TWO
Maestro glanced at his watch. “If we’re going to ride to Willits tonight, we’ve got to wrap this up now. Sorry, Czar, but I’m fairly certain the others are going to lose it when they hear her sing, so I don’t want to take the chance of missing out. We’ve got to move.”
For the first time in a very long time, Maestro was enthusiastic about a singer for their band. Keys, Player, Master and Maestro were outstanding with instruments, any kind of instrument. They had incredible gifts and spent time together jamming. They played at the bar Torpedo Ink owned and occasionally at the parties the club threw. They’d been looking for a singer for some time, and Maestro didn’t want to lose the opportunity with this one, which meant she had to be good.
“You need me on the ride?” Savage asked. “Thinkin’ about heading to San Francisco tonight.” Which meant he was going to beat the holy fuck out of someone—most likely a lot of someones. If he didn’t do something soon, he was going to lose his mind.
Czar looked him over. “Yeah, go with them, Savage. Diamondbacks sometimes show up at that bar. I don’t want a war, but we don’t take shit from anyone. You in control?”
Savage shrugged. Hell no, he wasn’t in control. His brain was looping like mad, demanding action while the monster in him demanded blood. So no, he wasn’t all right. “Just fine, Czar,” he lied. He’d been lying so long about how he was doing, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d told the truth.
Absinthe flicked him a glance. Shit. No one fooled Absinthe. He was a human lie detector, and just by the look on his face, he knew Savage was talking bullshit. Savage turned abruptly and stalked out. He didn’t need to hear or see any more. He was hopefully going to beat the crap out of a Diamondback. Once he did, the entire Diamondback club would be out for blood—his blood. Just the thought made him feel better.
He swung his leg over his bike and jerked on his gloves. Willits was only thirty-three miles away, but the road was so filled with curves that it took most cars about an hour to drive it. He’d straightened the road out more than once and made it in record time. He wouldn’t be able to do that this time. He was going to have to listen to his mind totally losing it while he made the run to the bar to hear some bitch sing while drunks tried to pick each other up with the same tired lines.
His brothers fired up their bikes, and, pipes roaring, they set off for the bar in Willits. He didn’t give a damn about a singer, although if it was important to Maestro and the others, it was important to him. He just didn’t give a flying fuck who she was. There was only one woman he was interested in. She crept into his thoughts night and day.
He swore under his breath. She was already there. He could taste her in his mouth. On his tongue. Her tears. They were golden, the finest wine, champagne. Hell. Four weeks and she hadn’t gone away. He shouldn’t have kissed her. He’d known when he did it that it was a bad idea.
The wind helped for a few minutes, and then she was back, winding herself around his insides. His gut had been in knots since he walked out of her hospital room. He could have found her. Code was the best on a computer. He could track anyone down. He knew he had no choice but to ask Code to do a search, because he was going to be a first-class pussy and find her. He had to, because he was going out of his fuckin’ mind. First, he had to make sure it was safe for her, and that meant a trip to the fight club and maybe a visit to one of the hard-core underground kink clubs after that.
“Shit.” He shouted it to the world, let his protest rise to the tops of the redwood trees. He’d set up some kind of addiction just with kissing her, and now he couldn’t resist her. He shouted it again, because the thought of touching another woman was abhorrent to him, and that was a very bad sign for both of them.
He took the curves on autopilot, never a good thing when on a motorcycle. His body and his bike moved together, man and machine, wind in his face, but it wasn’t strong enough to blow him clean. Nothing was. Nothing would ever be. He loathed his needs. He loathed himself. Most of his brothers were damaged. They were even broken. They just weren’t damaged, broken and programmed to be monsters.
Absinthe was riding behind him and suddenly moved his bike up to ride beside him. Absinthe took the next curve with him, side by side, coming near a drop-off, dangerously close, riding in perfect sync with him. That brought Savage up short. He wasn’t about to take one of his brothers with him because he was being deliberately careless. All this over a woman. Absinthe had a wife. A good woman. Savage liked Scarlet. Respected her, and he respected few people. Torpedo Ink was his family, and Scarlet fell into that category. He took that very seriously. Nothing could happen to Absinthe on his watch.
He glanced at Absinthe and nodded, letting him know he was paying attention again. He knew he was going to ask Code to find Seychelle. Code could break into the hospital computer records and get her address easily. It would be a piece of cake for him. Savage would hate that his brother would know Savage wasn’t strong enough to stay away from her. Hell. He dreamt about her every fuckin’ night. She not only invaded his thoughts during the day, but he found himself fantasizing about her all the time. She wouldn’t let him go.
