Takedown Teague

by Shay Savage

  Caged

  Book 1

  Takedown Teague

  By Shay Savage

  Copyright © 2015 Shay Savage

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Editing : Chayasara

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems-except in the case of brief excerpts or quotations embodied in review or critical writings without the express permission of the author, Shay Savage.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dedication

  For Jadalulu, who sent a Tweet in July of 2012 wanting to read a story about a cage fighter. Thanks for always inspiring me, encouraging me, and keeping me entertained!

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1—Win the Fight

  Chapter 2—Save the Girl

  Chapter 3—Make the Move

  Chapter 4 - Find the Step

  Chapter 5—Question the Motive

  Chapter 6—Meet the Ex

  Chapter 7—Stake the Claim

  Chapter 8—Realize the Truth

  Chapter 9—Clean the Mess

  Chapter 10—Accept the Arrangements

  Chapter 11—Keep the Distance

  Chapter 12—Admit the Reality

  Chapter 13—Set the Rhythm

  Chapter 14—Seize the Opportunity

  Chapter 15—Toe the Line

  Chapter 16—Fear the Worst

  Chapter 17—Kiss the Girl

  Chapter 18—Take the Trip

  Chapter 19—Tell the Tale

  Chapter 20—Reach the Destination

  Chapter 21—Challenge the Beliefs

  Chapter 22—Reveal the Past

  Chapter 23—Take the Plunge

  Author’s notes

  Excerpt from Caged: Book 2—Trapped

  More Books by Shay Savage

  About the Author

  Chapter 1—Win the Fight

  I paced.

  The cold cement of the hallway floor made my feet tingle a little even through the tape wrapped around my insteps. My hands clenched into fists, unclenched, and then clenched again. I didn’t know why I was feeling particularly fidgety—this night was like every other night when I worked. Something just seemed to have me on edge, and I didn’t know what. I danced back and forth on the balls of my feet a few times, tilted my head to the ceiling with my eyes closed, and blew out a long, slow breath.

  Maybe I just needed to get laid.

  The deep base of “Sonne” by Rammstein started thumping through the sound system, and the door in front of me opened. My muscles flexed from shoulders to ass, and I prowled out of the empty, slanted hallway and into the crowd.

  “Eins…Hier kommt die Sonne…”

  The noise was insane for such a small place. It always was. Feet First was a hole-in-the-wall drinking establishment in the crappier part of the city and probably couldn’t fit more than three hundred people inside of it and keep a fire marshal happy, not that anyone in a uniform came around that area. That was just asking for trouble, and the cops and other officials would just as soon go give someone a parking ticket. They were less likely to get a bottle over the head or a knife in the back that way.

  “Zwei…Hier kommt die Sonne…”

  Hands reached through the holes in the chain-link fence to try to grab at me as I raised my arms up over my head and roared at the crowd like some kind of half-domesticated circus animal. I spun in a small circle and absorbed the screams of the crowd into my skin as I made my way to the cage.

  “Takedown! Takedown!”

  I glared menacingly toward the onlookers, baring my teeth and growling. Near the end of the ramp and the door of the cage, I flung myself at the chain link between me and the patrons of the bar, snarling through clenched teeth and causing a group of them to scurry backwards. Their eyes were wide and bright as they laughed nervously before moving back toward the fence. Again, they tried to reach through with their hands.

  “Drei…Sie ist der hellste Stern von allen…”

  Executing another slow spin with my arms raised, I ducked slightly to enter the fighting cage. From across the other side, Yolanda sauntered over in shorts that looked about the size Barbie would wear, and a bikini top that left nothing to the imagination except for the bottom half of her nipples. She also took a little spin as she moved closer to me and tossed her sleek, black hair over her shoulder. More screams came from the audience—this time mostly from the guys.

  The patrons of Feet First were mostly men though there were always more women watching the bloodshed than you might think. Probably at least two women to every five men would enter the bar nightly, and those that made it through the first two minutes of a fight usually came back for more. Yolanda thought they came back to watch me, but I thought they were just as bloodthirsty as the guys—they just didn’t admit it as readily.

  Hoots and hollers came from all sides as Yolanda sauntered over to me and looked me up and down. I gazed right back at her, turning my head slightly as she began to circle. She was more familiar with the scene than I was, having been a fighter years before I ever even thought of it. In her mid-thirties, she could still pass for twenty-five with ease.

  She walked around me like a cat, a single finger stroking over my shoulders and neck. She ran her fingernails lightly over the tribal tattoos covering my back and then dipped the tips of her fingers into my emerald green trunks. With still slow movements, she checked all around the hem of my shorts.

  The maneuver was to verify the fighters didn’t have anything hard, sharp, or hidden inside, but in reality it was nothing more than foreplay for the audience. Classical conditioning. They were drooling now, and they’d all orgasm by the time the fight was over. I eyed her with a cocky half grin as she finished it off by running her hand over my dick, much to the pleasure of the crowd.

  “Lässt dich hart zu Boden gehen

  Und die Welt zählt laut bis zehn…”

  My song faded, and some rap song started up instead. A big bald-headed guy emerged from the opposite side and yelled obscenities at the booing members of the audience. He had a cheering section as well, but this was my venue, and I was the favored fighter. He was shorter than me by quite a bit but stocky with long, hairy arms.

