The Savage Gentleman

by Harlan, Christopher

“Already done. My law firm is contacting the superintended to put the fear of God in them.”

  I like Steven even more now. “Good,” I say, smiling. “I’m glad to hear that. But the hard truth is that you can’t litigate or create policies to get rid of kids being dicks to one another—pardon my language.”

  “Please,” Steven says. “We’re all men here.”

  “That we are. So, look, let me be straight with you—with the both of you. When you walked in here the first time, your boy needed instruction to even look at me for more than two seconds. He was hunched over, looked insecure, and was a walking victim. That’s the truth. And now, he’s fixed his posture, he’s looking people in the eye, and he tried to defend himself physically. It doesn’t matter that he got beat up—he stood up to those kids, and that makes all the difference in the world when it comes to bullies.”

  “I didn’t think of it like that.”

  “I know. But that’s why we’re in this room. Even though things look the same to you, they aren’t. He’s growing. He’s gaining confidence. He swung back. Matt, have you ever thrown a punch at anyone who’s bothered you before?”

  “Never. I don’t really know how to.”

  “That’s okay,” I tell him. “I’ll show you. I’ll show you everything you need for next time, if there is a next time. But first, you had to take the most important step alone—and that’s standing up to those fuckers.”

  “Thank you,” Steven says. “I’m sorry, I overreacted out there. I apologize.”

  “Never apologize for defending your boy. I’d expect nothing less. This will end one day, I promise you that.”

  “I hope so,” he says. “I really do.”

  Matthew sits up in his chair and looks at me with more confidence than I’ve seen from him since we met. “So, what do we learn next?”

  I smile. I can’t help it. I’m a devious fuck. “Now, Matt “the Second”? Now, I show you the good stuff.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Mila

  I’m sick of therapy.

  I know I should be thankful to have such a good psychologist in my life as Dr. Chase has been to me, but I’m honestly sick of going. I feel like therapy should be something finite—a tool you use to get better and then you’re done. I don’t want to be one of those people who get stuck in some doctor’s office year after year, complaining about their lives and looking for answers from the other side of the table. I want to find my own answers, and I feel like I’m finally getting there.

  Dr. Chase has been a godsend, really. My family helped me find one of the best trauma psychologists in New York because I was in no position to do research when I first got out of the hospital. I’m lucky that I come from a well-educated family because they knew that my mind would still be screwed up long after my body healed, and they were right. I had all the symptoms of PTSD—anxiety attacks, changes in personality, I was quick to anger, and scared for no reason. Luckily, Dr. Chase works primarily with battered women and combat vets—people who, frankly, have gone through worse than I did, so he knew how to help me.

  After our early afternoon session, I decide to meet up with Sophie and Holly for a later lunch. They both work close to my doctor’s office in the city, and I thought what better way to kill an hour than with my best friends—and this time I have some things I want them to hear about. We meet at a local café.

  “Hey girl!”

  Sophie is so loud, but I love her for it. “Hey. Thanks for meeting me.”

  “Anything to get out of the office,” Holly says.

  “Gee, thanks. And here I thought you’d want to spend some time with me.”

  “We do. Don’t listen to this skank.” Holly gives Sophie the middle finger, and we all laugh.

  “So?” she asks. “How was your session?”

  “It was good, I guess. I mean, as good as therapy gets, if ‘good’ is a thing when it comes to dealing with your issues.”

  “There are bad therapy sessions, believe me.”

  Sophie knows of what she speaks. She’s the fun loving one of the bunch—always silly, and always up for a good time, but she experienced some real trauma herself when she was younger, and she’s worked her ass off to get to the level of stability she’s at now.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know. I’ve had a few, but nothing crazy. Today was good. We started talking about an exit strategy.”

  “From therapy?” Holly asks.

  I nod. “Yeah. It’s been almost a year of sessions. At first it was three or four times a week, now it’s down to one. I feel like eventually we should hit zero. Maybe I’m just being impatient, but I feel like I’m getting past the point where I need to see someone.”

