The Savage Sinner

by Harlan, Christopher

  “It’s not whining. This is your life. This is your career. You only have one. You have the right to be disappointed. But it’s not going to do any good to dwell on it after this point. There’s only one thing you can do.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Win. All you have to do is keep on winning, and I promise you, the money is going to come. You win, and win spectacularly, in your next few fights, then next time you fly to Vegas, you’re going to be able to slide a piece of paper across the table that has whatever number you want on it. Then they’re just going to smile and say ‘whatever you want, Ghost, just stay with us.’ You understand?”

  I get Lucas to smile for the first time. He really looked tense when he got to my place, but he’s starting to look more like himself now that he got all that shit out. “That would be nice. Really nice.”

  “Well then let’s get our asses inside and get to work already. Enough bitching and moaning. Only way you’re getting a contract you actually want is by knocking some fools out.”

  “When you’re right, you’re right.”

  “I’m always right,” I joke. “Even when I’m wrong. Especially when I’m wrong. But this time I’m not. Let’s go.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lucas jokes.

  We head inside and get changed. The whole time, I keep having the weirdest thoughts. My mind should be on my weight, or on studying my opponent, or on the million other things that go into a fight camp.

  Instead, I keep thinking about Harper, and how empty the gym feels without her. I’ve already gotten used to her sitting around on the sidelines, watching me train, and hanging out with her afterwards.

  I should be thinking about making my jab faster, getting my triangle choke tighter, and worrying about getting in the best shape possible. But what am I thinking about? Where I’m going to take that girl out on Saturday. She’s already in my head.

  13

  Harper

  Emmy is my best friend, and when you’re about to go on a date with a hot new guy, you need your best friend, at least for moral support. That and lunch.

  “Jesus, Harper, not another one.”

  Okay, maybe not so much with the moral support, but still.

  “Judgmental much?”

  “I just know you,” she says. “You’re quick to fall for guys.”

  “I am not.” That’s another thing you need your best friend for—the kind of brutal honesty that you don’t always want but you always really need.

  “Yeah, you are. And every time you tell me about some ‘amazing’ new guy, you just end up getting hurt. You remember the last one?”

  “How could I forget?”

  I love Emmy, but she’s a pessimist when it comes to me and guys. She’s been there for me through thick and thin, and for some reason she always thinks the absolute worst of the guys I choose after we break up. I get it, she doesn’t want me to get hurt, but she’s wrong about Damien.

  “I just don’t want to have to nurse you back to health again. You have enough going on with your brother to not complicate things with some guy drama. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

  “I know you are, but he’s different, I’m telling you. It’s not some shallow crush on a hot guy—but he is hot, just in case you were wondering.”

  “Like how hot? Scale of one to ten, ten being fantasy romance novel level and one being. . . any one of my exes.”

  “Solid eleven.”

  “Stop it. You exaggerate.”

  “I swear I don’t. He’s hot-hot, Em, like hotter than guys you meet in real life.”

  I’m not exaggerating. She’s not totally wrong in thinking that, I’ve been known to spin a tale or two about the relative hotness of this or that guy, but I’m as serious as a heart attack when it comes to Damien’s hotness.

  “Wow,” she says, pretending like she believes me for a second. “I can’t wait to meet him. Wait, do I get to meet him?”

  “Eventually, I hope, but right now it’s not a thing. He just asked me to dinner on Saturday night.”

  “I hate to tell you this, Harper, but that’s a thing. You’re interviewing him, right?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “It started that way. And there was this heat between us, but I wasn’t sure if it was all on my end or not.”

  “It’s not,” she says. “And are you still going to do the profile?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t want to rain on your hot guy parade—and I’m no reporter, trust me—but aren’t you supposed to be professional when you do something like that? Keep your distance?”

  I’ve already thought about what she’s asking me, and I’m torn on it myself. But I think it might be a little premature to think about all of that. “I know what you mean, but we’re not getting married or anything, it’s just dinner. Nothing crazy.”

  “Just dinner? Are you sure? I know that look in your eyes, and it doesn’t look like a ‘just dinner’ look.”

  She knows me so well. “It’s just dinner, Em. I have no reason to think it’s anything else. I’ve only known the guy for a little while, it’s not serious.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  The tone in her voice is so sarcastic. “For real, Em.”

  “I said okay, sure.”

  “Yeah, but the way you said it though.”

  “How did I say it?”

  “You know how. Like you don’t believe me.”

  “That’s ‘cause I don’t. We’ll see who’s right.”

  I guess we will. But is it wrong that I secretly want it to be her? “Yeah, I guess. But I need something to wear, will you come shopping with me after this?”

  She raises her eyebrow. “Is that a real question? You don’t have to ask me twice to go shopping. What are we getting?”

  “Everything,” I joke. “Need a dress, shoes, everything.”

  She laughs and I know what she’s thinking, but I ask anyhow. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That laugh was not nothing. That laugh was definitely something.”

  “New dress and new shoes? Glad you don’t think this might be a serious thing.”

  “I hate you sometimes, do you know that?”

