He drummed his fingers on the table, knowing the cycle was starting all over again. If his woman was going to come to him and he had any chance of getting her ready for the monster in him, it had to be soon. Bog, it had to be soon. There were too many things coming together too fast, building up around the others and in him, to keep the rage at bay. Fucking Arnold and Campbell stalking Seychelle. Various members of the club hurting or having nightmares when the past was getting too close.
He wrapped his fist around the neck of the bottle and took a slow drink of the cold liquid, letting it cool his throat, hoping it would ice down the fire gathering in his belly. All the while, his gaze never left the door. The bar was supposed to be somewhat quiet on Thursdays, but the band was too good, and more and more clubs were showing up.
Right now, they had four members of Venomous wearing their colors, and five of Headed for Hell. Both clubs could be a problem for Torpedo Ink as well as with each other. They’d postured at each other once, and Reaper had been there instantly. No one fucked with him, and the incident was over very quickly. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t start up again. The nine men were being watched closely.
The Venomous club had been chipping away at the borders of Diamondback territory, trying to carve a space for themselves by horning in on the strip clubs and drug trade. Plank, the president of the Mendocino chapter of the Diamondbacks, had come to Torpedo Ink and asked them to put a stop to it. It hadn’t been difficult to figure out that Torpedo Ink was being set up.
The Diamondbacks used Torpedo Ink when they needed them, but they wanted something concrete on them—something to hold over their heads. So far, they had nothing, although they’d tried to set Torpedo Ink up when they’d asked them to burn down the strip businesses the Venomous club had stolen out from under the Diamondbacks and bring the manager patches to them. Torpedo Ink had looked into the situation and found out the Venomous club had murdered one of the women and regularly abused the others working for them in the strip clubs. The Diamondbacks had gotten the patches and the bodies and burned down clubs, but had not gotten any evidence that Torpedo Ink had anything to do with any of it.
The Torpedo Ink bar was packed with civilians as well as bikers. Most of the bikers were simply men and women who liked to ride. They weren’t clubs that were going to give anyone trouble, but they liked to party. Drink a lot. Dance. As a rule, that was a good thing, but with the members of Venomous and Headed for Hell possibly looking for trouble, Savage thought the night could turn ugly really fast.
The door opened, allowing the cool air to shoot through the room, and Seychelle walked in. His heart nearly stopped beating. For a moment, he could only stare, frozen. Unbelieving. He never really thought she would come. He hadn’t thought it was possible, but there she was, looking so beautiful she took his breath. She looked young and so damn innocent his body reacted. Or maybe it was because her body belonged to him. Those curves. That face. Her mouth.
She wore her favorite pair of jeans. Vintage. Faded blue with two frayed holes he knew intimately. One on her back pocket and one on her left thigh. Those jeans clung to her sweet ass, cupping the perfect curves of her cheeks, giving him instant fantasies. Her simple tank top was a dark navy blue. It shouldn’t have been sexy. There was no plunging neckline, no bra showing, but her tits were hard to contain. Round, firm and high, pushing against that thin material, straining to be free. She wore a little thin sweater, open, that didn’t cover much of anything and only made a man want to see more. Just looking at her, his every nerve ending came to life, was acutely aware of her.
He studied her face, that gorgeous, flawless face. She was very pale. To anyone who didn’t know her, she looked composed, but he knew every little nuance, every tiny tell she had, and she was scared out of her mind. This wasn’t an easy decision, and she probably had it in her head she would run like hell if she saw him. That wasn’t happening. She’d come because, like him, she needed. They needed each other.
Those nightly visits he couldn’t stop had been just as much a compulsion for her as they had been for him. That open window. He could hear her crying some nights. She wasn’t in bed when he walked up to the window; she was sitting on the floor under the window, waiting for him so she could breathe him in the way he was breathing her in. They belonged—however fucked up that was.