It was possible, even probable, that if he saw her again, she wouldn’t have the same effect on him. A month had passed, and she wasn’t lying in a hospital bed, hurt. She probably wasn’t that woman. She most likely was really completely different than he remembered. His dreams and fantasies had colored his memories. He hoped like hell that was the case.
Frustrated that she’d crept into his thoughts again, he clenched his teeth and focused completely on the open road. He’d been doing that a lot, just allowing his thoughts to turn to Seychelle and not letting himself enjoy the moment. His bike had been saving him more and more. That and the fight clubs in San Francisco.
They parked their bikes in front of the bar. They’d been there half a dozen times but didn’t come often. Torpedo Ink owned their own bar, and they kept to themselves for the most part. The others went in. Maestro was eager to have the band hear the singer. Savage didn’t give a fuck about the singer, or whether or not she was good. He did give a fuck about his club, and he was responsible for their safety. He needed action to drain off the pent-up fury that kept building and building until he thought he might explode. That wasn’t what was best for his brothers, so he had to keep his shit tight. In check.
Rage was white-hot, smoldering inside him, so deep no one looking at him would ever know it was there. He looked cool on the outside. He carried himself with complete confidence and wore an expressionless mask. Still, he gave off dangerous energy, and most people avoided him, which was a good thing when the devil was riding him so hard.
He took his time pulling off his gloves while he straddled his bike. He was giving himself time to look around the parking lot, noting every vehicle there. Savage was able to map out areas in his head, like grids on charts, placing each car, truck or bike exactly where it had been, even months later. He rarely forgot even the smallest detail, and he practiced every single day. That was automatic, to map out territory, not to miss even a hint that something was off. He memorized faces. Names. He could recognize a bike he’d seen once and know who rode it.
He walked around the outside of the building, noting escape routes, windows, exits for employees. At the moment, none of the Diamondbacks were at the bar. That wasn’t unusual either. They didn’t tend to frequent this one. He skirted back around to the front entrance and made his way inside.
It was crowded far more than it had ever been the few times he’d been there. Several women turned and looked at him, two smiling an invitation, swaying to the music the band was playing. Worst band ever. The drummer was actually behind the guitarist on the beat, and the keyboard player lagged completely. He didn’t understand how Maestro and the others could take the shit music. All four had incredible ears, and anything not in tune just about drove them insane. He had a good ear and it was killing him.
He looked the two smiling women over. They wore tight jeans and tanks, boots and heavy makeup. He knew the type. They were looking for a rough ride, a biker they could take home so they had bragging rights. Neither knew what rough was, but the blonde might do. He ignored them both and walked toward the stage. His brothers had a small table set to the right side of it, mostly hidden in the shadows.
Then the singer’s voice cut in, and he stopped dead in the middle of the room with people pressing close all around him. His heart clenched hard in his chest. He refused to rub the spot, refused to give in to the need. He would recognize that perfect pitch anywhere. She was singing, not speaking, but it was that same melodious voice that haunted his dreams. Seychelle Dubois.
He stayed still, not wanting to be seen, allowing the other patrons to move around him. The bar was dark, and many couples or groups of women were dancing. He slipped behind the row of tables and leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed on the woman who had all but ruined him this last month. Savage studied her. She was under the lights and he could see that her skin looked soft and invited touch. Her mouth was generous. Made for sucking cock—his cock. She was shorter than he remembered, but he’d only seen her on the ground and in a bed. She had curves. Real curves. The kind of figure a man could hang on to.
It was hell. It was heaven. He felt as if he was actually a real man, not a walking killer with no emotions. She was in a short little burgundy cocktail dress that hugged her hips and emphasized her small waist. An intriguing glimpse of skin showed between the halter top and the tight skirt. The top clung to her tits. And she had them, full and round.
That damn top was open down the middle, showing enough skin, showing the lacerations that ran up the side of her body—the ones that belonged to him. The dress was short enough to show the deep wounds crawling up her leg unashamedly, all of which belonged to him. Those tits, that dress: he’d like to say they were what made the blood pound through his cock so hot he was afraid he’d burn up. He wasn’t the only one either. Damn her. If she were his, there would be hell to pay.
He hadn’t believed his body would react to her on its own, not once she was on her feet and not crying on the asphalt, but he was hard. Steel. Titanium. He wanted to take his dick out and jerk off, just watching her. It wasn’t normal for him to react like that to a woman, but he knew it was those lacerations, the ones she’d suffered on his behalf. The ones that were his.
