SAVIOR: A Stepbrother Romance

by Ora Wilde

  I only had a few hours of rest before I was asked to prepare for my next match.

  “I had to take it,” I answered. “Danny offered the fight under that condition. Besides, I didn’t even get hit in that Donner fight.”

  “He landed a fucking punch on the bridge of your nose,” he reminded me.

  “A glancing blow. It barely touched me.”

  “I heard a thump. I’m sure it hit you.”

  I shook my head.

  “I didn’t feel anything,” I said.

  “It’s hard to feel anything when you’re too preoccupied with being angry.”

  “I wasn’t angry at that point.”

  “Cut the crap, McXavier. You were angry even before that fight started.”

  “I’ve forgotten.”

  “Then don’t forget this... you can’t afford to let your rage get out of control... especially for this Johnny Jones fight. I’m not telling you to be a damn pussy. I’m asking you to learn how to channel that rage into something that will make you a better fighter. You hear me?”

  Yeah, I heard him. But hearing him was different from complying with his wishes.

  I nodded.

  We proceeded to the old, dilapidated building. We went up a flight of stairs that was close to collapsing. The place seemed abandoned. Cobwebs and dust littered the hallways.

  Artemis secured for us an area at the third floor. Shattered glass on the decrepit windows, the pavement with ramshackle tiles, a ceiling with dangling wires and some broken bulbs, dry air that made breathing more difficult than that one time when an opponent caught me with a triangle choke. It was big enough to house three rooms, and barren enough to convert into a dojo.

  It was actually perfect for our needs.

  “It looks like shit,” Coach Mikey said as he studied the area. “But me and the boys can make it work.”

  “When do we start training?” I asked him.

  “What kind of a stupid question is that, McXavier?!” he responded. “We start tomorrow... when else?”

  Coach Mikey never really liked wasting time.

  “Cool with me,” I said. “This town’s boring me to death. At least I can start punching something by tomorrow.”

  I clenched my hands into fists and shadowboxed in front of my coach, showing him how ready I was for the rigorous conditioning I knew he had planned for me. One look at his face was enough to tell me that he liked what he saw.

  Then I felt it.

  A stinging sensation.

  On my shoulder.

  Followed by numbness.

  And soon enough, the entirety of my right arm felt so heavy that I had to drop it.

  “What’s the matter, boy?” Coach Mikey screamed at me. “Tired already?”

  I couldn’t let him know.

  I couldn’t let anyone know.

  I bent my body and rested my hands over my knees, my head looking straight down on the floor below my feet. I wasn’t exhausted... not even close. But I had to pretend I was.

  No one should know.

  “Yeah Coach,” I lied. “Just waiting for my second wind...”

  Chapter Fourteen

  MEG

  “So soon?”

  My mother’s shock was almost palpable. She couldn’t believe that I, the daughter she carried in her arms for so many years, was about to get married to the man with whom I was fated to spend the rest of my life with.

  Of course, I haven’t told her yet that it was going to be a Vegas wedding.

  “We’ve been dating for more than three years, mom,” I said as I continued to wash the dishes. “We’ve gotten to know each other really well... and we’re a great match.”

  “But still,” she persisted, “that’s not enough time to help you make a decision that you’ll have to live with forever... or at least, what should be forever.”

  “What other things do I have to consider?” I asked her. “Lucas is the perfect gentleman. He treats me really well. He’s a responsible man. He’ll be a good provider, not just for me, but for the family we will build.”

  My mom crossed her arms over her chest and started to tap her foot on the floor.

  “And he’s one fine looking guy, if I may state the obvious,” I added with a laugh.

  “You’re too young,” she mentioned, though I wasn’t.

  “I’m twenty-four,” I told her. “That’s not young.”

  “Old enough to take care of yourself, yes... but too young to say goodbye to the joys of being unattached.”

  Wow! The joys of being unattached? For a while there, I thought I was talking to Chantelle instead of my mother.

  She knew what she was talking about, though. She’s been a housewife all her married life... all two marriages that is. She sacrificed whatever dreams she had of a fulfilling career by taking it upon herself to take care of the household in both of her marriages. She probably didn’t want me to end up with the same frustrations that burdened her.

  At least, not yet.

  Not at my age.

  “I love him, mom,” I explained. “We’re in love... so much in love. This is the right thing to do.”

  She approached me and held my face with her hands. Her touch was soft, just as warm and as comforting as I always remembered it to be. She looked at me earnestly.

