Page 3 of Savage Temptation (Savage Reign #2)

STORM

I have every intention of killing someone tonight. I want graves filled with bodies and I will be the one to put them there.

People ask how I got the name Storm. Truth is, I didn’t choose it, my Savage brothers did, after what happened a couple of parishes over a few years back. A rival biker crew crossed into our territory looking for trouble and harassed our townspeople.

That doesn’t fly with the Savage brothers.

The air was thick with the stench of spilled beer and sex when I walked into their dive bar that night. Those bastards preyed on anyone weaker and thought they could do anything they pleased.

My mission that night was to teach them otherwise. Unlucky for them, that was also the night I lost the woman I love.

Emilia. She never showed up for the nuptials.

I don’t kill for pleasure. Well, shit. I take that back.

That night I did, but they had it coming.

My brothers had my back, but I stormed in shotgun blazing, and I eliminated every fucker who thought they could come into our parish and hurt our women and children.

I’m not interested in second chances for monsters.

So I sent every last one of them to their early grave.

Since then, my brothers call me Storm.

And now it looks like my special skill set is needed again.

Detectives have the staff along one wall peppering them with questions.

On the other wall are a few remaining patrons who got caught up in the mess when all they wanted was to have a good time tonight.

Even a flower guy is caught up in the mess.

Ain’t life full of surprises. They will no doubt tell all their friends not to come back to the Voodoo Lounge. What a PR nightmare this will be.

“Can someone please turn that shit off? We don’t need to watch it on T.V. when it’s going down right under our noses for God’s sake, man.”

Voodoo’s bartender glowers in my direction, but Bourbon juts his chin out in acknowledgement and shuts off the flatscreen near the bar. Normally it has some kind of sensual scene playing out on the forty-two inches, but tonight the front of my bar is plastered across the expanse.

Three drug overdoses in my house.

For fuck’s sake.

I scrub a hand down my face, feeling every last one of my forty-one years.

In the seven years I’ve worked this place alongside my Savage Reign brothers we’ve managed to keep drugs and prostitution out. You can’t do other shady shit if the law has you in their scopes. That’s common sense.

And now this. We’ll be lucky if law enforcement allows us to stay open after this.

Reaper will want the heads of everyone who allowed deals to go down inside our walls.

And I’m going to line them up for him. If I leave anyone alive long enough, that is.

Our president isn’t a wildcard. None of the Savage Reign crew are.

We all keep to the rules we agreed upon when we formed our brotherhood.

No drugs. No trafficking of humans. No hurting the innocent. Pretty damn simple and straightforward.

Everything else is fine as long as we stay under the radar.

We are not saints by any means. We make money from a lot of shady means.

Strip clubs. Yes. Gambling. Yep. Gun running…

sure. It’s damn good money and we use the profits to help people who can’t help themselves.

And then we have the bars and lounges like this place.

There’s a good amount of people who come to this town looking for a good time and the Savage crew aim to provide safe places for people to party.

But drugs are a hard fucking no.

So how the hell did it get into our territory?

I pull a phone out and pull up Cipher’s name. He’s our in-house hacker and the one with his ear to the ground and knows whose shoulder to tap for intel. Someone knows something.

“Yo? What’s up?” Cipher picks up on the first ring.

“Turn on the news. Three overdoses. I got here after the fact, but I’m getting it under control.”

Cipher lets out a low whistle. “Tell me what you need. Reaper will be pissed.” I can hear his fingers already moving over a keyboard.

The club’s cut over my shoulders never felt so heavy. I can be pissed off at the world right now, but it doesn’t matter. This happened on my watch. This is my responsibility.

“Fact, man. He’s my next call. While I do that, I need you to talk to your guys. Let’s get some names and a list going.”

He grunts with the same level of disgust I feel burning a hole in the pit of my stomach. “You’re talking about the Vultures and what went down with Arabelle, aren’t you?”

He can’t see it, but I’m nodding my head. “Yeah. This has those fuckers MO written all over it. I think they are trying to spread out and grow their territory, but someone with some power is behind it. They aren’t strong enough to push past their little parish.”

