Annihilation Road (22 page)

Nearly a month had gone by, and she’d stayed alone in her cottage, just walking the headlands, playing her guitar and crying. During that time, the club members reported to Savage daily. He didn’t like their reports.

The first week, Joseph Arnold walked along the headlands with a camera every few days, mostly aiming the camera away from the ocean and toward Seychelle’s cottage. He didn’t go near the place or Seychelle. Had he done so, the club members would have stopped him. Eventually, he disappeared.

The third week, Brandon Campbell drove Doris to the cottage to see Seychelle. She had the good sense to sit outside in the chairs by the two grills Savage had left behind. He had no way of knowing if she knew Transporter and Mechanic were close, but she didn’t let the visitors inside her home. Mechanic was close enough to record every word and send it to Savage. The video was very clear, and Savage reviewed it over and over, looking at Seychelle’s face, listening to her voice, and then studying Brandon’s expressions and voice.

“I’ve been so worried about you, Seychelle,” Doris said. “I called and left you messages. You didn’t pick up. I asked Brandon to drop by just to make certain you were okay, and he did twice. He said you didn’t answer the door.”

Seychelle turned her head to look at Brandon, her blue eyes lifeless. She was looking directly into the camera. “How strange. I never heard you knock.”

Mechanic interjected his own commentary. “That’s because the son of a bitch is lying his ass off. He didn’t stop by. He did watch the house from up the street three days in a row. Then he parked just across from her house two nights in a row and made out with some girl with his eyes open, watching the house. He never went near it.”

Savage wondered what his game was. Seychelle’s voice sounded as if she wasn’t the least bit interested in the conversation. Ordinarily, that would have made him happy, but
he wanted her alert. Just having Brandon show up with Doris should have raised red flags, but Seychelle barely gave the man a glance.

“Are you all right, Seychelle? You were so sick when you left my house,” Doris persisted. “You’ve lost weight. Brandon, she’s lost so much weight.”

Seychelle attempted a smile at the older woman. “Brandon always pointed out how chubby I was. Actually, I believe he used the word
fat
. Isn’t that what you said on every occasion we met? Fat? He said I needed to lose weight, so I guess something good came out of me being sick, right, Brandon?”

Her voice was very mild, so soft Savage could barely make it out, but just hearing that Campbell called his woman fat made him want to hunt the little bastard down and beat the crap out of him. Seychelle was gorgeous. Perfect. Ass and tits. A woman with real flesh on her. What the fuck did the man want, anyway?

Doris gasped and turned on Brandon, her hand going to her throat. “What a terrible thing to say.”

“She misunderstood, Doris. Seychelle. Seriously, honey, you misunderstood what I was saying to you. You’re a beautiful woman. You are. Right now, you’re pale and you need someone looking after you. I haven’t seen your boyfriend around.”

“He’s her fiancé,” Doris corrected.

Savage liked that distinction being made, and he was very glad that Seychelle didn’t deny it in front of Brandon.

“He’s here at night. He’s been away on business mostly, but Alena brought me soup, and his brothers from the club check in on me now and then,” Seychelle said. Her voice didn’t sound assuring. She sounded monotone. Tired.

Doris reached over and put her hand over Seychelle’s. “Honey, why don’t you come home with me and let me take care of you? You’re always taking care of everyone else.”

“I’ve been sick, but I’m getting better, Doris. I’ve always
had a problem getting over things. Poor immune system. It’s genetic. I’m getting stronger, going for walks now. Thank you for the offer, though.” Seychelle sent her another faint smile.

It was a little too vague for Savage’s liking. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her close. She looked far too pale, as if she was fading away.

“I do still tire easily though, Doris. I need to lie down. Thank you for checking on me.”

Savage hated that she was so down. He’d done that.

Brandon cleared his throat. “I’ve been worried about Sahara. Doris tells me you went to see her the day she disappeared. I didn’t even know you two were friends.”

“You didn’t? How strange. I thought Sahara told you everything. I saw her quite often.” Seychelle turned her head again, looking him directly in the eyes. This time her blue eyes weren’t so listless. They were that deep blue, almost mystical. Challenging. Her voice had a soft, musical quality to it.