  “My baby... all grown up and ready for the world,” she started to speak. “And she’s in love...”

  “Yes, I am mom.”

  “Does he make you lose sleep? Does he take your breath away with every surprising act that he does? Does he cause your heart to riot with an overwhelming kinds of sensation that seems to overpower life itself? Does he make you happy?”

  It was the first time that I heard my mother sound so... melodramatic.

  “Yes, he does... to all those!” I resoundingly answered.

  Her look turned into a sad stare.

  “That’s nice to hear,” she said, which weren’t the words I expected given her downcast she suddenly became.

  “What’s wrong mom?” I asked with concern.

  “Oh... nothing, dear...”

  “Mom... don’t lie to me, please... what’s wrong?”

  She fell silent for a couple of seconds before she spoke again.

  “Meggy... what will happen when you become so familiar with him that nothing he does will ever surprise you anymore? What will happen when you get tired of the beautiful chaos in your heart that you’ll want to have a break from it all? What will happen when he... when he stops making you happy?”

  “I...”

  I paused as I didn’t know what to say.

  “I dunno, mom,” I continued as I regained my bearings. “I haven’t given those much thought. You know why? Because I’m very much sure that it won’t happen to me... to us...”

  “I’m relieved to hear that, sweetie,” she replied as her smile returned.

  She accompanied me as I finished the dishes. As I dried off my hands, she began to stroke my hair.

  “Two months... and you’ll be someone’s wife,” she uttered. “My baby girl... all grown up...”

  I guess that meant that I had her blessing.

  I gave her a hug and rested my chin on her shoulder. She held me tightly. I didn’t have to see her face. I knew she was crying.

  An hour passed and I still felt restless. Somehow, the talk I had with my mom hounded my mind.

  Her questions...

  They seemed so theatrical... so overwrought... so histrionical...

  Yet, they felt so real... as if she asked them because she knew, first hand, how important they were...

  I decided to go out of the house to get some fresh air.

  I was surprised to discover that the front door wasn’t locked. I peeked outside and saw the figure of a man, sitting on bench at the porch, his left foot stepping on the edge of the seat. He was shirtless, and his upper body - firm and tight all over - was drenched in tattoos of various designs. He was merely wearing a pair of white sweatpants.

&nbs
p; Seeing him like that made me swallow some air...

  And immediately afterwards, it made me hate myself for feeling that way.

  But why was he positioned like that. And what were those clipping sounds I was hearing.

  Oh my God...

  I walked briskly towards him.

  “What are you doing?” I asked furiously, though I already hand an inkling about the travesty he has started.

  He slowly turned his head to look at me.

  “Cutting my toenails,” he answered. “Isn’t that obvious? Or is your face buried deep down your beautiful, bouncy ass that you failed to see?”

  This guy is so... so... so...

  “That is so... ewwww... that’s so gross!” I responded, almost screaming as my body shivered in disgust.

  “What’s so fucking gross about cutting my toenails?” he asked with artificial innocence. “I cut my toenails. You cut your toenails. Delilah cuts her toenails...”

  “Who’s Delilah?”

  “Oh. Delilah. She’s that sweet lil’ girl who plucks my pubic hair...”

  “What?!”

  “MMA guidelines. They don’t want unwanted hair - the curly variety - sneaking out of our trunks. Bad PR during weigh-ins.”

  “W-Why are we even talking about this? I was just asking about your toenails!”

  “Yes... Delilah cuts her toenails. My point is... everyone in this fucking world cuts their toenails. What’s so gross about that?”

  “You’re letting your toenails drop on the floor!” I screamed at him to drive the reason why his action was so repulsive.

  “So?” he irreverently asked. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You’re messing up the pavement!”

  “They’re just toenails. They’ll rot by the morning.”

  “No they won’t! Toenails will remain the same for decades!”

  “Oh... really? Thank you for that information then, Ms. National Geographic.”

  “Please... do not condescend me...”

  “Heh. Hit a soft spot there, huh? What’s with you and toenails anyway?”

  “I just don’t like the mess you’re making on our house’s porch.”

  “So toenails don’t rot. Big deal. The wind will blow them away by tomorrow.”

  “No it won’t. Toenails are too dense.”

  “Oh... what luck for your poor little fucking porch!”

  I sighed in resignation. There was no point in reasoning with him as he has made it his personal crusade to annoy the life out of me.

  “It’s okay,” I wearily said. “I’ll just sweep them away later.”