  “How are your symptoms?”

  Sophie can go from silly to serious really fast, and sometimes it’s hard to keep up. But when it comes to topics like this she’s all business. She’s gotten her life together, has a great guy she’s been seeing, and has a really good job. But it wasn’t always like that. Now that she’s back on her feet, she looks after me like a mom. They both do. I love them for it, but sometimes I just want to interact with them normally.

  “Better,” I tell them. “Much better. I still get some anxiety leaving the house, but I’m getting better at dealing with it.”

  “That’s great news,” Holly tells me. “You seem better. But maybe there are other reasons for that besides therapy, huh?”

  She gives me the look—the I-know-something-is-up look that only a girlfriend can give you. Sophie catches it. “What? Did I miss something?”

  “Why don’t you ask our girl here,” Holly says. “I’m dying to know myself.”

  “Well???” Sophie asks. “Spill the beans, girl.”

  I’m not the kiss-and-tell sort, but it’s been such a rough road to get towards something resembling normalcy that I’m actually really psyched to tell my best friends what happened. So psyched, that I forget we’re in public and I blurt out. . .

  “I fucked him, and he has such a huge dick!”

  The second I say it, I want to die. Not figuratively. Literally. I want to crawl up into my embarrassed self and disappear, only I can’t stop laughing hysterically, and neither can Sophie. We make such a spectacle that everyone around is looking at us, and I’m not sure if it’s because we’re laughing a little too loud, or because I just yelled out ‘huge dick’ in public. Either way it’s not a good look.

  “Holy shit, Mila, tell us how you really feel.”

  “I don’t know what just came over me. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Sophie asks. “Never apologize for appreciating a nice big dick. Good for you!”

  “I think we need to go,” Holly says. “We’re getting a few ‘those-girls-are-talking-dicks’ stares from everyone. Not sure I can keep on talking about it here, but I need details.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Alright, let’s get out of here,” I tell them. “I’ll tell you all about Lucas.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lucas

  I basically live in the gym when I’m training.

  I’m here so much that sometimes I don’t leave. Depending on when my sessions are and when my training partners come by, I make this place like my home. There’s a cot in Matt’s office where I grab a nap sometimes. There’s a mini fridge where I keep all of my meal-prepped lunches and snacks, and there’s a locker and shower. It’s pretty much my house at this point, and my house could use a deep fucking cleaning.

  Gyms basically smell like shit. There are worse smells, for sure, and I’m used to the funk of sweaty dudes and mats, but this place could use a cleaning. When I was a kid that’s how I paid for my membership. I was in high school at the time, and no one wanted me to have to get a job on top of school and learning how to defend myself. My parents could have afforded lessons, but back then it was all about teaching me lessons—so, like someone who has to wash his dishes in order to eat at a restaurant, I cleaned the gym so that I could train. I’d wash towels, clea
n the mats, clean the ring, organize the gear, and when I got better I was a free training partner for the guys getting ready for a fight.

  This gym has a history. It was originally owned by Matt’s father, Gregory, back in the day. He trained Matt before MMA was even a thing—back then it was a kickboxing, karate, and wrestling gym where the general public could come and take lessons, but where the real fighters trained after all the classes had ended. Matt was a great fighter in a time when great fighters didn’t have a lot of options. He made it pretty far on the amateur kickboxing circuit, and later he got really into Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, but he got a bad injury that sidelined him, and that’s when he became a trainer. I’ve seen footage of his fights—and I think he’s an even better coach than he was a fighter. After his dad died, Matt took over the gym, and he’s trained a lot of guys whose names you’d know if I told you. Their pictures cover the walls of the gym.

  Tonight, I’m all alone, though. I have a key and Matt knows I enjoy the occasional late-night solo workout to clear my head, so here I am.

