Savage Rhythm (4 page)

He shook his head, not willing to compromise his vigil. He couldn’t think about whether he would carry this guilt and worry on stage right now, and he damn well shouldn’t be thinking about Molly Ward. Not until he got the nightly text.

There was a knock on the door just before it opened. Gage, Savage Heart’s drummer, popped his head in.

“Dude, are you gonna make it?”

“It’ll be fine.”

“You heard yet?” Gage asked, his fingers toying with the disks in his ears.

“Nope.”

“Dec, man, you don’t have to do this. None of it was your—”

“I know that, Gage, that’s not the fucking point. I’ll be ready. Just give me a minute.”

That was a lie, though. Gage knew it, too, but shrugged and closed the door quietly behind him. Declan had never been this messed up before a show. Normally the idea of getting on stage zenned him out, gave him clarity, let him
feel
—the same way dominating a sub in a good scene would. He hadn’t gotten to do either of those things in months and he was about ready to explode.

And now he was waiting on a goddamn text.

He knew it wasn’t his fault, but it didn’t change anything. He still needed to know that Bethany was ok. And, just in case he wasn’t torturing himself enough already, he’d texted Soren, too: “Just let me know you’re ok, man.”

Nothing.

So.

He stood up and stretched his body out, running a hand over his newly shorn hair. Took some getting used to, just like everything else. But then his mind drifted back to Molly Ward and he smiled; he wouldn’t have to get used to her, ballbuster or no. That was one bright spot, at least. He was definitely looking forward to being around that woman for the next two months.

In fact, the closest he’d come to feeling like his old self was arguing with Molly. Threatening that asshat on the dock, for Molly.

That was some batshit insane chemistry right there, like nothing else he’d ever seen, like she just fit. Some kind of animal, pheromone-type science behind that, no other explanation. And Declan hoped to God that Molly was sane, because she could be a black widow and that probably wouldn’t stop him from trying to get her into bed.

He grinned. Actually it might make him more determined to dominate her. Wasn’t that some twisted shit?

His phone buzzed, and Declan immediately felt guilty for not feeling
more
guilty—he’d let himself drift off, thinking about Molly Ward, when he should have been worrying about Bethany. He was thinking with his dick.

BETHANY: “Just checking in. I’m doing ok. They’re saying I might be ready to leave in a few weeks!”

Declan smiled and ignored the little bit of worry he felt. If the doctors thought she was almost ready, then she was almost ready. It was a good thing.

DECL.A.N: “Congratulations. :) I’ll check in tomorrow. Have a good night.”

BETHANY: “You, too. :)”

Declan collapsed back onto the couch with relief. He knew he shouldn’t get this tense; Bethany hadn’t missed a single check-in since she’d been away. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help feeling responsible for what happened six months ago, just like he couldn’t help feeling responsible for what had happened sixteen years ago.

Didn’t matter that none of it made any sense.

Fuck, you have a show, Declan. Get it together.

The closest he’d been to getting his pre-show headspace back was thinking about Molly. Specifically, the things he wanted to do to Molly. The way he felt around her, when he thought about her? Hungry and strong and fucking
dominant
. Ready to fucking roar.

Once he got going, he couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d be like in bed. What it would be like to watch her discover how much she liked to submit—he could tell already, with the way she flushed when he used the voice, the way she responded to an order. Damn. He could make her fantasies come true. He’d find out how big those brown eyes got when she came.

He fucking
knew
she was out there, right now, knew she’d come for the show when he’d texted her. Didn’t know how he knew. Maybe he had lost his mind already, but who cared? He could feel it.

He laughed. He was about to go on stage for the first time in six months in front of a crowd that wanted to kill him, and all he could think about was what a girl he’d just met tasted like.

And it felt
good
. Fuck it. It was good to feel like that, all juiced up, after being down for so long. Declan didn’t care if it was nuts. He thought about her. About Molly Ward. About how she’d come. About how she was so fucking afraid of what she felt, that what it must be like when she’d finally, finally let it all go…

Sing for Molly fucking Ward; forget the rest
.

He threw open the door and yelled, “Let’s go kick some ass.”

~ * ~ * ~

Molly felt like a proper badass, as Adra had instructed, for all of about five minutes. Then she realized she was surrounded by the handpicked crowd of die-hard Savage Heart fans and L.A. celebs and she started to remember how incredibly out of place she was.

Volare L.A. itself was incredible. At least the public part of the club was—the first floor was one huge room, a giant performance space with beams crisscrossing the ceiling several stories overhead, freaking chandeliers all over the place, private boxes, several bars…

It felt like a dream world. And Molly found herself wondering what the more private areas of the club were like.

Everywhere there were little clues about what might go on at the more private events—little metal loops bolted into the walls, padded posts, odd-looking furniture. Or maybe she was just imagining it. That wouldn’t surprise her in the least. She had imagined plenty of things, thinking about Declan and his big hands.

Not helpful
.

Molly picked up a drink and tried to find a quiet corner where she could observe the show in true writer form. She was there to do a job, after all. Unfortunately, everything she observed reminded her of Declan. The whole place was dizzy with the anticipation of seeing Declan Donovan and Savage Heart—or “Half a Heart,” as she heard some fans mutter. They were all pissed about Soren. Not knowing what had happened, at least half of them blamed Declan, and now, to make things worse, Soren was basically missing. The rumors online and floating through the crowd were all various shades of crazy: Soren fucked Declan’s girl, Soren stopped Declan from doing something twisted (Molly found this one unbelievable, if intriguing—she knew at least some of the things Declan might be into), it was all a mess over some groupie…

No one really knew what had happened in Philadelphia. It was gonna be an interesting show.

