“Fuck, Harper, I’m so sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” she says. “He chose to get punched and kicked in the head for a living, and whether as many people spoke about it back when he started or not, it’s not groundbreaking news that getting hit in the head is bad for you. It’s just sad to be around. He can’t get a job, can’t keep a girlfriend, nothing.”
Jesus. This is every fighter’s worst nightmare. I feel terrible that she has to be around it. “That really sucks. Why is it bothering you right now? Just on your mind.”
“No,” she answers. “Yesterday, after you left me at your place and went to the gym to see Matt, I got a call.”
“From Michael?”
“From the cops. They call so much I should add them as a contact and get a special ringtone.”
“What happened?”
“What always happens. Michael gave up his dreams of being in the UFC and, instead, is trying to work his way up the local New York bar fighting scene. With all the knockouts he’s accumulating, he’s probably close to a title shot, just like Lucas.”
Normally I love her sarcasm, but this morning I can tell that it’s just hiding a lot of pain. “He’s getting into brawls?”
“Almost everywhere he goes. The alcohol doesn’t help. Add that to the fact that he’s an ex fighter and you have a recipe for disaster. He’s lucky he’s not in prison. Most of the other guys involved haven’t pressed charges, but he just keeps getting into trouble. I’m terrified that one day he’s going to kill somebody.”
There are stories about things like this—I won’t name names, but a lot of the old school guys, the ones who fought it out when there were barely rules, have these kinds of symptoms. Every now and then, I’ll open up a mixed martial arts website and see a headline about an ex fighter who was arrested for domestic abuse, or got into a fight like Michael, or did something erratic during an interview. It’s sad to see.
“And this neurologist, did he help?”
“Not really. My brother needs a psychologist. Someone who can give him strategies to deal with his anger. He needs more than I can give him, and it’s getting hard to live with him.”
No wonder she was distracted. “So what happened when you got that call?”
“I had to go to the 23rd and bail him out. Then I took him home and helped him get cleaned up.”
What an amazing woman she is. She already had my respect, but it just went up a tremendous amount. “Look, I’m really sorry that you’re dealing with all that. If you don’t mind, can I share what you just told me with Matt?”
“Why?” she asks.
“Matt knows everyone—like, everyone. He’s the king of connections when it comes to the MMA world. He might be able to find out about some resources that the ex fighters you speak to won’t give you.”
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s fine, if you think it might help.”
“I don’t know if it will, but I do know that guys who suffer with that—guys like your brother—they need all the resources they can get in order to improve. It can’t hurt to ask.”
“You’re right,” she says, reaching across the table and taking my hand. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that, it’s my pleasure.”
She caresses my hand as I say that—I can tell she’s hurting, and I’m going to do anything I can to help her get some more resources.
By the time we’re done with our dumplings, I’m about ready to explode. “I think I ate too much,” I tell her after paying the check and stepping back outside.
“Nah, I’m sure most people can eat their weight in dumplings without feeling bad. Totally normal.”
“Okay, fine, maybe I over did it. Shit, thank God I have tomorrow off. If I had to train tomorrow, I think I might have to withdraw from the fight with Donald.”
“So you know what that means, then?”
“What’s that?”
“You have to pig out with me again tomorrow.”
This girl’s gonna be the death of me. And I’m gonna love every single minute of it.
26
Damien
Three Weeks Later
We leave for Vegas tomorrow, but Harper wanted to meet for coffee first before I go home and pack. I’m always up for a strong cup, and for seeing her, but today is especially important because she sent me the first draft of the article she wants to publish on her site. It’s not complete yet, but we’ve been doing a lot of interviews after my training, getting more and more in depth.
But it’s gone both ways. This whole thing with me and her started professionally—at least for her, but now it’s turned into something else. We’ve been going out a few times a week, and almost every time we spend the night together and she sleeps at my place. She’s a real pro because she’s been able to separate our relationship from the piece she’d doing on me. When it’s time to interview me, she goes into journalist mode, asking great questions and finding out more and more about me in the process.
She sent me the link last night, but I was so sore from practice that all I wanted to do was go to sleep last night when I got home. We were actually supposed to hang out, but she was taking her brother back to the doctor.
Sitting at Starbucks, I click the link and read a little bit. It’s surreal to see my name in an article, even if it is incomplete and a first draft. I read a few paragraphs before she walks in, looking beautiful as always.
“Starbucks guy, huh?” she jokes.
“Is that surprising?”
“Seems too fancy for you—you seem like more of a Dunkin kind of guy.”
“Dunkin is more my speed, but I hate the actual coffee. Too weak for me.”
“Not savage enough?”
I smile. “Not strong enough. But this does the trick, every single time I need it to. And today’s the last day before we leave for Lucas’ fight and I need all the energy I can get out of this cup. You want?”
“No, I’m good, thanks. I had at home. I just wanted to meet with you before you left.”