  I did two sessions today, and I’m starting to feel like I’m getting into fight shape. When your average person talks about getting into shape, they mean that they’re going to lose a few pounds, or maybe gain a few in muscle mass, or just tone up their body so they look good in the summer when they’re laying out on a beach somewhere. Fight shape is a whole different thing—that kind of shape takes weeks to get into, and it’s training your body to go anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five minutes, full force, with another grown man trying to take your head off. I’m not nearly there yet, but I’m starting to feel less exhausted with each workout.

  I decide to stay behind and move around a little. I’m feeling stressed about the fight. I’d never admit that to anyone, but I’m still haunted by memories of my fight with Wes. Up to that point I’d never been knocked out, and that loss shook my confidence. On the other hand, I met this amazing woman, and when I’ve been with her over the last few days I forget all of my problems. I forget about being woken up that night with smelling salts and doctor’s lights shining in my eyes. When I was with her I didn’t think about how sore my arms are, or how many times I took a jab to the face in sparring. When I’m with her, all I think about is her—Mila.

  I need to text her. I go into my bag and get my phone out. Before I can text her, I see that I have a text from her. It’s from a half hour ago.

  Mila: Hey. What are you doing? I had a very embarrassing moment today involving you lol. Love to tell you about it.

  It’s 10:00 pm now, and the text is time stamped at 9:35. I text her back right away because she’s been on my mind ever since our amazing night together. I really want to see her again.

  Me: Hey. Sorry I missed this. Are you still around?

  Mila: I am. Where are you?

  Me: Where I always am.

  Mila: Gym???

  Me: Where else. Wanna come by?

  Mila: Like for a lesson, lol.

  Me: Like, just to hang out. I’m here alone. Place is closed and everyone’s gone home.

  Mila: Give me an hour.

  Me: Alright. Text me when you’re here, I’ll unlock door.

  The last couple weeks with Mila have been some of the best that I can remember. Just being around her is almost as exhilarating as a win after a fight—almost. I don’t even realize it’s happened, but I get rock hard at the thought of her. Literally, my dick feels like pure bone hitting against the front of my shorts. Thank God no one’s around or I’d be fucking embarrassed. But no one’s around except me—and soon Mila. That girl has a crazy effect on my body and mind. Just by reading her text, I start to picture her naked body—tight and thin, just like last night—her hair gripped in my hand as I. . .

  Shit, I have to stop. I can’t have the girl walk in while I have a giant hard on. Think of baseball, think of baseball, think of anything but her tight little pussy. . . fuck, this is harder than I thought! I try to redirect my mind from her body. Every time I try I just see her tits bouncing around as I rocked her entire body last night—as she looked up at me and let me put my finger in her mouth while I fucked her.

  God, I have to think about something else. . . anything. . . I got it. I’m really into horror movies, and my favorite of all time is the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre from the 1970’s. I start to think of the part where all the teens end up at Leatherface’s house and see all the gross decomposing bodies. I close my eyes and think about a family of cannibals who skin people and make masks out of their skin—that’s what it takes to get the image of Mila’s hot body out of my mind. And it only lasts about ten seconds.

  Only one thing’s going to help.

  I run into the back, throw my shorts on the ground, and jump in the coldest shower I’ve ever had in my life. I turn the ‘C’ dial as far right as that bitch will go, and throw my whole naked body right into the stream, dick first, until the shock of it kills that erection real fast. Cold water does the trick every time.

  I get out of the shower after I’ve shocked my hard on into submission, then dry off real fast. I still wanted to get a little bit of a workout in before Mila gets here.

  It is almost an hour to the minute before Mila texts me that she’s parked out in front. I managed to get some shadow boxing and stretching in, but that’s about it. Nothing heavy. The bag will have to wait until tomorrow. But I’m not thinking about my left hook when I hear my phone beep—my whole brain shifts to her, and I go to unlock the front.

  “Hey there.”

  God, she looks amazing! She’s standing in the doorway of the gym looking like pure sex. The breeze blows the smell of her hair into my nostrils and I breathe in deeply and give her a hug. “Hey yourself. You’re right on time.”

