Savage: a Fighter Erotic Romance Novella (2 page)

“Darlin’…?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

I shook away my breathlessness.  Jesus, I was pathetic when there were pretty men around.  “I needed a place to stay.  It’s cold out.”

He nodded and pulled out a cigarette from his pocket.  “Makes sense,” he said, lighting it up and taking a puff.  I watched the way his lips formed around it, entranced.  “You look half dead, kid.  We need to get something inside you.”

My jaw dropped at such boldness, but then I saw him signal the bartender to bring over a drink.  I immediately closed my mouth and felt red creep into my cheeks.  Here I was assuming the worst when the poor guy just wanted to help me out.  I took the drink from the bartender, avoiding looking into her or the man’s eyes out of shame.

So far this night was going wonderfully.

“So this fight,” I said, desperate to change the subject and leave that faux pas in the past.  “What kind of fighting is it?” I asked, taking a sip of the drink he had bought for me. 

Beer.  Gross. 

I grimaced, and he laughed at my twisted up nose and frown.  I had always hated beer.

“MMA, darlin’.  That’s where the best fights are at.”  He reached over and took the beer from me, signaling to the bar tender again.  “Can we have a Coke for the kid?” he called to her.

She nodded, her blonde curls bobbing up and down in time with her massive hoop earrings.  I frowned as she walked away back to the kitchen. 

“I’m not a kid,” I grumbled.

“Well you’re certainly not doing well on your own,” he said, peering at me closer.  “Look at you, you’re damn near skin and bones.  Where are you staying?  Who is it that’s feeding you … or really
not
feeding you?”

I ducked my head.  “I don’t stay with anybody.”

“So…” he said, drawing the word out with his drawl. 

God damn, it was sexy.  I imagined the sound of his voice as he said my name in that drawl, and a shiver when down my spine.  I tried to ignore it, anchoring myself back to reality.

“I’m … independent.  I’m not tied down anywhere.”

There was a moment where he examined me with those clear green eyes, and some new recognition slipped into them.  He leaned back, studying me.

“You’re homeless,” he said simply.

I shrugged noncommittally as the bartender brought me my Coke.

“Ain’t safe for a girl like you to be homeless around here,” he said, rubbing his neck.  There was genuine worry in his voice, and it confused me.  Why should he care if I was safe?  I was a stranger.  A nobody.  I meant nothing to him.  “You sure you ain’t got nowhere to stay?”

“I’ve got here,” I said, keeping my gaze down.

He sighed.  “Well, yeah, but I know the owner of this joint, and he ain’t as charitable as I suspect you think he is.  Listen, kid, I’ve got some business to do, but I’ll be back in a little while, okay?  And when I get back, we’re finding you a place to stay.”

I bristled.  “I’m not stupid enough to go home with someone I don’t know.”

His eyes widened.  “I ain’t saying that, darlin’.  I’m saying I’m about to win some money, and you need it more than I do.  Use it to find a place to sleep tonight, alright?”

“Win some money?” I asked, genuinely curious.  I leaned forward, cocking my head to the side.  “You’re a … what?  Some kind of businessman?  Or just a gambler?”

He gave me a cocky grin.  “Little of both, kid.  Now sit tight.  This shouldn’t take but half an hour, and then we’ll find you a place to stay.”

I watched him swagger away and then returned to my Coke, shaking my head.  Well, as far as drunk loners go, he was an okay guy.  Pretty, at least. 

After about ten minutes, he hadn’t returned yet but the crowds had started gathering around the cage in the center of the bar.  Hoping to see him somewhere there—he had to be around the men taking bets, right?—I followed them, pushing my way to the front of the crowd where the cage’s stage began.  The crowd was growling, screeching, and whistling, some of them banging on the cage’s wire or throwing old beer bottles at it, demanding the start of the match.

In front of us, an announcer took the stage.

“Are you ready for a fight?” he called into a microphone.  He threw his arms out and took in the hoots and hollers that answered him from the drunk, rowdy crowd.

