Page 16 of Savage Guardian

“Ugh,” she grunted. It was a post for a website she was all too familiar with.

Reading the blog post title, she refused to click the link, knowing it would only sour her mood further.

AOIBHEAL IN VEGAS—MAYBE SHE’LL SHOTGUN MARRY SOME TALENT!

J.P. Dalton. Asshole and music reviewer. He’d had a hard on for Aoibheal since she’d begun putting out music. In the beginning, Fae had wanted to focus on putting out thoughtful, well-made music, so she’d ignored the first flood of media interest. She didn’t enjoy talking to strangers anyway, especially invasive strangers who couldn’t take no for an answer.

Finally, she’d blocked him on all her social media channels, effectively cutting him off at the knees. He couldn’t comment on her posts or videos anymore, so he sought to wound her in other ways. He’d taken to his blog to lambaste her, her music, and anything else remotely associated with her.

Not even the brand of whisky she’d mentioned in a song once was safe from his virtual vitriol.

Thankfully, the busier she got making a living, the easier it had become to ignore him. Eventually, his nastiness tapered off to a few mentions in blog posts about other musicians he felt were better than her. Apparently, however, he’d taken the news of her coming concert and album as a reason to begin his ugliness again.

Rolling her eyes, she gently placed her guitar into its case and heaved a sigh.

One freaking notification and her night had sunk to irreparable levels of damaged. First the awkwardness of her first impression with Hawk, and now dealing with the resurgence of J.P. Dalton: Dick.

Maybe an ice cream sundae, a comfy pair of sweatpants, and aSons of Anarchymarathon would make her feel better.

God, what a fucking mess….At least Church had been uneventful, mostly a “catch up” meeting to make sure everything was running smoothly…and that Skathi got her pie.

Throwing open the door, he lifted a chin to the bouncer on duty, Stang. He wasn’t a Raider, but he was pretty damn close, having worked for Odin and the Raiders in one capacity or another for nearing six years. Odin had offered the man the chance to prospect several times over those years, but the man was adamant that it wasn’t the lifestyle for him. He was built like a brick shit house, his shaved head and dark skin made him look like a business end of a nightstick—and he was just as hellishly damaging in a fight. More than one piece of shit poser had tried and failed to best the massive beast of a man, but Stang took care of business—Raider or no.

Personally, Hawk thought the man would make an excellent Raider, and he’d make thousands more in income per month, but Stang just wanted to work his four to close shift and go home. Hawk mentally shrugged. To each his own, or what the fuck ever.

Waving a quick greeting at Thor, the bar manageranda Raider, Hawk strode across the scratched, dinged, and gouged hardwood floor of the bar and snatched the tumbler right out of Grimm’s hand, tossing back the liquid inside without taking a breath.

“The fuck?” Grimm barked, standing so quickly his chair slid back, slamming into the wall behind him. The mountain-sized ginger narrowed his unearthly silver eyes at Hawk, who simply shrugged. “What the fuck is wrong with you, brother? You know better than to take another man’s drink. Especially his top shelf Irish whiskey.” The asshole was actually pouting? Grumbling, the man returned to his seat, but not before snatching the now empty tumbler from Hawk’s grip.

Fuck that shit.

Expensive or not, Hawk needed that drink—hard and fast. The burn was so, so good…but it did nothing to burn off the confusion and frustration burrowing into his bones.

The night hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. Not even a little. And it didn’t sit right with him.

The woman he’d been dreaming of, obsessing over, and fantasizing about for nearly two years…wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

That, coupled with the shit going on with the club, and Hawk was ‘bout ready to find himself at the bottom of a bottle. Fuck tomorrow. He was getting shitty tonight.

Months ago, after Trucker’s betrayal and subsequent death, his position in the club was void, leaving the Sergeant-at-Arms’ position open. One Church meeting later, the club unanimously voted to bring Hawk in to the position, lifting him from brother to officer. It had been one hell of an honor, one he didn’t take lightly. He’d work his ass off to make his prez and his brothers proud.

Fang appeared, slapping Hawk on the back and taking one of the two empty seats at the table. Hawk was surprised Fang wasn’t at home with his harem of women, getting his cock sucked, his dinner made, and his feet rubbed—all at once. The man had five girlfriends, all perfectly happy to share him.

Hawk didn’t even want one. But…then he imaginedher.

Aoibheal. The musician, the songstress, the mystery. The woman millions around the world clamored for, so much so, she finally decided to perform a reveal concert where her fans would finally see her face, see her live. She was a woman he’d pictured in his head for so long, and tonight, he’d gotten the opportunity to meet her. To see her face, to hear her speak his name, to touch her, to inhale her scent on his nose.

And…it hadn’t satisfied him as he’d hoped. Even after all the apprehension, excitement, and finally the culmination of nearly two years of wondering and waiting, he’d been left…wanting.

And he didn’t understand why.

In all his imagings of what she would look like, he always pictured her…differently. Earthier, more ethereal, like her voice. What he got—model tall, stick thin, and sensually brazen—was beautiful, gorgeous even. If he wasn’t on assignment, he would have tossed her his panty-melting smile, taken her out for a night on the town, and then taken her to his bed until she was nothing but loose limbs and swollen lips. But what his mind had conjured during all those long, lonely nights, listening to her music in the dark of his room, staring at the ceiling…it wasn’t Carrie.

But itwasCarrie. Carrie was Aoibheal. So it didn’t matter what he’d pictured before meeting her. Now that he had met her, he needed to reconcile what he’d imagined and the truth. So what if she didn’t look like a fey earth goddess, small and delicate and as luminous as a bright, pure light?

Carrie James was flash and bang andbang-able.

So what’s your fucking hang up?

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