His parents had been murdered. He’d been taken, along with his brother and two older sisters, to a brutal training school in Russia. Those schools were supposedly to turn young boys and girls into assets for their country. The school he was taken to was run by criminals, pedophiles, allowed to do whatever they wanted to the children. In reality, no one was supposed to survive.
Two hundred and eighty-seven children were taken to the school over the years. Only nineteen survived. He was one of those nineteen. They had been taught, above all else, to have complete control over their bodies. The experiments conducted had been designed to stamp out the natural libido in all of them. It had worked, until now. Until Seychelle.
He watched her, his heart doing some wild hammering and his stomach tying itself into tight knots. It was crazy how his body reacted to her. The feeling was addictive. A rush. Hot blood rushed through his veins, and little whips of lightning flicked his groin until he was full and hard and so uncomfortable, he was afraid he would embarrass himself. Sparks of electricity seemed to be flashing over his skin. He was alive when he’d been dead for so long. Inside. Outside. She crawled over him. Into him. Found a home.
That voice of hers didn’t belong with men who couldn’t play their instruments, men who were jacked up on drugs. Leaning against the wall, eyes half-closed, he could still see the golden notes scattering across the ceiling and sliding down the walls, building a net over the room. She spun magic. The crowd couldn’t see it, but they inhaled it. They drank it in and they reacted to it. It was as if the more they breathed in those golden notes, the more they needed.
He wanted his reaction to her to be because of her voice, but he knew it wasn’t. He knew it was her. He’d tasted her tears. She’d given him pieces of her soul when she took the fall for him. She’d let him kiss her. That had been a mistake. Tasting her at all had been a mistake, but he still didn’t have to make this one. He could walk out now, but he knew he wasn’t going to. He knew it was too late.
There was no way to save her. He didn’t even want to anymore. Not when he could feel like this just looking at her. She was better than any alcohol he’d tried to drown himself in. Better than any drug. She was real. That face. That mouth. That body. Those fuckin’ eyes and her voice, whispering to him. Tempting him.
He stayed still, never taking his gaze from her. He watched her body sway and then undulate to the music. She was sultry. Sexy. She was a sinful temptation. The light played over her, one moment spotlighting her and the next bathing her in shadows, nearly mesmerizing him when he caught a glimpse of those lacerations up her leg and thigh and then along her breast.
It took a few minutes before he realized he was so caught up in her voice, in the woman, in the brief glimpses of the damage on her skin that belonged to him, that he wasn’t doing his job. He was Torpedo Ink, first and foremost. His club came first. His brothers. He should be making certain he had his pulse on the room. He should know which clubs had members in the bar. Who was likely to cause trouble. Who the problem drunks were going to be. Which of the patrons considered themselves badasses and which really were. He should have been scanning the bar, the dance floor, the tables, noting who was the drug dealer and who was always stepping outside with someone.
He forced his gaze away from Seychelle and deliberately scanned the room, noting each person at or near the bar. One man on the end, a tall, dark-haired man wearing a denim vest and motorcycle boots but no colors, sat watching Seychelle, drumming his fingers on the bar top. Three members of a local rider’s club sat drinking, watching Seychelle as well. Most of the others in the bar were regulars, or they were locals, coming to dance.
Maestro leaned up against the wall next to him. “I think we’re too late. Some asshole pretend scout is looking to sign her. Her band knows he’s here and they’re pissed as hell.”
“They can’t play worth shit,” Savage observed.
“True, they’re amateurs thinking they’re cool, but the only thing they have going for them is the singer.”
“Seychelle. Seychelle Dubois,” Savage offered, without looking at Maestro or Seychelle.
There was a small silence. “You know her?” Maestro proceeded with caution.
“Yeah. I know her.”
“If you have any influence, tell her the scout is as full of shit as her guitarist. He’s trash, looking for easy money, looking to ride on her coattails. He may have a couple of second-rate contacts in the music industry, but men like him are cons. He’ll talk her into believing he can offer her a glamorous world, but he’ll just take everything she has and then dump her when he’s used her up. I saw the bastard buy drugs from the dealer.”
“Dealer has lots of spiked hair and a strange orange jacket?” Savage already had the dealer pegged.
“Is that the color? I thought it looked like vomit. Yeah, he’s the dealer. He’s doing a brisk business.”
