Savage Savior (Savage People 3)

He released his hold on my shirt and moved away from me, but I didn’t make a move right away. His other fist still held the sandwich wrap and the can of Coke I tried to steal from him, and my eyes zeroed on the food and the cold, sweet drink. My vision filled with black dots, and I knew that if I didn’t put food in me sometime soon, I’d probably pass out again. I hated fainting. Fainting was the worst. Fuck, I should’ve paid more attention before I tucked the food into my tattered jacket.

“You want this?” Graham raised the hand that held the sandwich, arching his eyebrows. “You want this fucking food?”

He sounded so condescending I wanted to punch him in the face, but knew I barely had any strength in me to get out of there with all my body parts intact. I nodded slowly, swallowing the ball of shame down my throat. Fuck yeah, I wanted that.

Gulping, I shrugged.

“So what if I do?”

Graham grinned like the Savage that he was and nodded. “Then you gotta pay for it, lad.”

“How?” I asked. “I have no money. Can’t you tell by my fucking clothes?”

They were torn, ragged, and I stank. I knew I stank. That was the worst part of it all. I knew I fucking reeked, and there was nothing I could do about it.

“I don’t need your money, you stupid little shit.” He laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. “I want you to fight for me.”

“To fight for you?” Had he looked at me? I was skin and bones. At that point, I highly doubted I could take down a chick who weighed a buck twenty. But he just nodded, like this was some sort of a good deal on his part. Was he drunk? More important —did I actually wanna do it? I didn’t mind fighting. I never cared too much about the blood or the pain. I was always able to see through the pain. I guess years of being abused by my stepdad trained me well.

“I’m not going to fight for you for a sandwich,” I said. It was negotiation, and we both knew it. For one sandwich? Hell no. But for three good meals a day I was willing to do a lot at this point, including sucking his dick. Okay, that was a blunt exaggeration. But I’d eat out Mrs. Singh from down the road, and that old bitch was 110. Easy.

“How about if you get three big meals a day, two snacks, and protein shakes?” Graham grinned, and I noticed the commotion around us died down. No one cared about this shit anymore. It was obvious he wasn’t going to call the police on me or kick the shit out of me.

It’s funny how human nature worked. No wonder people love watching cage fighting. People just enjoy it when others get hurt.

“I say bring this shit on. I’m game.” I hitched one shoulder, and Graham threw his head back and laughed before handing me the sandwich and the Coke. I breathed in and snatched them, then tore into the sandwich and cracked open the Coke right there in the middle of the convenient mart. My mouth watered all over the bread, and the first time my teeth sank into it, I actually moaned.

“Who do you want me to fight?” I asked between swallows.

“Not sure yet. But I can guarantee he will be bigger and stronger and will kick your ass. Don’t worry. I got a bloke named Carter who can stitch you up.”

“Hey, I’m stronger than I look.” My brows furrowed.

“I don’t give a fuck.” Graham laughed. “I need you to lose. I’m going to bet on the other guy.”

And just like that, the last bite that I took got stuck in my throat and my breath hitched.

Fuck, I was going to get so screwed.

Oh well, at least I’d have food in me.

One week later, I had my first fight.

One month later, I was already taking weekly fights, and winning most of them, too.

One year later, I was officially a Savage, with the legal documents to prove it.

“Wrap me up,” I ordered my roommate, Carter. We were sitting behind the bar. It allowed me a perfect angle of the commotion of the Irish pub we

were at. I heard the loud noises and banging of beer against old rotten wood and fuck if it didn’t make my heart beat ten times faster. I loved this part. The moments before the fight. I knew that soon, I’d enter the cage. Soon, he’d get in, too. Soon, I’d look him in the eye and I’d smile, and he would cave and he would lose—yes, lose—before we’d even touch gloves. Then it would all be over.

It was what I did.

How I made a living.

How I made a dying.

Literally.