Page 6 of Takedown Artist
Dinner ends up being so much fun that I forget all about table manners. Troy’s parents keep us thoroughly entertained with hilarious stories from his childhood, and Gloria had plenty to share from her years teaching middle school. More power to her, because there’s not enough money in the world for me to wrangle a bunch of pre-teen kids.
When I finally leave for the night, I don’t leave empty-handed. Not only do I have the signed papers, but I’ve got enough food to last me the rest of the week, and I’m bringing my car back next weekend so James can take a look at it. I also got hugs, even from Troy, which I have to admit were kind of nice.
I’m still not completely sure how all this happened, but I don’t hate it.
Chapter 3
Micah
Friday’s finally over, and it’s almost midnight by the time I get home. Arlo warned me that exhibition nights run late. When I left, he was all snuggled up with Tiernan on the office couch. I ignore the pang I get every time I see them all loved up. The last thing I need is some clingy boyfriend, because I’m fine on my own.
I’m done peopling for the week, and I’m looking forward to doing absolutely nothing all day tomorrow. I need to recharge.
Before O’Rourke’s, I’d never paid attention to MMA as a sport. Sports aren’t my thing. Watching a bunch of hot, muscular guys wrestle around and punch each other? Turns out I’m a huge fan. After seeing the way they all train, it’s no wonder they’re all walking around with six-packs and V-cuts. The eye candy makes this whole job worthwhile.
Troy is my favorite fighter to watch, especially when he spars. He’s also exactly my type when it comes to hookups, except he’s not a dick, which seems to be my go-to lately. And we’re friends, which means I choose to ignore how attractive Ifind him. Mixing work and personal is a recipe for disaster, no matter how sexy I find him. Everyone knows that.
When he’s in the ring, he’s a beast, but out of it? He’s bringing in lunch and quietly fixing stuff around the gym. I couldn’t figure out his angle at first. It never occurred to me he didn’t actually have one. What does that say about me? This is why I need therapy.
My roommate, Jasper, is asleep. I take my shoes off at the door, shutting it quietly. The dude’s a dick ninety percent of the time, but it’s much worse when you wake him up.
I’m moving out as soon as I can. I don’t have an actual lease because technically he’s not allowed to sublet, but we agreed on a year and I want to be fair, even if he’s a jerk.
He seemed fine when I first moved in, but it’s been a few months and now I’ve seen his true colors. But my budget was small, and I was desperate. I’ve got to remember to ask the guys if they can point me toward a cheap place to rent.
When I open my bedroom door, I’m speechless. My room is trashed, and it takes a minute for that to really hit home.
My clothes and my bedding have been dumped in a haphazard pile in the middle of the room. The desk and dresser drawers are all open and empty, the contents strewn across the floor, including my brand-new set of colored pencils. Damn, those were expensive. And there lies my old sketchbook—face down on the floor, a page half torn out and folded at the corner.
Oh, hell no! That fucking asshole!
A rage like I’ve never felt before hits me, and I’m banging on Jasper’s door before I can stop myself.
“Wake up, Jasper! What the hell happened to my room?” I shout through the door.
I hear some shuffling before the door is flung open. Jasper is not an attractive man. Even less when he’s woken up. He says he’s thirty-eight. While that may be true, he looks far older. Hisreceding hairline and the tufts of gray hair sprouting from his ears like an unweeded garden tell a different story. They wiggle when he gets mad. I can’t decide if it’s disgusting or hilarious. Maybe a bit of both.
“I’m sleeping! What the fuck, Micah?”
“What happened in my room? Was there a break-in?” I’m not shouting, but I’m definitely not friendly.
“What? Of course not. Why would you think that?” he glares at me accusingly.
I take a deep breath and count to three before I answer. It should be ten, but it’s late and I’m tired.
“Because,” I say with more patience than he deserves. “My room has been trashed and my change jar is missing.”
“You woke me up for that? Dick move. I needed some money for pizza. I was short. Why are you being an asshole?” He shakes his head as if I’m at fault here, before tugging his blue terrycloth bathrobe closed over his sizable beer belly.
“Oh, so you won’t mind if I go looking for change in your room?” I ask because snark is my default setting.
“What? Of course, I’d mind. Jesus, that’s my personal space.” He looks offended that I have the audacity to even think about entering his room. Fine, two can play that game.
“And my room is my personal space,” I say.
“Dude, it’smyapartment. Everything ismypersonal space,” he huffs at me. That’s right. At me. As though I’m the one being completely ridiculous.
“That’s not how it works,” I shout, the volume of our voices increasing with every exchange, and my frustration with it.