“She’ll listen to you,” Savage said. “She isn’t the type to be snowed.” He knew, from the brief time with her, that he was right. She made her own decisions; she wasn’t going to be pushed into anything. But she could be influenced . . . “Give your pitch and then let me talk to her. See if I can do a little persuading.”
Just the thought of sparring back and forth with her again sent the blood rushing through his body in anticipation. He found himself looking forward to just talking to her. That was so far out of character that he couldn’t let himself examine the why of it. Frankly, he didn’t give a shit. He just wanted to be close, to talk to her, to breathe her in.
“She one of your crazy bitches?” Maestro studied the singer.
“No.” Savage didn’t offer any more information, although he read the curiosity in Maestro. Of course he’d be curious. Savage never talked about women or what he did with them. If they wanted to talk, that was on them. “You have Code look into her?” He asked the question of Maestro deliberately without inflection, as if the answer wouldn’t mean a damn thing to him.
“Yeah. The one thing I do have going for us is that she lives in Sea Haven. She owns a little cottage there, so she’s very close to Caspar. Maybe she can work in the bar when we’re not playing. She has experience as both a bartender and a waitress. I think she’ll draw a crowd.”
“You already draw crowds,” Savage pointed out, watching the supposed scout at the bar. “Who the fuck is he?”
“Name’s Joseph Arnold. Came here from San Francisco. And Code couldn’t find much on Seychelle other than her parents were French. Both of them deceased. Father came over from France, met her mother and fireworks went off. Seems like life with her parents wasn’t everything it should be.”
Savage’s gut tightened. He didn’t know why, other than he just plain didn’t like the fact that Maestro was going to make him ask. Testing him to see what Seychelle was to him. He remained silent, letting her voice carry him away from the sounds of screaming. Of blood. Of eyes begging him to save them when he couldn’t even save himself. Silence stretched out for nearly an entire song, but in the end, it won him the information.
“She took care of both of them. Father had heart disease and mother had a rare type of blood cancer. Mother went first, and her father died about two years ago. From everything Code found on the parents, they were decent people, just sickly. She stuck it out with them, though. Fortunately, the father made a great deal of money from home. Like Code, he was good on a computer. He came up with some kind of software that made them a fortune. She doesn’t need money.”
Savage didn’t acknowledge the additional information. He simply filed it away like he did everything. He wasn’t a man to forget details. He’d learned that details saved lives, and he’d learned the hard way.
The music faded, and the lead guitar player stepped forward and all but yanked the microphone from Seychelle. Savage didn’t like the way he did it, grabbing it out of her hand and nearly pushing her aside with his body. She stepped back, avoiding contact, and then walked off the stage on the opposite side of where Savage had draped himself on the wall. She hadn’t seen him, or at least if she had, she didn’t acknowledge him. Maybe she’d been too ill to remember him. She’d definitely had a concussion.
He began to thread his way through the crowd, lagging just a little behind Maestro and Keys. Both men followed her while Master and Player blocked Joseph Arnold and refused to move so he could get around them. They did it easily, naturally, a move they’d perfected years earlier. Backs to their target but mirroring his every move so he couldn’t do anything but get frustrated.
Maestro was imposing, and when he moved through a crowd, others got out of his way. Savage hung back just a little farther, staying to the shadows so he couldn’t be seen. He didn’t want Seychelle to know he was there. He definitely wanted to hear what Joseph Arnold had to say to her.
She kept walking until she neared the end of the alley, her back to them, and lit a cigarette. That pissed Savage off. First, she’d separated herself from safety and didn’t even check behind her when she went off alone. Then there was the fact that he detested cigarettes and no woman of his was going to smoke. He’d had enough cigars and cigarettes and other hot objects put out on his body. He had the scars to prove it, and just the smell could trigger him to episodes of extreme violence.
What the fuck was he thinking? She wasn’t his. She couldn’t be his. He was like some whack job, stalking her. He was becoming the very thing his club went after. Still, he didn’t move from the shadows, where he knew Seychelle Dubois would be safe from everyone but him.
“Seychelle?” Maestro spoke softly, hoping he didn’t startle her.
She swung around fast, gasping, smoke drifting through the alley. “Yes?”
Savage had to give her credit. She covered up her shock fast. She even managed a faint smile directed vaguely toward Maestro.
“My club, Torpedo Ink, owns a bar in Caspar. Caspar’s a small town right off Highway 1.”
“I’m aware of it. Hank does all the booking.” She gave him another smile and started to turn away.