“Copy that. But who is strong enough and willing to work with those assholes, is the question. You gonna tell Reaper you think it’s the Vultures or you want me to?” I hold the phone to my ear and watch as a seasoned NO detective gives the order to go ahead and roll out the deceased from the club.

Ash rattles out something about tightening security, but I’m not listening.

My attention is glued to the coroner as the man zips one body bag closed before moving to the others.

This didn't have to happen. People make their choices, I know, but these kids were barely old enough to drink and now so poor fucker will be breaking the news to their families that they are gone.

I silently vow to make the fucker who sold them the drugs pay with their life.

“Nah. I need some intel before I do that. Right now I’m gonna fill him in on the facts.”

I hang up and pull up Reaper’s number, but it goes to voice mail.

Shit.

He’s probably with his new girl. She just gave birth a few weeks ago and I can’t blame him for wanting to have a moment to himself.

He just saved her life, his child’s, and saved our small parish outside of New Orleans from burning down.

All because of the Vultures. The rival crew has been a pain in our side for a while now.

It won’t take much to force Reaper’s hand and cause a blood war.

Haven is a small parish about thirty minutes outside of the city. It’s home, and we nearly lost it a week ago. Reaper’s been on edge for a while and I hate to be the one to burst his happy bubble.

I pull up my contact list again and tap the VP’s name. Ash picks up on the second ring. “Hit me. What’s going down?”

I convey to him the same news I told Cipher about the overdoses, leaving out my theory about the Vultures crossing lines again. I need to verify before I start a war. “... and I can't find Reaper. You wanna find him and fill him in?”

“I got it. Keep me posted, yeah?”

“You got it.” I end the call, with a fresh wave of irritation gripping me by my balls.

The buzz of the news crew grates on my nerves, their voices carrying over the shuffle of gawkers entranced by the morbid display of bodies being loaded into black vans with City Morgue along the side. Fuckers have nothing better to do with their Friday evening, I guess.

My jaw clenches tighter with each yelled question from the reporters just beyond the front entrance. Bright flashes fire off when I move to the front of the club. Come tomorrow, it will be my face plastered across the headlines, no doubt.

“Sir, sir, can you tell us first hand what happened?”

I don’t get a face to go with the rapid-fire questions I get peppered with when I step onto the sidewalk outside the club. I raise a hand or risk losing my eyesight from the glaring lights.

Shoving past the crowd, I push into the night air and fix my glare on the reporters. “Back off,” I growl, letting the words hit like a warning. “Show some damn respect for the officials trying to do their jobs.”

A microphone is shoved in my face. “Get the fuck otta here.” I inhale deeply so I don't punch the first guy who thinks challenging me is a good idea when he tests the bounds of the yellow caution tape between us.

“Mr. Malone. I’ve been looking for you.”

My back stiffens. I know that deceptively sweet voice. Fuck. Me. She catches people off guard with the soft tones and then shoots their balls off the second she lines up her scope.

This night just went from shitty to someone please put me in a grave already.

About halfway through junior high I learned how to pick out the bad guys.

It’s why no one ever tried bullying me or those under my protection.

I had no problem putting assholes in their place or knocking them the fuck out if they didn’t take to my warning.

I know how to spot the inherently good guys, too. They are fewer by the day, and should be cherished when found. My Emilia was a good one. Is , I correct myself. Is.

Then there were the ones who walked down the middle between the good and bad and that is exactly who the chick coming up behind me is. Not one of the good ones, but not dirty either. She’s as gray as they come.

And a royal pain in my ass.

My head falls back and I pinch the bridge of my nose, looking for some kind of salvation.

I pivot on the thick sole of my boot, and sure enough, New Orleans’ finest she-devil is staring up at me with pretty hazel eyes that miss nothing and a gun on her hip that rivals her perpetually pissed off attitude.

“Detective Lafleur,” I flatline. I’ve had my run-ins with her and each time she’s promised someday she would get her cuffs on me.

Her eyes take in my shitkickers, black jeans, cotton T-shirt and the leather cut draped over my shoulders. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that is pure disgust in the way you look at me, Detective.”

I push past her and the nagging reporters. Inside, a couple of police officers are still working the line of staffers and the patrons. Everyone is trying to talk over the next person. Radios are going off.