Page 8 of Savage Temptation
Auburn hair falls over slumped shoulders. The soft, scared tone of her voice grips me by the balls and then sends the fires of hell into my veins. Looks like I’m going hunting tonight but not for drug dealers.
“Emilia.” There’s five years’ worth of emotions tacked on to those three syllables.
“Tell me who did this to you.”
3
EMILIA
Any day that ends with me running in the streets barefoot is a bad day.
Categorically bad. Cracked asphalt and tiny chips of cement slow me down, but I grit through the pain. I fly down one back alley after another.
Neon signs flicker with yellow and acid green from jazz clubs, casting colorful light across weathered brick buildings adorned with ornate wrought-iron balconies. Music pulses into the densely humid night air. Brassy jazz pours from doorways, street performers riffing on saxophones, the distant beat of a snare drum echo from Jackson Square.
I don’t stop for any of it. If I did it might save me from the next painful five minutes of my life, but I don’t. Instead, I dodge a puddle of water only to stub my toe on the edge of a dumpster causing me to stumble forward.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Sharp jolts of pain flash up my leg. I want to scream and cry but I muffle my rage and keep moving.
Feathers from my stage costume snag on rusted cracks splintering through the sides of the next dumpster I use as a shield. Looking behind me, I’ve left a freaking trail of yellow tufts to follow.
I dodge around the next dumpster at the end of the alley. I stop, look around the edge. No biker or Russian in sight.
I check the street signs. “One more set of dodgy back alleys to go.”
I dart past crowds of locals and tourists chatting in a melange of Southern drawl and French accents. The smell of fresh beignets and spicy gumbo drifts from open windows and food stalls causing my stomach to grumble. Cafe tables spill onto the sidewalk, clinking with glassware and laughter, while a passing streetcar rattles along rail lines, its bell chiming.
I keep to the shadows so none of them see me.
One more dark alley and I finally see it.
The Voodoo Lounge.
Red and blue lights flash in front so I turn right and head down another alley to come up from the back.
Three more steps and my poor feet can stop moving. I spot the side door.
Primal instinct to stay alive forces my hand up. I care more about the devil putting a gun in my face rather than the demons on his payroll. My manager will see me dead before sunrise. Jagger might want me dead, but I have my doubts he’d pull the trigger.
At least that is what I hope.
I go to knock, but before my knuckles can touch cold metal, the door whooshes open and a set of gray eyes meet mine.
Recognition and disbelief war for control over his handsome, rugged features.
Black cotton stretches over a wide expanse of muscles and I’m just like every damsel in my favorite novels for the next ten seconds. I forget to breathe.
How can I when my dream stands in front of me looking like a pissed off viking warrior ready to kill? My pulse hammers harder and harder until tiny white dots fill my vision.
Our eyes connect, and it’s like coming home. This is right. Coming to him. I can feel it to my core and yet my hands shake. My knees threaten to give out from under me.
Someone stands at his side. I give her a quick glance, but my brain only narrows down on two things. Her badge hanging around her neck and the gun on her hip.
She’s not here to put a bullet in my brain so my attention snaps back to Jagger.
There are so many things I want to say to him.I love you, for starters.Please don’t hate me.That's the next thought that crosses my mind.Really bad guys are after mewould work, too. I should probably ask if he’ll protect me. And, God, I missed you.
But my mouth and brain refuse to cooperate, tangled up in all the millions of questions and confessions swirling through my mind. In the end, all I can manage is a single word.