“We don’t want to book your band,” Maestro said. “Can you give us a few minutes of your time? This is Keys.” He indicated Keys, who tried not to look intimidating. “I’m Maestro. We have our own band, and we play mostly our bar, but take a few gigs other places, so not a lot of travel, but it tends to be very lucrative. We’d like you to come to our place next Thursday night and listen. If you like what you hear, we’d like you to sing for us. If it works out, we want to hire you to sing in our band.”
“You don’t have a contract with this group, do you?” Keys gestured toward the door of the club.
She shook her head. “Hank was adamant he didn’t want a contract with me because he said I didn’t have any experience, no fans, and he wanted to be able to dump me when he could.” There was no bitterness in her voice. If anything, there was amusement.
“You have perfect pitch,” Maestro said. “Perfect. You have to be aware that Hank can barely tune his guitar.”
She gave him a much more genuine smile. “Only he seems unaware of that fact.”
“Oh, he’s aware,” Keys said. “He’s so aware he’s trying to make you think you need them. You don’t. We’ve been looking for a singer for some time and held out for the right one. We think you’re that singer.”
Maestro handed her a card with their number and the address of the bar. “Please come on any Thursday. The other two members of our band, Master and Player, are holding back some idiot scout who is high on coke and wants you to listen to his proposal. Before you take his offer, give us at least another opportunity to persuade you.”
She inclined her head and watched them as they left. She had that little enigmatic smile on her face that told Savage nothing. She looked beautiful, even there in the shadows as she watched Joseph Arnold approach. He looked puffed up with his own importance. He didn’t walk, he swaggered. Seychelle’s eyebrow went up and the smile was instantly gone.
“Mr. Arnold. I thought we’d settled this already. I see you’ve tracked me down again.”
Savage had been leaning against the wall, but something in her voice made him come to full attention. Evidently, she’d met the man before and she didn’t like him. He watched as she carefully put the cigarette out under her foot but kept her eyes on Arnold the entire time, almost as if she expected an attack.
“Don’t be such a fool, Seychelle. You’re not going to make two dollars with this group, not unless you whore yourself out.”
“You have such a pleasant personality. I’d like you to leave.”
Joseph Arnold stepped forward, right into her personal space, forcing her back against the wall of the building. “You think you’re so high and mighty, always superior. I’m not putting up with it. You’ll work for me or you’re going to be very sorry. No one in the industry will touch you. You’ll spend your life with going-nowhere bands.”
“Better than spending my life with a grubby little man who tries to force himself on women. First you try to ask me out a million times, and now you’re suddenly a music scout. It’s a crock of shit. Get away from me.”
“You little cunt. You’re nothing without me.”
“You’re drunk and high, just like you were the last time you made your pathetic little pitch. Get away from me now.”
He grabbed her around the throat and started to shake her, squeezing hard with his big fingers. Savage was already on the move, exploding out of the shadows with blurring speed. “Get the fuck off her,” he snapped, grabbing the scout by his hair and wrenching him back away from Seychelle.
Joseph hung on grimly to her, roaring with rage that someone dared interfere. He pulled Seychelle with him over backward so the two nearly fell to the asphalt. At the last moment, to try to save himself, Joseph let go of her and threw out his arms to prevent his face from hitting the hard surface.
The moment Joseph let go of Seychelle, Savage was on him, punching his ribs, his chin, back to his ribs and then pummeling his face. The nose squelched with blood, was sickening when it broke, and then Savage smashed a fist to his face again.
Seychelle caught his arm when Savage pulled back for another punch. He whirled around, nearly knocking her over.
“He’s had enough, Savage,” she said. “He’s the type to call the cops and then sue you.”
“I don’t think so.” Savage took pictures of her neck and then crouched down beside Joseph. “You call the cops, I’ll make certain you go to jail for attempted murder. If you go near her again, this is nothing compared to what I’ll do to you, you piece of shit.”
He straightened slowly and turned to Seychelle. She was attempting to light another cigarette with shaky hands. He pulled it out of her hand, crumpled it up and tossed it right onto Joseph’s bloody face, and then, catching her by the arm, walked her to the far entrance, away from the groaning, writhing man.
Savage pushed her up against the wall, back into the shadows where he was most comfortable. “You’re not smoking anymore. I don’t like it.”
Seychelle raised her eyebrow and edged back a little from him. “I don’t think that’s your business, Savage. I pretty much do whatever I want.”
“You can kiss that good-bye.”
She gave him that faint smile, a flash of the dimple that might someday really manage to drive him insane. He seemed to be able to read everyone but her. That mysterious little smile intrigued him and yet made him want to do all sorts of sinful things to her that he would get off on, but she might not like so much—at first.