Savage felt the knots in his stomach tighten. He would be going there every night and he wanted members of Torpedo Ink on her every second. He didn’t like the way Brandon was looking at her. The man liked victims, and he didn’t like women standing up to him. Right at that moment, Seychelle looked very fragile and worn. But her eyes and voice were saying something altogether different from her body. Her look all but told Brandon to fuck off.

“What was her state of mind that day?” Brandon looked as if he was truly concerned. “She’d been very upset, crying often. I was so worried about her. I had even told Doris I was afraid she would harm herself. She’d gone back to cutting herself. She did that years earlier, but I managed to get her to stop.”

“She seemed very happy. She certainly didn’t talk about harming herself. She’d been telling me for weeks that you wanted the house back. She said you needed it for your new
girlfriend and she completely understood.” That sweet musical note was building in her voice.

“It was so generous and kind of you to let her stay there rent-free, Brandon,” Doris said.

“Rent-free?” Seychelle echoed. “She paid rent, Doris. Didn’t Brandon tell you? Sahara has her own money. She illustrates children’s books. There is a huge demand for her work. She has a very large bank account and paid for all the repairs on the house and the upkeep of it. I helped her go over all the invoices for tax purposes and sort everything out for her attorneys so everything would be in order for Brandon when she left. The books were right there for you on the kitchen counter, Brandon. The ones pertinent to the house. She had the roof repaired for you, and new plumbing put in. The heating system was upgraded. She retiled the upstairs bathrooms. Everything was paid for and all receipts were copied and left for you.”

Her voice was different now, the notes much more musical and directed toward Doris, countering the mesmerizing effect Brandon’s voice had on the older woman. Savage clenched his teeth. His woman was taking chances. Brandon might not hit women, but he liked to play his games with them. He’d been setting Sahara up, using his voice, trying to see what he could force her to do—how far down he could take her. Was he setting her up to commit suicide? Savage hadn’t realized Sahara had money. Had he been talking her into making him the beneficiary of her money if she died? Had Seychelle just told him she’d helped Sahara change that?

Savage needed to find that out. Brandon might forgive and move on to other things, but if he was set on getting a payload, he might be angry enough to retaliate against Seychelle. Savage detested that he wasn’t with her to watch over her himself. He knew he could rely on his brothers and sisters, but it left him feeling impotent and out of sorts.
Edgy. Angry. At himself. At the circumstances. Even at Seychelle, for not letting him explain.

If it wasn’t bad enough that Brandon had wormed his way into Doris’s life, he was now walking with his latest girlfriend along the road between Seychelle’s cottage and the headlands. Ever since the conversation, three times a week, he had parked his car up the street and forced a very reluctant girlfriend to walk, no matter the weather, in the evening with him.

The girl appeared, according to the Torpedo Ink members who watched over Seychelle, to be very young and too thin, listless, yet eager to please Brandon, hurrying to do whatever he whispered to her. After she did it, he whispered again to her, and she would get tears in her eyes and look at the ground as if she hadn’t met his expectations. They always walked past Seychelle’s cottage, and he would stare at it, even as he kissed his girlfriend or acted as if he was nibbling on her neck.

Aside from Brandon coming three times a week to walk by the cottage, an older man of about fifty had appeared on the headlands with a camera, taking photographs of the birds, or appearing to do so. Then he photographed the cottages along the road where Seychelle lived. That wasn’t necessarily a threat. The buildings were historic, and more than one person had painted and photographed them.

The man returned a few days later and set up an easel to paint, tucking photographs in the corners of his canvas, facing the cottages. His camera hung around his neck. That was unusual and a red flag for Keys, who happened to be watching over Seychelle that day. He kept his eyes on the “artist.”

Seychelle emerged from her cottage to take a walk on the headlands around five that afternoon. The artist had lost the light. He hadn’t packed up his equipment. He’d eaten. He’d dabbed a few strokes of paint here and there on the canvas, but for the most part he’d gotten up and paced or
stretched. The moment Seychelle walked out her front door, the man came to life, putting down his paintbrush and catching up his camera.

He took several pictures of her as she walked across the street toward the narrow path leading to the bluffs. He had to turn away from her as she came toward him, but the moment she was parallel with him, he backed away to put distance between them and began snapping her picture. He took photographs of her standing on the bluff with her hair blowing wildly and then more as she returned to her cottage.