  Yolanda handed me a mouth guard. I slipped it into my mouth and bit down. I stretched my arms up above my head once more and danced around on the balls of my feet. My opponent entered the cage, was given the same treatment from the sleek bronze woman, and the door was shut with a clang.

  There was no referee.

  There were no rounds.

  There was really only one rule—whoever taps out or goes unconscious loses.

  We circled each other, moving slowly without getting any closer. The noise of the audience lessened, and my eyes focused on the man in the cage with me. He crouched slightly, and his nostrils flared as he breathed heavily through them. His fists tightened as he raised them up in front of his body.

  Awareness covered me. I knew the position of every muscle in my body, and I positioned each one in preparation for what was to come.

  This was my element.

  My show.

  My life.

  My one and only love.

  I let him come at me first, gauging his tempo, favored hand, and which foot he liked to put forward. Leaning back quickly, I dodged his first blow and smacked him with an open palm across his left temple. He shook it off easily—it wasn’t a very hard blow—and backed off as I jumped toward him, which l
eft me open for his foot into my lower back. I gasped through the mouthpiece at the clean hit and backed off a bit to recover.

  He didn’t give me much time.

  I kept my left hand up to block whatever blows he sent in my direction, while I jabbed with my right to punch him in the stomach. As he brought up his knee to connect with my kidney again, I wrapped my arm around his leg and held tight but didn’t let him fall. I turned to the side and followed the blow with my foot into his ribs. He fell backwards, recovered, crouched and jumped at me, landing a good blow across my temple.

  I was stunned for a moment as lights flashed in the back of my head. I felt his arms wrapping around my chest and shoulders as he shoved me backwards and into the cage, his fist coming up and smacking me in the head again as my shoulder scraped against the chain links. I leaned back into the cage wall and lifted my feet to wrap my legs around his waist.

  A fist landed forcefully against my thigh, causing the muscle there to clench, but I didn’t let go. I twisted to the right and then the left and smashed my forehead into his nose. He lost his footing, and we both toppled to the floor as the crowd screamed at us.

  I landed on my back, but I kept my legs gripped around his middle. My vision blurred slightly as I twisted again and flipped us over. His feet were up in the air behind me, and as my thigh muscles gripped him tighter, I started raining open handed blows to his head and face.

  Without gloves, closed fists hurt my hands almost as much as they hurt his face, but that didn’t stop me from switching to them. I could feel blood on my fingers, but I wasn’t sure if it was from my knuckles or his battered nose. His arms came up to shield him from the pounding, so I leaned back to punch his ribs.

  Sweat ran down my back, and I had to work hard to keep breathing steadily through my nose. My ear was ringing a bit from the earlier punch to my temple, but my vision was clear again. My opponent tried to bring his leg up to kick at my back, but my hold was too strong. I kept up the punches with my right hand as my left arm sought his neck.

  Once I had my forearm across his throat, the fight was all but over. I felt him struggling under me, but the intensity became muted and shallow. I hit him on the side of the head a couple more times before I felt the tap of his fingers on my bicep.

  I released my hold on him, jumped backwards, and spit the mouthpiece out on the floor. I watched as he went nearly limp below me, a trickle of blood staining his cheek and forehead. I stumbled a little as I backed away, and the sting near my temple finally registered with my brain. My head throbbed, but I could still focus okay. I heard the door of the cage open behind me and felt Yolanda’s hand around my wrist, but I shook her off, still dazed.

  The screams from those outside the cage filled my ears, and the sound rippled through my skin as I collected my thoughts, realized it was over, and reached up toward the ceiling. I screamed in victory as the fans chanted in unison.

  “Takedown! Takedown!”

  Yolanda’s hand reached up and grabbed my elbow, since at her height she couldn’t reach my wrist, and she shook at my arm as she cried out to the crowd.

  “Takedown Teague—victor again for his twenty-seventh consecutive fight!”

  The guy I was fighting rolled over and propped himself up on his hands and knees. Yolanda went to help him to his feet, and he moved over to toss his arm around my neck for what I guess was supposed to be a manly hug.

  “One of these days, I’m gonna beat you, Teague. I swear it!” he laughed.

  “Have we fought before?” I asked. The guy didn’t even look familiar, but then again, the fights all run together in my head.

  He just laughed and shook his head.

  “This is the third time you’ve kicked my ass.”

  “I must owe you a beer,” I said, and we both grinned at each other.

  Turning back toward the crowd, I was bombarded with faces and hands poking through the fence as well as cries of congratulations as I stepped through the cage door. I high-fived a couple dozen people on my way back down the ramp to the make-shift locker room on the lower floor for a moment of peace before I had to go out and meet the public again.

  As the door closed behind me, the noise was at least partially cut off, and my head throbbed less as I made my way to the sink. Wincing a bit, I splashed cold water on the cut above my eye. It wasn’t bad and only barely bleeding. There was a place on my back where I hit the cage that was likely worse, but I couldn’t see how bad the cut was. Vanity was my main concern; I hoped it hadn’t fucked up my tattoo. That shit cost me a lot of money.