“I got your article. The draft.”
She lights up when I tell her that. “Oh, did you read it?”
“I was exhausted when I got home from the gym last night—I had no energy to concentrate on anything but a Netflix show before bed. I wanted to be able to give it the attention it deserved so I just started before you got here. It’s weird.”
“Okay, not quite the reaction I was hoping for, but okay.”
Shit, that came out wrong. “No, not like that. Your writing isn’t weird. It’s weird to see my name in an article—weird cool, not weird weird.”
“Well, I had no idea there were so many diverse kinds of weird, so thanks for that.”
I love her sarcasm. It makes me smile every time. “That’s what I’m here for—to teach the writer new ways to express herself. But, jokes aside, I liked what I read a lot. I wanted to keep reading but you walked in so, you know.” I make a funny face.
“Well sorry,” she jokes. “I have an idea, though.”
“What’s your idea?”
“You get all hopped up on the caffeine and I’ll read it to you.”
“You want to read it to me?”
“Why not?” she says. “It’s not that long yet—the final draft will be, but it’s not that long now.”
Interesting. “Okay. Do I need to close my eyes?”
“Only if you can’t visualize your own life, silly. This is about you, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” I’m joking, but I like the idea of her reading it to me—I have concentration issues when I’m not in the cage, so getting to listen to it works better than reading it for me. “Let’s hear it.”
“How about I read you the opening?”
“Sounds good.”
She opens her phone and opens the document.
“He goes by “The Sinner” because someone once said that what his fists can do to people is a kind of metaphysical crime. He’s one of the hardest working,
hardest hitting mixed martial artists that you’ve never heard of. He isn’t Conor McGregor, or Jon Jones, or Ronda Rousey, but one day you might be discussing him in the same conversations.
Some fighters are born, and others are made. Damien Reyes is the latter. He wasn’t the tough guy in school, or the star athlete, or even popular. Damien learned to fight because he had to.”
She stops there when she feels me watching her. “I love it. You’re a really good writer.”
“You don’t have to say that just because you and I are a. . . hey, what would you call us? A thing? A couple? Fuck buddies?”
“That one,” I joke. “That last one for sure. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you if it’s alright if I introduce you to people using that expression. Like, ‘I want you to meet my fuck buddy, Harper. You should see her naked!’”
“I have no problem with that at all—I’m not sure why you’d even need to ask, but whatever.”
We both laugh so hard people look over at us. I keep chugging my coffee. I’m starting to get that early buzz when I can actually feel the energy that it’s bringing to me.
“Seriously, I love the piece. How much more do you want to do in terms of the interviews?”
“Maybe just a few more. I’d actually like to wait until your next fight because, if everything goes the way you want it to go, that victory would make an amazing ending to the story and make the whole thing much more engaging.”
“That makes total sense. And it is, by the way.”
“Is what?”
“Going to go the way I want it to go. Donald is just another body in my way, and I’ll dispatch of him soon enough and get my title shot at our friend.”
“Uhhh,” she says, making a fake vomit face. “Don’t even mention him.”
“I’ll try not to. But he’s in my crosshairs if I want to get in the UFC. So, at some point, he’s going to be part of the conversation. I promise that I’ll keep it to a minimum and, any time I mention him, it’ll be about fighting, not about the past with you and him. I don’t care about that.”
“Really?” she asks. She seems surprised by what I just said.
“Really. I’m not like that. We all have exes. We all chose the wrong person at some point. It’s not for me to judge. He’s your past and I’m your present.”
“Wow,” she says. “That was. . . I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What?”
“You to be, I don’t know, reasonable and all. Most guys aren’t. At a certain point, most guys want to know who you’ve been with, what your number is, and all sorts of details about your past that feels more like an allocution in an episode of Law & Order.”
“That’s stupid. Insecure men are jealous, secure men—which I count myself among—could give a shit about that kind of thing. Unless you’re screwing someone else and not telling me, I’m all good.”
“Shit! I knew I meant to tell you something.”
“You’d better be joking,” I tell her. “I’m not a controlling guy, and the only place I’m possessive is in the bedroom. In there, you’re mine, you understand?”
“Is that right?” she asks.
“Damn straight. Your mind and soul are yours, but when we’re together, and the lights are off, that body is mine and no one else’s. Simple as that.”
“That might be the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me, you know that?”
“Not what I was going for, but thank you.”
“So what were you going for then?”
“The truth. Nothing more, or less. And, speaking of the truth, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Uh-oh, should I be worried?”
“Only if you have an aversion to gambling and bright lights.”
“Huh?” she says, confused.
“I want you to come with us to Vegas. I already asked Lucas and he’s more than fine with it. You can stay in my room, but we need to leave tomorrow. So, if there are issues that you need to stay and deal with regarding your brother, I understand.”
“Awww. I’d love to come with you, thank you for inviting me. And he’s been okay the last week or so. We went to see a psychologist and he’s getting some therapy and meds, so it’s been a little better.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m really glad—for him and for you.”