But some of the female fans, at least, didn’t seem to care about the past. Or the show. Or the band. They were all over the place, to the point where Molly couldn’t ignore them anymore, and they were practically feverish.

“Oh God, I don’t even care, I’ll climb on stage and suck him in front of everyone.”

It was a six-foot blonde woman, announcing that to the entire world at the top of her lungs. Like she was calling dibs? Molly couldn’t place her—maybe she wasn’t famous, just a model?
Right, “just” a model.

Also? Suck him
on stage?
Molly had an inexplicable urge to smack the woman, even though she’d probably just cut her hand on one of those cheekbones.

Eat something
, Molly thought bitterly.

Her friend laughed it off. “You are such a slut.”

“A selective slut. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the exact same thing.”

“Hell no, hooker. I’m going to do it backstage.”

Molly moved away from the sounds of their laughter, gritting her teeth. It wasn’t news to anyone that Declan was one of the hottest men on the planet, but she didn’t need what she couldn’t have—wouldn’t have—thrown in her face.

Suck him on stage
…

Molly suppressed a shiver.

Then the lights went out.

The crowd roared, stomped their feet. It was deafening. Even over all that, Molly could hear hecklers, actual hecklers, people chanting, “Soren, Soren, Soren.”
What the fuck?
Who would come to the show to do that, like the guitarist might magically appear if they just said his name a few times? Just as many were screaming for Declan, competing to be heard, until it got unbearably loud in the small space, frighteningly hot and close in the claustrophobic dark.

Molly was jittery, on the verge of panic, when she heard him, and everything changed.

When everybody heard him.

A wild, animal scream tore from Declan’s throat as the light hit him and only him, as he seized the mic with his whole, muscled body, and owned the damn room. The place went silent but for Declan, tearing apart the opening lines to “My Sometime Girl.”

“Sometime you gotta know;

Sometime you gotta learn…”

The guitar and drums crashed in and everything stopped. Molly’s heart stopped, the whole world stopped, she would have sworn time fucking stopped while she watched that man look around, looking for something, singing that song.

“You dance with a man like me;

I’ll show you what it is you need.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She could barely hear the women around her, screaming, jumping up and down, sounding like they were about to come just from the sound of his voice. All Molly could see was Declan on that stage, sweat gathering on his chest, eyes looking hungry, mean, predatory. Still looking for something. The first drops of sweat trickled down his chest to his ridged abs and Molly shuddered.

“You’ll burn, baby;

You’ll burn;

For me.”

She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

And then
his
eyes found
her
.

His eyes pinned her in place while he sang that song. While she heard what he would do to her if she let him.
When
she let him. He’d said he would make her beg. He’d said he would touch her again. And now Molly felt him on her skin, her breasts, her thighs. She was wet. She was shaking. He was fucking her right there, and there was nothing she could do about it.

There was nothing she wanted to do about it.

I am in such deep shit.

That was the last thing that went through her mind before the security guard pulled her away.

chapter
5

The guy was big, beefy, professional security, which was a good thing, because he had to practically carry Molly with one hand. She felt seriously lightheaded, weak, unsteady on her feet. She couldn’t have gotten back to the main room by the same path if she’d tried; she could only hear Declan now, and the crowd, losing its collective mind.

The security guard led her to an upstairs lounge, a place full of roadies and groupies and people with black jeans and tattoos who looked like they belonged. Molly looked around in a daze.

“Wait here,” the security guy said.

And then he was gone.

What had he even looked like? Had he given her his name?

Molly could still feel the beat through the floor, the pulsing, driving beat, and it matched the throbbing between her legs. She laughed softly to herself, because the whole thing was ridiculous, and collapsed onto a couch in the corner.

She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to pretend she wasn’t smiling, and looked out the window.

What was that?

What am I waiting here for?

Oh God, what
was
that?

She was drenched. She had sweat pooling between her breasts, and she was sure she was soaking through her panties, and the tension in her core coiled a little tighter with every beat of those drums.

Two months of this. She’d maybe known, in the abstract, how primal he was, how male, but nothing compared to seeing him perform in the flesh. To having him look her in the eyes as he sang. This was what it was like to be near him, to be the one he sang to, to know what every woman wanted from him. This was why he was who he was. It was a fucking revelation. She just had to try to remember not to take it personally.

Lock it down, Molly.

She got out her phone and started writing.

She had paragraphs on Declan already by the time she noticed the music had stopped. She checked her phone; it couldn’t be over already, could it? The bass started up again below her, something she could feel through the floor, but it wasn’t a Savage Heart song.

Molly started to breathe a little faster. If he wasn’t on stage, where was he? What was he doing?

Why had she been brought up here?

The air in the lounge had changed. The energy. The high buzz of the groupies chattering and gossiping had stopped, and the roadies looked serious, prepared for work. Everything tense.

The door burst open, and it was like a freaking dam broke: the women, wearing practically nothing at all, rushed ahead and pressed in on Declan Donovan. The rest of the band melted off to the sides, found their regulars, their own fans, but the pack stayed with Declan. He was huge, bigger even then he’d looked on stage, steaming with sweat and breathing hard.

But it was something else, something animal: those eyes again, roving, hungry. All those women, calling his name,
touching
him—he ignored them. Cut a path through them. A force of nature, a goddamn tornado.

Molly watched, mesmerized, again. She tried not to respond as a woman, but holy hell, she could see the adrenaline surge in him left over from the show, could see the pure physical need in him, the
power
, and she answered with her own need. What would that feel like between her legs? On top of her. Inside her.

Oh God. Be a professional. It’s just the magic of the show; it’s not real. Get a hold of yourself.