back.
“This place is fucked up,” he said as he tightened his grip on the handle of his luggage. “Do they even have television here?”
“I... haven’t checked,” I told him as I tried to remember if I ever saw a working TV set anywhere in town.
“Heh! I guess you’re trying to avoid them news reports about you, you sonufabitch.”
He knew me way too well.
“What’re they saying about me?” I asked. A wayward subject for a small talk. The fact was, I didn’t give a flying rat’s ass about how other people viewed me.
“You really want to know?” he asked back. The emptiness in his voice was gone, replaced by a rather eager temperament accentuated by a mocking timbre.
I just shrugged.
“They think you’re the devil incarnate... the anti-christ... the Second Coming of Ted Bundy!” he yelled, one of the rare times when he showed a strong emotion.
I dismissed everything with feigned laughter.
“And this fight?” he continued to say. “Why did you take it on such a short notice? Fuck, McXavier... it’s been what? Three days since your last bout?”
His concern was justified. MMA fighters are usually given a four month gap in between fights. One month is meant to provide the fighter some time to recuperate. The other month is used for city tours, press interviews, media appearances and other bullshits to help sell the next fight. And two months are reserved for training.