  “I like to be punctual. I was actually early but I circled a few times in case you were busy. Didn’t want to interrupt anything for your fight.”

  “Listen to me, you can interrupt me anytime you want. For real. Now come in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oooh,” I joke. “I could get used to that ‘sir’ thing.”

  “Well be good to me and I might say it again tonight.” I feel my dick start to harden when she says that and I make my way over to a bench to pretend I have a cramp in my foot. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her, lying through my damn teeth. “I twisted my ankle a little sparring. Just stretching it, you know? Don’t want to hurt it any more.”

  She knows I’m bullshitting—she can see it in my eyes. I just don’t know if she knows why I’m bullshitting, but now isn’t the time to mention it. Finally, I get a little more relaxed, at least enough to stand up without embarrassing myself.

  As soon as I’m in the clear I stand up. I try to make some small talk to cover up the barely noticeable—but still there—bulge. “You know, I never asked you what you did for a living.”

  “I’m a teacher, actually. Elementary school.”

  Hearing that makes her even hotter to me. There’s something about a woman who works with kids that’s crazy attractive to me. And just cause I’m a devious fuck, Van Halley’s ‘Hot for Teacher’ starts to play in my sick head. “That’s incredible. How’s the school year going?”

  “I’m actually unemployed at the moment. Layoffs. I’m looking for a new job for next year.”

  “Oh shit, I’m sorry. That fuckin’ sucks.”

  “It does, but I’m happy to have some free time to myself. Getting to ‘do me’ a little, you know? Get out of the grind, reflect.”

  “That’s great. I wish I had time to do that. When you’re a fighter, there’s not a whole lot of time for much except fighting and training. Makes being in a relationship hard. Makes doing anything except fighting hard.”

  “Yeah, but you’re dedicated. Most people don’t have anywhere near the kind of discipline it takes to do a sport professionally. I admire that.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her. I never thought I’d say this, but she really gets me. Gets me li
ke not a lot of other girls have. Sure, I did the groupie thing early in my career—but those girls just like the idea of a guy who can fight, but they don’t want to be in a relationship with a man who practically lives at the gym. Mila seems different than all the other girls I’ve known, and she legit is into the sport. “Wanna step into the ring we have?”

  “For real?”

  “For real, let’s go.”

  She looks excited. She slips off her shoes and we step into the cage. She steps onto the canvas in front of me and bounces, almost losing her balance. I reach out my arm and grab her.

  “The floor bounces more than I thought.”

  “Yeah it takes some getting used to.” I’m holding her in place by the arm so that she can stabilize. It’s just an excuse to put my hands on her, and I don’t want to stop there. She doesn’t try to stop me as I move my hands from her arm to her waist. She feels so good. The warmth of her body and the feeling of my hands on her has me hard as a rock again in no time. I grip her tightly, and she doesn’t move or tell me to stop. Instead she reaches her head back towards me as I pull her ass into my hard cock. I can smell the sweetness of her hair as she leans, and we start to kiss right here in the cage.

  I push myself into her so she can feel what she’s doing to me. It’s so hard that it hurts. It needs the relief of being inside of her right now. We kiss for a few seconds and then she turns her body so that she’s facing me, and I grab her ass as hard as I can. When my hands slap against her cheeks she yells and we kiss again.

  “It’s so hard to keep your balance,” she says.

  “I’ll hold you up.”

  “No, don’t. Let me fall.” She drops to her knees, pulling my shorts down with ease as she does. “I almost forgot how big it is. You think I can fit it all in my mouth?”

  “I know you can.”

  “Hmmm,” she says. “Let’s see.”

  She swallows all of me—my throbbing manhood disappearing inside of her willing mouth. The warmth and suction of her feels amazing, and I push forward to make sure she’s getting every last inch of me where it belongs. When she’s done blowing me I follow her to the floor and take all of her clothes off. Her body is so amazing. I forget where we are and that anyone could pass by and see us if they were looking hard enough. I don’t care. All my eyes will see is her. All my body will feel is what between her legs.