  I stripped and headed to the single stand-up shower in the locker room. The water wasn’t hot enough to feel very good or relax my muscles, but it was certainly better than nothing. I washed quickly and grabbed one of the little towels folded up on a table next to the wall. They weren’t big enough to be considered actual bath towels, so I just ran one of them over my chest, ass, and crotch before tossing it in the corner. It wouldn’t fit around my waist, so there was no point in even trying to cover myself. Crouching down in front of a group of metal lockers, I started rummaging through my gym bag for clothes.

  “Nice...”

  Yolanda waltzed in without knocking, as usual, and emitted a low whistle. I glanced at her over my shoulder before going back to the items in my bag. She just kept eyeing me, clearly checking out my junk as I squatted down in front of my locker.

  Whatever. I didn’t have anything to hide.

  Grabbing a pair of boxers, I stood and slipped them on before turning around and sitting on the little bench against the concrete wall. Yolanda knelt down in front of me and deftly removed the tape from my feet and ankles while I unwound it from my wrists. Once that was done, I grabbed a pair of ripped up jeans and pulled them on.

  “Turn around,” Yolanda ordered, and I did as she said. “Sit. I can’t reach you from there.”

  I sighed but couldn’t really argue. She was maybe all of five-two, and I was nearly a foot taller. She wouldn’t be able to check me out if I remained standing. I sat on the bench and she looked at my shoulder.

  “What’s the damage?” I asked. “Tats okay?”

  “Just a scratch,” she confirmed. “Tats survived.”

  Yolanda pulled a bottle of rubbing alcohol out of her bag. Aside from being a cage fighter before she tore her ACL, she claimed to be a registered nurse. She certainly seemed to know what she was doing and even stitched up my side once when someone pulled a knife on me after losing a fight. The stitches weren’t pretty, but they kept me from losing a lot of blood on the way to the hospital. Yolanda tipped the bottle upside down with a piece of gauze over the opened lid and rubbed some of the alcohol on my shoulder, which made me hiss.

  “Don’t be such a baby.” She clicked her tongue at me.

  “That fucking hurts.”

  “You’ll go nine minutes getting punched in the face, but a little alcohol always makes you whine.”

  “I’m not whining,” I insisted, shrugging her off. It didn’t work, because she went after the cut over my eye next. Once she was done with her mothering, I opened my locker, located the small felt bag on the top shelf, and dumped the contents into my hand—two round silver earrings. I slipped them both through the matching holes in my left ear. “Don’t you have anything in there that doesn’t fucking sting like a bitch?”

  “Pussy.”

  I snorted, rolled my shoulder a couple of times, and then reached into my gym bag for a T-shirt.

  “Don’t put that on,” Yolanda said with another exaggerated sigh.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one, you’ve got a lot of female fans out there tonight,” she explained. “You know they want you half naked, and you also know you love to show off the ink. Besides, you just pulled that nasty, wrinkled thing out of your gym bag.”

  “So?”

  “So, it smells like a dead dog.”

  “Nice.” I tossed the shirt back in the bag and zipped it up. “Let’s do this.”


  Back inside the bar, it was a madhouse. I shoved my way through, using my bulk and notoriety to get myself through the crowd and up to the bar. I maneuvered up to the very end to keep from being completely surrounded and stood next to a big poster on the wall. It depicted an old guy with a long, white beard holding up a rat. At the bottom it read:

  “Feet first, Arthur. It’s the only way out of here!”

  I had no fucking clue what it was supposed to mean, but Dordy, the owner of the bar, thought it was hysterical. He was a short, lanky guy with black hair and eyes. He was from the Philippines or maybe Malaysia; I could never remember exactly. He was behind the bar nearly every night and apparently bought the place because he liked talking to drunk people though he never had a drink himself. He used to work on a cruise ship and made killer frozen drinks.

  About fifteen people tried to buy me drinks, holding out long neck domestic beers and other shit I wouldn’t touch. I did hand two of them to my now bandaged opponent, who seemed to need them more than I did anyway. I politely declined the rest of the drinks until Dordy placed a rocks glass with a single malt scotch in front of me—neat. When I looked up at him, Dordy motioned to a guy at the end of the bar, sitting there with a similar drink. His neatly styled dark hair was slicked back over his temples, and as our eyes met, he raised his glass.

  I copied his motion and sipped at the whiskey. It was top shelf—well, for this place, anyway—and went down pretty smooth. I raised an eyebrow at him before turning away and smiling seductively at a young woman in leather shorts and a tank top. When I had enough of being pawed at by various women and barraged with enough questions about my fighting style from various men, I snuck out back for a smoke.

  I climbed up the half dozen stairs that brought me level to the street, jumped over the side rail at the top and into the enclosed area behind the bar. It was well past two in the morning, and the street was completely devoid of traffic. Most people in this neighborhood didn’t have cars, and those who might have been passing through had done so in the safer hours of daylight. There wasn’t much of anyone around except a small group of guys sitting on the steps of an abandoned warehouse on the other side of the street, passing a bottle in a brown paper bag back and forth between them.