  “You love me more than ice cream, who are you kidding?”

  “I do love you. But more than ice cream? I don’t know about that.”

  We laugh and finish our lunch. Em is a great shopping buddy. She’s a great everything. As we pay the check and head to her car, I think about tomorrow night, and how much I’m looking forward to it. Em may think that I fall hard, and maybe she’s right—but this isn’t one of those puppy love scenarios that she’s seen me have before. I keep thinking about Damien. About how hot he looks when he’s sweaty and sparring, about how I feel when he stands over me, and about how much I want it to be Saturday night already.

  But first, I need a dress.

  And shoes.

  And ice cream. Definitely ice cream.

  14

  Damien

  It’s been a good few days of training, but what I want to do now has nothing to do with gyms or fighting. It’s Saturday night, and that only means one thing—I’m going out with Harper.

  I get dressed and head to her apartment to pick her up. I can’t wait to see her. It’s been a few days since she’s been to the gym, but that was my choice. I asked her politely if we could delay the interviews until after I had some time to get into the rhythm of training camp, and she was really cool in giving me the space that I needed.

  I don’t need space anymore. In fact, I want the opposite of space—I want to be pressed up against her, but if I think about that too much longer I might crash my car imagining what she looks like naked.

  It takes me about fifteen minutes, but I get there and knock on her door like a gentleman. When she finally comes to the door, I almost don’t believe my eyes. She’s wearing a black dress that fits her body in all the right ways. Her hair and nails are done, and she’s wearing just the
right amount of makeup to accentuate her natural beauty. I can’t stop staring.

  “You look really handsome,” she says.

  I don’t even know what to say except, “Wow.”

  “Huh? I said you look handsome.”

  Oh shit. I wasn’t even listening to her. She looks so fine that all of my senses that weren’t sight just stopped working temporarily. I can’t help but look her up and down. “I’m sorry,” I say, snapping out of it. “Thank you. I just. . .”

  “What?” she asks, catching me looking. “What is it?”

  “You look really different.”

  “Does that mean you don’t think I look pretty all the other times you’ve seen me?”

  “No. . . I mean. . . that’s not what I meant. I was just saying that. . .”

  “I like it when you don’t know what to say, it’s funny. And I’m just messing around, don’t worry. I appreciate you saying that.”

  “It’s true. You look really good.”

  “Thank you. And I’m starving. Wow, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just blurt that out. But seriously, take me to get food, okay?”

  “I planned on it. Let’s go.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re at this little Italian place that I looked up. I’ve never planned out a date before because I don’t really date. I mean, I’ve been with my share of women—more than most guys, but I haven’t been on a lot of traditional dates. A lot of the girls I’ve been with have been fight groupies—girls who hang around fighters, like chicks used to hang out backstage at a Motley Crue show. Those girls only want one thing, and fighters only want one thing from them. Harper is different. It took balls to ask her out, but it was worth it to me.

  I almost trip on the curb watching her walking in front of me into the restaurant. That dress is showing me all the parts of her body that make me happy that I’m a man, and, as she walks into the place, I give her amazing ass one last look before we get seated.

  “This place is cute,” she says. I pull out her chair and let her sit.

  “It is. I wasn’t sure from the pictures. You can never tell.”

  “Pictures?” she asks.

  “Yeah. I looked it up on some app. I think it starts with a Y or something. They rate stuff.”

  She laughs. “You mean Yelp?”

  “Yes! Yelp. I knew it was a silly name. You’ve heard of it?”

  “Just me and the other seven billion people on Earth. I can’t believe you’re just discovering this. Have you heard of Instagram and Snapchat? Also, we landed a man on the moon—but I don’t want to overwhelm you with current events.”

  “Haha, very funny. And yes, I’ve heard of Instagram—I even have an account and everything. Followers—all that stuff.”

  “What’s your handle?” she asks.

  “Why? You gonna give me a follow?”

  “I might just consider it, but only if you follow back.”

  “Aren’t you a sweetheart? And it’s @TheSinner. Of course I’ll follow you back.”

  “I have a question, but it has to wait.”

  Just as she’s about to ask me something, the waitress comes over—a girl who looks like she just graduated high school, with short brown hair and thick glasses. She looks nervous. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asks.

  Harper looks at me and mouths the word ‘wine?’ and I nod.

  “We’ll have two glasses of wine. I’ll have a rosé.”

  “Is White Zinfandel okay?” the girl asks.

  “Sure, that’s perfect.”

  “I’ll have a glass of merlot. The dryer the better.”

  “You got it.” The girl nervously writes down our order and heads off to the back.

  “I think this is her first day on the job. She looks like she’s about to have a panic attack.”

  “Oh, give her a break,” Harper tells me. “I used to be a waitress, the job sucks.”

  “You? A waitress? I can’t see it.”

  “Okay, I’m officially offended,” she jokes.

  “No, seriously, I can’t see you taking drink and food orders and having to smile in people’s faces all night. Doesn’t seem like your personality.”

  “Are you saying I’m not a ray of sunshine?”