“Nice to know what you’re really like. You do realize I might not want to smoke but I’m addicted, so I can’t stop.”
“That’s pure bullshit. Everyone is addicted to something, Seychelle. You’re strong. If you want to quit, then you will. I say you will. I don’t want to see you with these again.” He snapped his fingers. “Give me the pack.”
She stood there for a few long moments, studying the hard line of his jaw. His expressionless mask. Those blue eyes of hers drifted over his face, and for a few moments his heart stuttered as if she were touching him. He couldn’t let her mesmerize him.
“Baby, you don’t hand them over, I’ll just take them.”
She shook her head, her chin going up defiantly. Savage was all instinct. He didn’t do well with defiance from his woman. In any case, he had to test the waters. So far, she’d reacted exactly the way he needed her to. He caught her hips, spun her around so she was facing the wall, yanked that fuckin’ little sexy dress right up over her hot little ass encased in the prettiest, sexiest, mint green lace panties he’d ever seen. He smacked her ass hard. Three hard strikes on each cheek and then whipped her dress down before turning her back around.
“Give me the fuckin’ pack of cigarettes, Seychelle. I’m not playin’ games here.”
Tears spilled over, but she hadn’t made a sound when he’d spanked her. “That hurt.”
“You weren’t supposed to enjoy it, angel.” It took effort not to take her tears right off her face with his tongue. He wasn’t going to be able to resist for long. He waited for condemnation. A screaming, deserved temper tantrum.
“You do realize you’re being a first-class dick?”
“I realize I’m saving your life and you aren’t thanking me. As I recall, I went out of my way to thank you. In fact, I risked going to hell and jail for lying when I told Ms. Prune I was your fiancé.”
She hadn’t screamed for help. She hadn’t run away. She wasn’t condemning him. She just regarded him with those liquid sea-blue eyes. She was beyond anyone he’d ever imagined.
Seychelle shook her head and then those fantasy lips curved into a smile and his heart clenched hard in his chest. He wanted to be closer to her. He couldn’t help stroking his fingers down the marks Joseph had put on her neck. No one put marks on her skin but him. No one. He wanted to kick the shit out of the little dick.
“Hand the pack over, Seychelle.” He didn’t give in for one minute. He couldn’t. If she belonged to him, she had to know what she was getting into. What the hell was he thinking? But he couldn’t stop himself.
She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose since you went to the trouble of announcing you were my fiancé, I should give you a pass.”
“And I’m saving your life.” He held her gaze captive, refusing to look away.
Another exaggerated sigh. Another flash of that little heart-stopping dimple. “Fine. You’re probably saving my life as well. I’ve been wanting to quit, but I’m so addicted.”
“Addiction is meant to be overcome.”
He took the pack from her and crushed the remaining cigarettes.
“Even you?” she demanded. “Are you addicted to something as well? Or are you above the rest of us?”
“Even me.” He looked her in the eye. “You have any more?”
She shook her head. “What are you addicted to?”
“You.” He put it out there, uncaring if it freaked her out. “You should run while you have the chance. It won’t do you any good, but you can at least try.”
“Maestro and Keys just asked me to join their band. That’s what started this.” She gestured toward Joseph on the ground, where two members of her band crouched to make certain the scout was still able to get to his feet. “There’s no doubt you can track me down.”
“Hell, man, you nearly killed him,” Hank, the lead guitarist, accused.
Savage ignored him, unconcerned if Joseph was alive or dead. He’d made certain to take a photograph of Seychelle’s neck and the finger marks there. The asshole tried to strangle her right there in the alley. Savage probably wouldn’t let that shit go. More than likely he’d slip into the man’s hotel room and break his fuckin’ neck.
He took Seychelle by the arm and walked her back down the alley, away from the others and toward the bar. “No doubt I will track you down.” He snapped his fingers. “Address.”
She lifted her chin. “Do you think I’m crazy? You’re so far out of my league I can’t even consider encouraging you.” Her gaze once more drifted over him from head to toe, once again giving him that strange feeling that she was physically touching him. “You’re dangerous to women. I’m not the type to live dangerously, Savage. A man like you never sticks around. You don’t, do you?”
He might not be her type, but she was definitely his. She was exactly what he was looking for, she just didn’t know it. He liked that she knew he was dangerous. He liked the way she was sure of herself. He liked the way she sacrificed herself for others. Her parents. Him. The little kid. “Nope. Don’t fuck them either. Just their mouths. Don’t buy them meals or take them out. We don’t converse either.”