Keys followed the stranger to the local hotel and waited until he had gone to dinner before entering his hotel room. Evidently, the man was a private investigator. Keys turned over his name to Code and, with a little digging, Code discovered Joseph Arnold had hired him to take pictures of Seychelle and report on her movements.

Savage thought his head might explode. His woman sat in her cottage, totally oblivious to the danger. In fact, with Brandon, she invited it to her. He was grateful for his Torpedo Ink brethren. Each of them took shifts, even those who were married.

His woman was racking up indiscretions, things they were going to be dealing with once she was back under his wing, because he was determined he was getting her back. He was
willing
her back to him. Finding a way. They belonged. She knew it. He knew it. She was scared and hurt and had every reason to be. She just had to want to be with him more than both of those things.

Savage went to the bar every Thursday night hoping Seychelle would come to sing with Maestro and the others jamming. He sat at the same table, at the very back, nursing a beer, willing her to come to him. To give herself to him. He knew what the cost would be to her, and it would be enormous. Still, now he knew he had something to give her back.

She needed him every bit as much as he needed her. He didn’t just need her. He wanted her. Her brightness. Her compassion. Her laughter. That directness that got to him every time. The way she was with the older people who counted on her. She gave and gave and didn’t ask for anything in return. He knew he could give a lot to her. He wanted to.

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.

He knew he would have to bring her into his world as fast as possible. Already, nearly a month had passed, and he could feel the familiar violence beginning to build in him. He had time, but it was a limited amount. Seychelle would have to be entirely on board.
Bog
, but she was beautiful to him, and so courageous. She would need that courage to be his partner—to love him, and he wanted her to love him.

Savage stared at Seychelle as she took her first steps into the very pressing crowd, his mind trying to fully comprehend that she’d come, his lungs trying to draw in air when he couldn’t really breathe. He did manage to get his arm into the air, and he sent a high-pitched whistle into the room that reverberated over the music and the crowd for less than a second. That would be enough of a signal to alert his fellow Torpedo Ink members that his woman had just walked in.

Reaper, his older brother, sat with him, as he had these last Thursday nights when Savage had come to the bar. Savage knew Reaper was concerned about his state of mind, afraid he might pick a fight and “accidentally” kill someone.

“You’ve got your mouth hangin’ open, and your woman is goin’ to get assaulted in this crowd lookin’ like that,” Reaper said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” There was a trace of amusement in his voice, but not on his face. Maybe in his eyes. “Does she sing as good as she looks?”

Seychelle looked out of place in the bar. Too young. Too sweet. She didn’t look around for him, and that pissed him off when he couldn’t take his eyes off her. When he was practically devouring her.

“Sings like a fuckin’ angel. Her voice, Reaper. It’s something else.”

Reaper’s woman, Anya, was the bartender, along with Preacher, another member of Torpedo Ink. Anya glanced around the bar as she shook something ridiculous for three
women who had come to shake their tits at the band members. She caught sight of Seychelle and flashed her a smile. She’d recognized that signal, the one they’d all been hoping for. She was Savage’s sister-in-law, and she was extremely worried about him.

“Hey, girl. We’ve been waiting for you. Give her some room, guys, and keep your hands to yourself,” Anya called out.

No one messed with or made a play for Anya unless they were new to the bar. Most everyone knew she belonged to Reaper and he wasn’t pleasant if anyone got out of line. Savage felt equally possessive of Seychelle. The trait ran deep in the family. It hadn’t occurred to him someone might decide to touch her. The place was crowded, and it was easy enough for a man to slide his hand over a woman’s ass or tits as she walked by. Depending on what club they were in, some felt like it was their just due.

Savage stood up slowly, still blending in with the shadows. Reaper and he had perfected that art when they were children, all the better to stalk and kill the ones holding them prisoner. Now, standing, Savage could better see Seychelle’s progress as she made her way to the bar. Anya waved her to the bar stool that Bannister, a regular, had vacated in order for her to have a seat. She was short, and her feet didn’t quite hit the floor when she slid onto it. Zyah, Player’s wife, sat on the other side of Seychelle.

