Page 3 of Savage Hero

I scramble up hurriedly, spinning around to face the door. My heart is lodged halfway up my damn throat, blood singing through my ears as I fully expect the door to swing open and Throat Tattoo to be standing there with a gun aimed between my eyes.

But nothing happens.

I’m almost disappointed.

Almost.

I give myself a mental shake and head over to the urinals, glancing at my reflection in the mirror as I pass.

I’m wearing a beanie, my long, dirty-blond hair pinned tight against my head. This is one of those times that I’m utterly grateful to Mom and Dad. Their genetics blessed me with a square jaw, a strong nose, and thick eyebrows. With my hair tucked in and my baggy clothes, I make a pretty convincing man.

Well, a pretty boy, at least.

The thin mustache helps. A lot.

I unzip my slightly stained jeans and pull out my fake penis, aiming for the blue urinal cake as I slowly push back on the bladder of apple juice.

And, right on time, the bathroom door opens.

Shoes clop on the tiles.

I don’t look around—I know who’s coming through the door. Bryanalwaysuses a stall. Maybe it’s a safety precaution, or maybe he can’t pee standing up anymore.

I like to believe the latter. He’s a sick,sickmotherfucker and he doesn’t deserve even a thin slice of a normal life.

But life doesn’t work like that, does it?

My mouth turns sour, but I keep on peeing, counting down seconds in my head so I don’t move too fast.

Eight, nine—

The door opens again.

Fuck!

Only twice have his bodyguards followed him inside. It still doesn’t change the plan, but it does make everything that much riskier.

My bladder is almost empty. I need to step away from the urinal in case one of the guards decides to pee as well. Apple juice doesn’t exactlysmelllike the regular asparagus dream of men’s urine.

I zip up, turn around, and choke down a yelp of surprise.

He moved like a fucking snake, and I didn’t even hear him slithering.

Throat Tattoo studies me for a second, and then his eyes scan down my body like he’s sizing me up and comparing me to a database of every man he’s ever come across.

It seems I have come up wanting.

Abort!

I give him the tiniest, politest smile I can manage, and head for the basins. It makes my insides tremble to stick around long enough to wash my hands when all I want to do is bolt out of here, but I have to keep up the pretense.

I have to make him forget about me. And therein lies the problem because, apparently, I fascinate him.

“New to the neighborhood?” he rumbles behind my shoulder.

My eyes dart up to the mirror before I can stop myself. But I guess I’m acting normally. Any guy my size—as in, petite—would be uneasy having someone as intimidating and commanding as Throat Tattoo address them.

And oh my God…thatvoice.

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