“Sounds so wonderfully tempting.”
Her sarcasm stroked his cock like fingers whispering over him. He grinned at her. “I don’t kiss them or get all cozy in bed with them. And I don’t spank their asses when they don’t hand over cigarettes in order to save their lives.”
“You are such a catch.” That damn dimple of hers was going to keep him up all night.
His grin was suddenly genuine, shocking him. He hadn’t known he could actually feel amusement, let alone smile. “I guess you’re forgetting I kissed you, conversed and got all cozy in your bed as well as spanked your ass to save it.”
Her smile lit up the shadowy alley. “I guess you did.”
“That deserves something.”
Hank stood up and nudged the drummer, who had come out with him looking for his singer, worried now that he knew a scout was after her. “Is he bothering you, Seychelle?”
“No, Hank, we know each other. We go way back.”
“I’m her fiancé,” Savage announced.
Seychelle tried to muffle her laugh against his shoulder. He wrapped his other arm around her waist and pulled her in close to him.
“The hell you are,” Hank snapped. “Who is he?”
Savage turned his head slowly and met Hank’s eyes. He didn’t mind Hank seeing the killer in him. He let his stare go cold and flat. Hank and the drummer both backed up and nearly tripped over Joseph, who had staggered up and nearly fell over again.
“I’m Torpedo Ink,” Savage announced. “And Seychelle’s fiancé. You have anything to say to her in that fuckin’ tone of voice, you say it to me first.”
Hank swallowed visibly and cast around for something to say that wouldn’t make him look like a pussy but wouldn’t get him into trouble. “We’ve got a show to put on.”
“She’ll be right in,” Savage said. “A few more minutes.”
Seychelle waited until Hank and the drummer got Joseph between them and helped the scout back into the bar. Savage knew Maestro, Keys, Player and Master were right there in the shadows. Absinthe was somewhere, probably inside, keeping a pulse on the bar.
“Seriously, Savage? You’d better stop saying things like that. Torpedo Ink is news to a lot of people now. You’re going to find that little rumor sweeping through the clubs.”
“I could give a fuck what other people say. I don’t live my life by gossip, and neither do you. Am I right?”
She gave him that smile again, and his lungs burned for air.
“No, I don’t pay much attention to gossip, although when everyone warns a woman about a man, she had better listen.”
“Someone warned you about me?”
“Not me specifically, but I hear rumors and you’re considered hot and sexy, so yeah, you get mentioned. They say you don’t stick around. At. All.”
“And I don’t fuckin’ kiss them, converse or cozy up with them in a bed.”
She laughed again, just like he knew she would. That sound was shockingly beautiful, the golden notes scattering like tiny little crystals around them.
“Since you’re no longer smoking, there’s no reason for you to frequent alleys and get your sexy little ass in trouble. I mean it, Seychelle. Don’t go where it isn’t safe. That man who is supposed to be a scout sounded like a stalker.”
“How would you know what a stalker sounds like?”
“I’m stalking you, aren’t I?”
She shrugged, amusement climbing to her eyes, lighting them. “I suppose so. Since you’re such an expert, I’ll follow your advice. I really do have to go back in.”
He stood there blocking her path, knowing it would be a mistake to kiss her again, but the craving was there. She just waited, not in the least concerned that she was seemingly alone with Savage, a Torpedo Ink sergeant at arms. He leaned in to her deliberately, wrapped his palm around the nape of her neck and put his lips against her ear.
“You aren’t nearly as safe as you think.”
Her blue eyes stared directly into his, and there was a hint of laughter that sent his cock into a frenzy of urgent need. She wrapped her hand around his upper arm, or tried to, but her hand barely made it halfway around his biceps. That didn’t deter her. She put her lips against his ear, going on her toes to do it.
“You’re so full of shit.” She pulled back immediately. “I have work to do, my darling fake fiancé. Step aside.”
He’d never wanted to kiss a woman more. Okay, he’d never wanted to fuck a woman more. He stepped back from the temptation. She was pure sin and he needed her. He wasn’t comfortable needing anyone, let alone a woman. She had a smart mouth on her. He loved that about her. She also wasn’t afraid of him when everyone else was. He didn’t know how to take that. She even appeared to think he was amusing when he was seriously warning her. She didn’t believe he was attracted to her. That much was clear. He found himself wanting to smile again.
He let her go around him. She didn’t look back when she went inside. His brothers immediately came out of the shadows.
