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.”