  I turned around and started to walk towards the door. Then he called my name to stop me.

  Margaret.

  Why does he insist in calling me by my complete name?

  “What’s with you and toenails?” he asked, his voice suddenly becoming patient and serene. “Is it some kind of a weird pet peeve you have?”

  “I just... I just don’t like messy things, messy places,” I answered without looking at him.

  “An obsessively compulsive type, huh?” he had the gall to say.

  I turned back to face him, giving him a dagger look.

  “Hey, hey,” he responded with a hint of yielding. “Touché, touché... my bad...”

  I sighed once more.

  “Listen, if it’s that big of a deal to you,” he continued, “I’ll clean up my fucking toenails so you don’t have to, alright?”

  He bent forward and reached for the pieces of the untidiness he has made.

  Then it happened.

  A sound.

  A wince.

  He flinched in pain as his right arm reached for the floor. He quickly drew it back and picked up his toenails with his left hand instead.

  “It still hurts?” I asked, failing to repress my concern.

  “Nah... nothing I can’t handle,” he tried to dismiss my worry. He was lying. His eyes were still squinting, trying to stifle the ache which I could only imagine was very agonizing.

  Instinctively, I approached him and sat by his side. He was surprised to see me next to him. He quickly disregarded my presence and continued cutting his toenails.

  “Will we always be like this?” I asked him.

  “Like what?” he sought to clarify.

  “Like this,” I said. “Like how we converse with each other. Will we always look for something to argue about? Will we always use every small thing we can find to enrage each other? Will we never be able to talk like... you know... like normal people.”

  He responded with a mocking laugh that speedily ceased when he realized how serious I was.

  We sat there in silence, for minutes that seemed so much longer than they really were. A car would occasionally pass by and we’d follow it with our gaze. Then the discomfort of the moment would return and we’d end up fiddling with our fingers or jerking our knees or looking at the moon and the stars just to pretend that the quietness didn’t bother us.

  “I’m sorry for how I am,” he finally said... words that I didn’t expect... words that simultaneously pushed me away in shock and reeled me in with awe at the genuineness he suddenly displayed.

  “I’m... I’m sorry too,” I replied, an answer unplanned, an answer that just slipped out of my mouth.

  “Sorry for what?” he asked with a befuddled look. He shifted his body towards me, giving me a good view of his rock solid chest and his strong, ropy arms. His inks... there was a dragon and some tribal designs... some Latin words and a name - Persephone - adorned his left bicep.

  “Sorry for failing to understand you,” I said. “I guess I was too selfish. I was consumed by my own expectations that I didn’t get the chance to appreciate you for who you really are.”

  “Okay, stop right there!” he interrupted me. “Let’s end this fucking discussion before we turn into an Oprah episode...”

  “Or a Jerry Springer,” I commented.

  And he laughed...

  And I laughed with him...

  The kind of laughter that didn’t want to end, no matter how hard we tried. The kind of laughter that would slow down, only to resurrect once our eyes met and we’d be reminded of the stupid things that we said.

  When things finally settled down - because our tummies were bursting with air and our jaws were already aching - we both rested our backs on the wall behind the bench.

  “I have anger management issues,” he blurted out while panting. It came out of nowhere. I had no idea why he said that.

  “Okay,” was the only reply I could think of.

  “They’re filming my stay here as a form of damage control,” he proceeded to share. “Some good publicity to counteract that... incident... which made people really mad.”

  “At least you have your own reality show,” I quipped.

  “Ha! I hate that. I hate the idea of being watched. It makes me feel like a fucking goldfish in a dentist’s clinic.”

  “I understand...”

  “They’re also filming me as a form of therapy.”

  Now, that part I didn’t get.

  “What do you mean?” I asked with all curiosity.

  “Danny... Danny Might... he owns the XFC. Basically, he owns all our contracts. He’s the boss. He makes the fights and he masterminds each and every promotional strategy that would market those bouts. This reality show.. this is his idea. He said that if I began to feel that I was always being watched... I’d learn how to be more careful with my actions...”

  “And does it work?” I wanted to know.

  “Fuck no!” he said as he laughed once again.

  I should’ve found his response loathsome, but I didn’t. Somehow... I found humor in it. He was being serious, of course... but the way he was so blithe about it... his devil may cry, carefree attitude... his seemingly misguided sense of self worth... his overflowing confidence... somehow, I found them all quite endearing...

  Charming, even...

  Oh shit!

  Chantell
e!