“In this corner,” he said, turning around and gesturing to it.  “He’s a monster of a man, sponsored by Joey LaGrange.  He’s a nasty bastard here to challenge our champion, and he says he can tear that motherfucker limb from limb.  Ladies and gentlemen, Mad Thad Richards!”

The crowd roared as Mad Thad stomped out.  He was a troll of a man, nearly as tall as the building itself and hulking with muscles that bulged against his old, ratty clothes.  Even his footsteps seemed to reverberate throughout the room.  I gulped, watching him take in the cheers and screams of the people around him.  He looked as if he could crush me with his pinky.

“And in this corner,” the announcer yelled, “You all know who it is, sponsored by Mitch Vera.  A man who needs no introduction, who tore his way through America and left no survivors, who’s the most brutal son of a bitch this side of the Mississippi…”

The crowd exploded with screams and as a shadow figure walked out from the corner.  He didn’t pander to the crowd like Thad did, nor did he stomp around or wave his arms.  He was cool and composed, striding to his corner with his head down and his jaw clenched. 

My eyes widened as I realized who it was.

“Lucas Stone,” the announcer cried to thunderous applause and screams. 

“Lucas Stone,” I repeated to myself as I watched the man I had talked to at the bar take his place in the corner.  He lifted his green eyes up as he took in his competitor, and that grizzled beard twitched as he smirked with a knowing look.  He cracked his knuckles and took a fighting stance, and the roars of the crowd became totally deafening.

Things had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting around here.

.

FIGHT NIGHT

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

The match started to thunderous screams and applause.  The heat of bodies pressed against me and the stench of alcohol and sweat nearly smothered me.  Lucas took a few steps forward to the center of the cage, almost as if he didn’t know or care about the giant waiting there to crush him.  The announcer gave a signal, then screamed for the match to start.

My jaw dropped when it did.

Almost immediately, Thad barreled towards him, but Lucas deftly escaped his strike.  He slipped under his arm, and Lucas’ leg should out to trip him.  Thad fell over with a thunderous sound that shook the floor and left me breathless.  Above him, Lucas smirked again, that cocky look returning to his expression.  He cracked his knuckles and stretched his arms.

Thad stood up, blood running down his face from where he had hit it on the floor.  A gash cut across his forehead, the blood oozing from it grimly. 

I gasped at the sight of it, the reality of the fight hitting me.  This wasn’t fighting like you saw in TV, all scripted and fake like a play.  This was real.  The was brutal.  When they said only one man leaves, they meant it.  Only one of them was going to come out of here in one piece.

I just hoped to God that man would be Lucas.

The fight started in earnest then, and I stood on my tiptoes to see it past the masses of people flooding the cage to catch the fight.  Lucas and Thad struggled with each other, each throwing punches and kicks that left the other bloody and broken.  They held nothing back.  Every attack was vicious and bloodthirsty.  Sweat dripped down their bare chests and mingled with the blood.

My heart raced and I wanted to scream at the people in front of me, to tear them away and let me see Lucas.  I needed to know if he was alright or even still alive. 

Yet every few seconds, he would come back in my range of vision, and he would be fine.  Battered, bruised, and bloody … but fine.  The man was like a demon, but not the evil kind like Jeff, something more furious and passionate.  There was a fire in his eyes, and every strike from Thad just seemed to make him even more eager to fight.  I watched him beat down his opponent until they were both bloody and ragged.

Thad hit the floor with a thud, and I stretched desperately to see what had happened over the heads of those in front of me.  When I finally caught sight of it, I gasped.  Thad was on the floor, bloody and unconscious.  Above him, the announcer held Lucas’ hand high.  He held the microphone up and cried into it:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, once again … your champion, Lucas Stone!”

The crowd roared for him again, and I watched as they flooded the cage.  Thad’s men appeared to drag his huge figure off stage as the crowd congratulated Lucas. 

