Page 1 of Takedown Artist
Chapter 1
Diesel
There he is. In the same place he sits every day.
Sprawled out in a corner of the gym, pencil in hand, sketchbook open. His earbuds blocking out the daily chaos. He rubs his nose and leaves behind a charcoal smudge from his fingers. He doesn’t notice.
I notice. I notice far too much about Micah Vance. More than I should.
It’s probably less notice and more obsession. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve spent three months watching the most beautiful man I’ve ever met finally learn to feel comfortable here. I was hooked the first time I saw him. Defiant and shaking, he demanded we immediately go help Tiernan with that douchebag Derek, Arlo’s ex. Then Tiernan hired him to handle our social media, and now he’s here every day, which is wonderful and awful at the same time.
Smudged face aside, Micah’s stunning. Bright green eyes like cut glass, messy black hair that never stays in place. Wide, generous mouth. Snark and attitude he uses to protect thatbeautiful, creative mind. There isn’t anything about Micah that I don’t like. Not a single thing.
And that right there is my entire problem.
Guys like me don’t end up with guys who look like that. Plus, he’s talented, gorgeous, and super smart. I’m a tired 34-year-old fighter with a twice-broken nose and a battered face that’s never gonna make me a cover model. I barely made it through high school, and my mom’s a teacher, which tells you exactly what the poor woman had to work with. Not to mention, I’m still struggling along at the amateur level when I should have gone pro years ago.
It’s for the best, really. He’s going somewhere. He’s going to be something amazing. Me, not so much.
“Diesel! Tell me you brought food today, my dude. I’m starving.” Tank slaps my back, but I’m a sturdy guy, so it doesn’t even faze me. It’s not surprising the red-headed chaos gremlin is already hitting me up for food. There’s never a day Tank doesn’t want food.
I resist the urge to smack the back of his head.
“You’re always starving,” I say.
“I’m a growing boy. Besides, you bring in the best food!”
I snort. I bring in the only food. There’s a difference.
I don’t actually mind bringing in food. My mom taught me to be self-sufficient, and I learned how to cook early in life. I enjoy it, and it’s a way for me to relax. We used to spend every Sunday cooking and meal prepping for the coming week. Mom was all about being organized and prepared.
To be fair, I’ve also been trying to eat more protein lately. I found this guy on TikTok who has some delicious-looking high-protein recipes. It works out because I have an entire gym full of guinea pigs who will eat anything you put in front of them. They’re at least good for an honest critique. Sometimes too honest, but I have thick skin, which helps.
“Check out the break room. Casserole is on the counter.”
“Sweet!”
“Leave some for the rest of us. If there’s not enough for Micah and Arlo, I’ll sic Tiernan on you.”
“Why is everyone so mean to me? It’s like you don’t even know me.” He throws his hands up dramatically. That’s Tank. Resident drama llama.
“Or we know you too well!” I call as he rushes off.
“He is like black hole. Always empty.” Anvil’s Russian, and he’s never fully gotten rid of the accent. I don’t think he wants to because he thinks it’s intimidating. It’s not. What is intimidating is his size. At 265, he fights in the heavyweight class, so he’s even larger than me, and with that white-blonde hair, he looks like the Russian villain from Rocky IV.
I admit, I’m still a little salty that he went pro last year. Not at him, not really. More at myself. I’ve had opportunities, but everything seems to fall through at the last minute. I try not to think too hard about why that happens.
“Isn’t that the truth,” I say instead.
“You have class today, yes? The kids, they will be excited.”
That gets me smiling. Teaching my BJJ class is the highlight of my week. Kids have a way of making everything fun. I almost feel guilty for getting paid to teach. Almost.
You also love it because Micah always watches to get his social media pictures.
There is that. I won’t pretend I don’t like it. I do. The way his face lights up during class makes me wonder about his childhood. He’s tight-lipped about his past. I’m afraid to ask about it, even though I’d love to learn more about him.
“Yup, class in an hour.”
