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.