Takedown Teague (Caged 1)

After I gave myself another quick rinse, I turned off the water and wrapped up in a towel. The TV had been left on, so I grabbed the remote and hit the power button. Inside my bedroom, I yanked at the bottom dresser drawer until it opened. The drawer was devoid of clothing. The only thing inside was a small plastic box. I looked away immediately and slammed the drawer shut.

With a huge sigh, I grabbed the sweats I had worn the night before off the floor and pulled them on over my still slightly damp skin. I dropped heavily onto the bed and pretended I wasn’t still thinking about her.

I was never one to harp on anything, but I had the feeling getting her out of my system wasn’t going to be easy.

Chapter 6—Meet the Ex

“Fuck!”

Falling to the ground, I growled through my teeth and slammed my fist against the floor.

“God dammit!”

My feet became entangled, and I was unable to get up. I swung one leg out, trying to unravel myself from my opponent, but I was too deeply entwined. I fell back to the floor.

“Shit!”

I punched again.

“Ow!”

And hit my own leg.

There was just no other choice—I was going to have to do the laundry before it killed me.

*****

Thump thump thump.

I had no idea what was flopping around in the dryer, and I didn’t care. The sound was driving me over the edge, and I was considering just going over there and hauling whatever it was out, even though it wasn’t my load. I looked around at the seven other people at the laundromat, but no one else seemed to notice or care.

With two trash bags full of clean clothes at my feet, I waited for the last load to dry so I could get the fuck out of this place. I wasn’t sure if it was the act of washing and drying clothes, the atmosphere of the laundromat, or the sheer boredom of waiting for the damn clothes to dry, but there was nothing I hated more than having to do laundry.

If my Uncle Michael had walked in right then and offered me a job, I just might have taken it.

“Nice ink.” A leggy blonde eased herself down in the molded plastic seat next to mine.

“Thanks,” I replied. I could see a wavy vine motif in green and black ink winding its way up her calf.

“Where did you get it done?”

“Emily’s Body Art, across town,” I told her. “She does the best tribal art, and I wanted something custom.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said. Her hand grazed up my bicep to my shoulder, where the remainder of the tat was covered by my shirt. “Can I see the rest?”

“Sure.” I leaned forward and pulled my only clean—well, somewhat clean—ripped up T-shirt over my head. Turning a little to the right, I gave her a good view of my back.

“Wow,” she breathed. Her fingers skimmed over the design, and her light touch was both sensual and a little ticklish. I kept myself still as she touched my decorated skin. “Truly incredible. Bet that one cost you.”

“Heh,” I snickered. “More than I could really afford, but it was worth it. Emily’s also has a payment plan, and I did it in ten shorter sessions to spread it out a bit.”

Her hand reached my lower back and then started up the other side. It felt good, and I was again reminded of my pathetic excuse for a sex life, which had pretty much turned into twice-daily self-love sessions while thinking about my neighbor.

Fucking pathetic.

“Very nice,” she said as her fingers reached my shoulder, trailed over my neck and back down to the arm where she started. As she ran her hand over my bicep, I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the tats anymore.

I turned back to her with a crooked smile, and she tossed her shimmery, straight hair over one shoulder and tilted her head to the side, exposing her neck to me.