“Me too.”
“So I’m going to need you to get out of here now.”
She looks at me sideways while I keep a straight face. “Why?”
“’Cause you need to go pack.”
“Oh yeah. I always forget that part.”
27
Damien
Vegas, baby.
I look out the window of our cab and I’m almost blinded by all the lights. “This place is insane.”
“You’ve never been before?” Lucas asks me.
“My parents used to take a vacation down to the strip every few years, but they always left us home. This isn’t exactly Disney World.”
“That’s an understatement.”
It’s not Disney, that’s for sure, but Las Vegas is the fight capital of the world. It’s the home base of the UFC, and some of their biggest fights have been held here. Vegas has a very particular reputation, and, from what I’m seeing, it might be totally warranted—drinking, drugs, gambling, and God knows what else goes on here, but not for us. We’re here for business.
I’ve travelled for fights before, but normally we have to do everything ourselves—hotel arrangements, travel arrangements, all of it. But, now that Lucas is big time, most of the planning has already been arranged.
Lucas has a whole bunch of things to do that don’t involve me—checking in with the UFC, doing medicals, and a host of other things that I’ll worry about when I get there myself one day. I’m here when he’s ready for practice and on fight night, but, other than that, I’m going to get the lay of the land and hang out with Harper. First, I check in with Matt at the hotel.
“Do you need me?”
“Not until tomorrow. He’s a little jet lagged and we have to do a few things that’ll keep him from serious practice until tomorrow. If you have something to do go ahead.”
“Okay, thanks. Text if anything changes.”
“You got it,” he tells me.
We all check in, and Harper and I carry our stuff up to our room. The place is swarming with fighters even though it’s a few days until the fight. The room isn’t luxurious, but it’s nicer than anything I could afford on my own. Lucas and his girlfriend, Mila, are staying in the room across from ours, and Matt is staying down the hall.
“Wow,” Harper says. “Swanky.”
“You know, I’ve never heard that word used in real life.”
“First time for everything. And I can’t think of any other word for it.”
“Swanky it is then. Especially that bed.”
I look over at the king-sized bed that we requested and make a face. “It does look comfy, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I tell her.
“I wonder what those sheets would feel like against my bare skin.”
As soon as I hear that, I’m done. My cock starts to harden at a rapid pace. It was getting there anyhow, but her confirming that she’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking expedites the tightening of my pants. I may not be working out in the gym today, but there are other ways to burn energy. I’ve been so caught up in fight camp that Harper and I haven’t had as much time together as either of us have wanted, save for a couple night here and there over the last few weeks.
There are no excuses now.
“You know what I was thinking about just now?” she asks.
“What’s that?”
“Remember what you said about my mind and soul?”
“Saying that they were yours?”
“Right,” she says, taking off her coat and throwing it on the couch. “But it was that last part I was thinking of—what did you say again?”
I smile, my cock so hard that I can barely form words.
“I said that, inside the bedroom, your body is mine and no one else’s.”
She walks right up to me, so close that I can feel the warmth of her body. “Big talk from the savage sinner. Prove it.”
That’s all I need to hear.
Her eyes are sultry, begging me to do all of the things I want to do. Once she’s as close as she can get, I kiss her deeply, then lift her up in the air. Her legs find their place around me, and I get as hard as I’ve ever been in my life. I carry her over to those sheets and throw her down. Once she’s on her butt, I reach down and pull her shirt over her head. She takes her bra off immediately, exposing my eyes to those beautiful, milky tits that are begging to be in my mouth.
Her nipples are hard and ruby red, sitting perfectly in the center of her breasts. I take off my shirt and throw it aside before meeting her on the bed. I throw her back by her shoulders and pull her pants off. Her panties are already soaked from the anticipation of what I’m about to do to her. I slide her panties right off, feeling their wetness as I throw them aside.
I scoot my body down and plunge my tongue inside of her. She tastes amazing. I keep licking her, and slide a finger deep inside as I massage her clit with my warm tongue. Once her moaning starts, it doesn’t stop, and the noises of pleasure coming out of her are making me so hard that I need to get my pants off right now. I stand up and unbuckle, stepping out of my pants and boxer briefs so that there’s nothing standing between my rock-hard cock and her sweet pussy.
We start to kiss intensely, my hands running the length of her body, up and down from her face to her thigh. I put a finger back inside her as she spreads her legs for me. We never stop kissing, but as we do I get her ready for me. My cock is aching to be inside her, so the foreplay is going to have to be shortened. Based on how wet she is, I doubt that she’s going to mind at all. My body attaches to hers, her perky nipples pressing into my pecs. With one hand, I slide myself right inside of her and she screams out my name as I do. She knows that she’s mine right now—her body belongs to me, and I’m going to do to it what I want—and what she wants.
The Savage Sinner Page 14