“What the hell was that, Savage?” Maestro demanded.
“I told you I know her,” he said.
“Yeah, you know her. You said she wasn’t one of your weird fucks. I want that woman singing in our band.”
Master nodded. “Shocked the hell out of me, but she’s damned good.”
“You can’t fuck this up for us because she’s got a nice ass,” Player said.
Keys just looked at Savage and then shook his head. “You might as well pack it in, brothers, he’s gone on this chick.”
Savage didn’t deny it. He just gave them the death stare. What was there to say? It was true, but he wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it. He wished she were one of his weird fucks. It would make life so much easier for both of them. She was far more than that. She’d never be just another one of his weird fucks.
“She’ll sing for you. Preacher needs another bartender. You said so yourself, Maestro. She can fill in when you’re not singing. She lives in Sea Haven, so that’s a plus.”
“It won’t be a plus when you kick her to the curb,” Maestro said. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a real singer? One like her? It’s nearly impossible.”
“She isn’t kick-to-the-curb material, is she, Savage?” Keys asked.
Savage didn’t answer him. He had no idea what he was going to do with Seychelle.
“If she joins the band,” Player said, “we have an obligation to her. She’d be under our protection.”
Savage turned cold eyes on him. Inside, all the unfamiliar amusement, all the fun he’d had sparring with Seychelle, faded away to be replaced by that ice-cold rage. “No one interferes with her. She’s under my protection. What happens between the two of us is ours alone. You’re my brothers, but she belongs to me and I expect you to respect that and have my back.”
There was absolute silence. It wasn’t as if he could blame them, and worse, deep inside, he had no idea what the hell he was doing. He had no business claiming a woman. He knew it. They knew it. Half the time he couldn’t be in anyone’s company. Violence rode hard on his shoulders when the devil was on him. The death in his eyes was real. He was barely civilized, and most of the time he hung on to sanity by a thread.
It wasn’t as if Seychelle was a biker bitch who knew the rules of the game. She was no patch chaser, wanting the protection of the club and some man to take care of her. She didn’t even appear all that interested in him or the club. If anything, she was more amused by him than attracted to him. He pulled back, thinking about that kiss they’d shared. The one he still tasted in his mouth. Now he wasn’t going to get her out of his mind. Not that he’d been able to before.
“Savage,” Maestro said, caution in his voice. “This woman. I don’t know that much about her, just the little that Code gave me before we came here, but she seems to be someone we ordinarily would consider off-limits.”
Savage shook his head. “She’s going to say yes to singing with you, but you just remember what I said. Seychelle belongs to me. That’s the bottom line.” He turned on his heel and stalked back into the bar. Already she was interfering with their club. That was the kind of woman she was. Shit.
He faded back into the dark, where he could watch Joseph Arnold drink and glower at Seychelle from a chair close to a wall. Joseph should have gone home. He was beat all to hell. His face practically caved in. His nose was swollen and one eye was closed. His ribs had to be bruised, but he was staying, his eyes on the singer, his cell phone out, recording or taking photos.
By midnight the place was so packed the dancers could only hold on to one another and sway. Word had gotten out that the singer of the band was damn good, and the locals—and bikers—had dropped by to see if it was true and stayed. The bar was still packed at closing time.
Seychelle caught up her jacket from behind the bar, waved toward the bartender and left before the band had broken down the stage. She didn’t stay to help, which indicated to Savage she wasn’t happy with the way Hank treated her and she wanted to avoid Joseph. He followed her at a distance, needing to make certain she got home safely. The road was very dangerous and took an hour for her to drive even without fog. He hung back, but he followed all the way to her cottage and waited until she was safely inside before heading back to Caspar.
She knew better than to allow Savage anywhere near here. Seychelle still felt every single smack of his hand on her bottom. There had been heat spreading through her body. Fire. Her sex had clenched and throbbed. Every nerve ending in her body had leapt to life, just the way it did when he came near her.
She should have reacted completely differently when Savage pushed her up against the wall and smacked her on the butt. No one had ever hit her in her life. He could say it was a punishment if he wanted to, but she felt the sexual intent behind it. Or maybe everything about Savage was just sexual. To her, he was the epitome of sexual. She’d never been able to respond to anyone or anything the way she did to him. He scared her. Terrified her. She scared herself, because she had no idea her body would respond so completely to him.
A part of her was elated that she even could respond. A part of her was appalled at herself. Just thinking about him and what he’d done to her made her sex throb and burn. She found herself wanting to cry but not really knowing why.