  I can’t even hold it together with a straight face. I start laughing out loud and so does she. “I can’t say that ‘ray of sunshine’ was my first thought when I met you.”

  “Then what was?”

  “What?”

  “Your first thought when you met me? If it wasn’t about my sunny disposition, then what did you think when you saw me in that doctor’s office?”

  There’s no way I can tell her what I was thinking. But, the answer is that I imagined fucking her right then and there in the office. Of her straddling me in my chair—kissing my neck and riding me so hard that I practically exploded. “I don’t remember. There was a lot going on.”

  “Mostly you staring at me, if I remember correctly.”

  “What? You’re crazy. I don’t stare.”

  “Sure. Okay. Like you weren’t drooling when I met you at the door tonight. Please, Damien.”

  I like this girl a lot. She’s forward and puts me in my place. I’m not used to that, but I definitely like it.

  “Let’s get this straight right now—I was not drooling. Damien “The Sinner” Reyes does not drool over a woman.” Except I almost did. All over her floor. Thank God I kept my mouth shut so as not to get saliva all over her carpet.

  “Whatever lets you sleep at night,” she teases, grinning at me flirtatiously. Just then, the girl comes back with our wine, looking a little more relaxed. Maybe she had a glass herself in the back.

  “Thank you.” I bury my nose in the glass and breathe deeply before taking a small sip. “Mmmm. This is really good.”

  “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

  “What makes you say that?” I ask.

  “I didn’t take you for a wine guy.”

  I smile before taking another sip. “Oh, I get it. You expected the rough and tough fighter to order a beer at a nice restaurant like this? Something like that?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Yeah it is,” I joke, giving her shit right back. “That’s exactly what you meant.”

  “I didn’t expect you to order a beer. I just don’t associate a cage fighter with knowing how to properly drink wine.”

  “And why’s that?” I ask. I know what she’s saying, I’m just fucking with her. She isn’t wrong, though. I think if I asked your average dude at the gym what a vintage was they’d look at me sideways.

  “Stop busting my balls, you know why.”

  “Yeah, I do, I just like to see you squirm a little. Truth is, I was never into wine until I met Matt.”

  “Matt’s a wine guy also? You have a very interesting gym.”

  “That’s true enough. We’re a strange bunch of savages.”

  “Oh, I just remembered what I wanted to ask you before. The name. You need to tell me about it. I’ve always been interested in that.”

  “My nickname?”

  She nods.

  “I was just talking to someone about that the other day,” I tell her. “MMA names can be as bad as band names, can’t they?”

  “What’s the worst one?”

  “There are too many bad ones to choose from. All the damn ‘Pitbulls’ drive me crazy. I was ranting about that at the gym.”

  “There have to be at least five that I know of—probably even more.”

  “On the other side of the coin, what are some of your favorites? You’re a fan—what are the best names?”

  “I always liked “The Prodigy”, “Bones”, and “the Notorious”.” Nice. She’s a real fight fan. She chose some of the best fighters to ever put on gloves. BJ Penn, Jon Jones, and Conor McGregor—some of the fighters I admire the most.

  “Those are all good choices. My favorite has always been ‘Uncle Creepy’ — I swear I would have taken that if it
hadn’t been taken already by the time I got into the game.”

  “Eww, I hate that one. I’m glad you didn’t take it. But that leads me to yours. How did you choose Sinner? I want to know.”

  “I didn’t. That’s a rule, you know?”

  “What’s a rule?”

  Before I can answer, the nervous high school senior looking girl comes back. I haven’t even looked at a menu, I’ve been too wrapped up in talking to Harper.

  “Do you guys know what you want?”

  “Oh,” Harper says, opening her menu for the first time since we sat down. I don’t need to see what they have, I’m pretty sure I know what I want. “I’ll have the. . . shit. Ask him, come back to me.”

  “Are you sure? I’m quick.”

  “Shut up and order so I can read.”

  I smile. I think she’s scaring the waitress. “Yes ma’am.” I order way less food than I want to. A lot less. So much less that Harper looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “A salad? Really? Are you trying to make me look like a pig?”

  “I have a fight coming up. I need to watch my weight. And I don’t judge, order whatever you want.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice. Okay, keep up—I also want a salad, but I’m going to get the eggplant parm, and another glass of wine when you have a minute.” The waitress scribbles away before retreating from the table again. “So tell me all about yourself, Mr. Sinner.”

  “The first thing you need to know is that fighters never ever give themselves their own nicknames.”

  “Really?”

  “Didn’t your brother teach you anything about this?” I hope that didn’t come out wrong, but for someone with a fighter for a sibling, she doesn’t seem to know a whole lot about gym culture.

  “Mike always saw me—actually, I don’t know why I’m using the past tense—Mike sees me as his little sister in more ways than one. His annoying little sister who tags along because she likes fighting. He basically banned me from his gym a long time ago.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It did. But remember, when he started I was a teenager, so the last thing he wanted was some girl hanging around asking a bunch of questions. So I learned from watching the early UFC fights over and over again—I used old DVDs and watched them to death.”