One man appeared as well, and he stood out from the rest of the trashy, drunk, slovenly dressed crowds.  He wore a black silk suit and seemed to be in his fifties.  His face was lined with wrinkles, but he was not weak—rather, he looked as if he himself had once been a fighter and could step back into the ring any time he wished.  I watched in a daze as he walked to Lucas, the path automatically clearing in front of him as if people knew who he was.  In his hand, he held a wad of money, which he pressed into Lucas’ palm.

Lucas looked up at him with a dark look that disturbed me.  It wasn’t happy or grateful.  It was bitter and hateful.  He clenched his jaw and gave the black suited man a sharp nod, taking the money from him.  The suited man walked away, leaving Lucas glaring after him.

Strange, I thought.  Strange, disturbing, and even more confusing than anything else that had gone on that night.

Suddenly, Lucas’ expression changed as if he was remembering something vitally important.  He glanced down at the wad of bills in his lap and counted them for a moment, then looked out into the crowds.  I saw him shout something, but couldn’t hear him over the roars of the crowd that scrambled to congratulate and touch him.

He shouted it again, and this time I read his lips.

Hey kid
.

I raised my hand up over the crowds, trying to draw his gaze over to me.  It passed over me a few times, and I groaned in frustration.  Suddenly, a man to my left laughed a drunk, hacking laugh.  “You trying to get the champion’s attention, Pretty?” he asked.

“What?” I stammered, backing away from him. 
Pretty
.  Shit, that reminded me too much of a memory I didn’t want to think of right now.

“Don’t be shy, little lady,” the man said, grabbing my arm and hoisting me up.  I scrambled to catch my balance, desperately trying not to be dropped on the floor.  He held me up over the crowds and began hollering at Lucas.  “Hey, Stone,” he screamed.  “This little lady wants to give you a hero’s welcome, I hear.”

“What—no!” I cried, though nobody could hear me.  Stupid drunks making assumptions.

Fortunately, Lucas caught sight of me.  A weary smile, one not really happy but more satisfied, appeared on his face.  He gave a sad laugh at the man’s screams (‘She looks like the real prize tonight, ey cowboy?’) and made eye contact with me. 

He pointed to the side of the bar towards the back patio.  I nodded and obeyed, slipping down from the man’s grip and out to the patio to wait for him in the cold winter night.  Mostly I was just thankful out of the screaming, hot hellhole that was that bar. 

I drew my coat closer over me, trying to make sense of everything I’d seen and heard that night.  Strange wasn’t really enough to cover it.

The moon was a bit higher in the sky, full and fat and white, when I finally heard the crunch of leaves behind me.  The sounds of the bar had wound down as it had gotten late and the patrons had left.  Only the sad sound of a single jukebox playing old 50s love songs drifted from its doors.  I turned to watch Lucas walk to me, his eyes soft and his hands holding the money.

“You’re a real son of a bitch,” I said admiringly, sizing him up again.  He had his cowboy hat back on, the brim of it tilted down again to cover his face.  “So this is your dark secret?”

“Ain’t nothing secret about it, kid,” he said, shrugging.  He joined me on the patio, looking out into the starry night sky.  “This is what I do.  Fight fights, win fights, get my money, leave.”

“Sounds hard.”

He shrugged again.  “It’s a decent living.”

“I can see that.”

He looked down at the wad of cash in his hand.  “Told you I’d win you some money, darlin’,” he said softly, holding it up again.  From the pile he plucked several crisp hundred dollar bills.  He handed them to me wordlessly, and I took them with wide eyes.  They felt electric in my hands.  This was more money than I had ever held in my life.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered.

He snorted.  “Don’t I?  You look like you’re damn near about to keel over, darlin’.  Nah, this is for me too.  Need to sort out some karma, after all.”

I laughed.  “You’re an okay guy, Lucas.”

He grinned at me, and this time it was a genuine grin, not the harsh smirk from the cage.  “It’s Luke, darlin’.”

“Luke?”

“Only … only people I don’t like call me Lucas.  You can call me Luke.”