The band members, Keys, Master, Maestro and Player, exchanged relieved smiles and then swung into one of their very popular songs. Each of them, in his own way, was a genius when it came to music and playing instruments. They were good—very good—far better than most bands, and it showed. They knew, as much as Seychelle was auditioning to see if she fit with them, they were auditioning for her. If she didn’t like their music, they had little chance, especially since she was sitting on the fence because of Savage.

He had eyes only for her. On her face, just below her left cheekbone, there was a small scar. Over her left eye, bisecting
her eyebrow, there was another one. Those belonged to him. They were so small, no one would notice them, but to him, they stood out and said something about her and the kind of woman she was. She’d gotten those scars saving his life.

He knew how to help her now that he understood how her gift worked, but stopping her from healing others when she couldn’t control the compulsion was going to be difficult until she was on board with it. Savage wasn’t the kind of man anyone said no to, least of all his woman. Still, he knew there had to be a balance—he had to give to her just as much as she was giving him. She hadn’t run screaming from him. She had the courage necessary to face him, to show up at the bar even though she was terrified of the choice she was making.

First her foot moved to the beat of the music, and then her head. She couldn’t help herself. She had that perfect pitch, and the music was alive in her. He could see her face light up, her hands patting out the rhythm on her thighs as she danced sitting right there on the bar stool. He doubted if she was aware of it, but it was sexy as all get-out.

There were eyes on her. Too many. He didn’t like it. “Fuck.” He whispered the word aloud. “We should have provided an armed escort.”

“You give her a choice? Did you try to save this girl?” Reaper asked, watching her.

Yeah, he’d tried to save her, but how hard? He didn’t know. But now he had an excuse, now there was her gift and what it was doing to her.

Savage shrugged. “I gave her a choice, Reaper. I told her this was my territory. Her house was hers. She threw me out. If she came here, she was mine. That was the deal. She came.”

He felt his brother’s eyes on him. Weighing him. He didn’t like that. Reaper saw things others didn’t, but the scrutiny didn’t matter. Savage was there to further his claim on his woman, and no one could get in his way. She made the choice. That was their code.

“You absolutely certain she’s the one?” Reaper asked, his voice gruff.

Savage’s fucking chest hurt so bad, the pressure was enormous. Just looking at her made him happy. He pressed his hand over his aching heart just to reassure his brother without words.

Reaper nodded slowly. “You need help?”

Did he? Savage was certain he was borderline crazy. His only hope was the woman sitting on the bar stool, who hadn’t once, not one single time, looked around the bar in order to try to spot him. He was going to have a word or two about that tonight, when they were lying together on her bed. Just the thought of being in her bed, of wrapping his arm around her hips, his head on her belly, hearing her voice in the darkness enfolding him in silk and velvet, was almost more than he could take.

His head hurt like a son of a bitch. It had for days—weeks. He had no idea what she did to bring him peace, but whenever he was alone with her, he felt different. Calm. Settled. Happy. Hell, just looking at her made him feel that way.

The song ended to the sound of applause. A few bikers raised their beer bottles. Seychelle slipped off the bar stool when Maestro beckoned for her to take the microphone. She was graceful when she walked. Her ass swayed invitingly. Her generous tits pushed at the very modest dark navy tank she wore. She hadn’t dressed up for him. She wasn’t wearing makeup on her skin. That smooth, soft skin on her face was all her. She’d enhanced her eyes, giving them a smoky effect, the same as the day he’d met her. He remembered that.

The band swung into a song after a brief consultation with her, and she began to sing. At first her voice was low, blending in with the soft beginning, and then the music and her voice began to swell, filling the bar with the promise of love. There was joy and laughter and then sorrow. Every emotion was felt through her incredible voice.

He knew her voice touched everyone. He wasn’t an
emotional man and yet somehow, like the other times he was with her, close to her, she tapped into some emotion buried so deep he hadn’t known it was there. The sound slipped into one’s body and eased aches or compounded them depending on what she was feeling as she sang the lyrics. She wove a magical web around them all. Mostly, he was certain, around him.

The second song was pure Seychelle. It was a song designed to bring peace and happiness to others. Savage never took his eyes from her. He felt her energy, her compassion and her need to help others, to lift them up when they were down. He saw the various expressions cross her face as her gaze touched on individuals in the crowd. That golden net began to climb the wall and over the ceiling, sliding down to touch this person or that.