AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You’re that confident?”
Her fingers sticky from the sugary glaze, Larkin tore open the small, square packet on her tray and pulled out the wet wipe. “I’m that confident.”
“Hmm. Guess I’ll have to up my game a little when we’re at the party, then,” he mused.
She paused in wiping her fingers. “What does that mean?” But she had the feeling she knew exactly what it meant: he intended to sexually taunt her just as he’d done during their dinner at Jolene’s house. Only this time, he’d take things up a notch. Shit.
He gave her a mysterious smile. “Don’t worry, pretty harpy. It won’t be anything you can’t handle.”
Honestly—and somewhat annoyingly—she wasn’t too sure of that.
CHAPTER TEN
His head tipped back, Teague stood beneath the stall’s overhead shower with his eyes closed as the hot water pattered down on his tired muscles and still-healing injuries. Steam hazed the air, laced with the stadium’s complimentary sandalwood-scented shampoo.
Weekend races tended to be more intense. This particular Friday had been no exception. The afternoon race he’d just competed in—and won—had involved incredibly nasty hurdles. He’d come away with plenty of wounds, and all were stinging like a bitch. They were further aggravated by the soap suds and shampoo, since it had been impossible to ensure that every single injury avoided contact with the silky bubbles.
Despite the loud whirring of the fan above him, Teague could easily hear the many sounds that echoed throughout the locker room—laughter, playful smack-talk, the splatter of water on tile, the gurgle of pipes, the hiss of spray cans, the squeaking of shoes, and the clang of locker doors slamming shut.
With their enhanced sense of smell, his inner demon wasn’t fond of locker rooms. There were too many astringent scents, such as body spray, bleach, and citrus air freshener.
The hellhorse racing stadium naturally had a plentiful amount of locker rooms, given how many races took place per hour. Whenever competitors arrived at the stadium, they were assigned the same locker room as the other hellhorses of their gender who’d be competing in their race.
Some might think that such a thing was a bad idea since racers might not be all that nice to their competitors. But although on the track they might go so far as to pull dirty moves that included harming each other, that shit got left behind once the race was over.
There was a sense of camaraderie among hellhorses . . . though not always the most pleasant kind. As evidenced by the guy in the neighboring shower who persisted in singing really badly and letting out an evil laugh each time one of the others complained that their ears were bleeding. Another hellhorse was whining because there was no toilet paper in his stall, begging someone to toss a fresh roll to him, but the others only teased and laughed at him.
Yeah, in a bad situation, hellhorses often weren’t all that helpful.
As the water steadily drummed down on him, Teague’s attention drifted to the upcoming party. He figured it would be a blast, so he was looking forward to it. Some didn’t like descendants and considered them mutts, but he’d never understood why it mattered that their breed only came into being after fallen angels mated with demons. Who gave a fuck?
What he was most looking forward to was seeing Larkin. Touching her, kissing her, playing with her sanity.
He hadn’t seen her since they talked at the bakery a few days ago. He’d telepathically checked in with her daily, though. Not only to check that Holt hadn’t again approached her, but because he just liked talking to her. He saw no need to lie to himself about it.
Teague had hoped that Holt would at some point seek him out. It had to be killing the cambion to stay away, given how furious he was about the brand. But he had apparently decided to be on his best behavior to appease Larkin, because he’d not only kept his distance from Teague, he’d also ordered his minion to cease following him. It was a crying shame, really.
Having rinsed off the shampoo and soap suds, Teague turned off the spray and then pushed open the frosted glass door. The cool air whispered over him, making little bumps rise on his flesh. Stepping out of the stall, he swiped a cotton towel from the shelf, dabbed his face with it, and then wrapped it around his hips.
Crossing to the countertop, he swiped a hand over the steamed-up wall-mounted mirror and took stock of his wounds, probing each one. They were healing well, and the bruises were already a faint yellow.
Heading for the rows of narrow metal lockers, he padded along the beige tiled floor, leaving faint wet footprints behind; passing the sinks, urinals, and toilet stalls.
There were a few other hellhorses still lurking, talking and readying themselves to leave. One, Azaire, was leaning against the concrete wall with both a t-shirt and a roll of toilet paper in hand, grinning like a fool.
