Page 23 of Savage Salvation

“My guitar. Have you seen it? Did you move it or anything?”

“No. I didn’t. No one has been back there.” He pauses, concern on his face. “I thought I’d heard you back there earlier this afternoon, but when I checked, it was empty. I even tugged on the door. It was locked and secured, though. Figured some vermin got in the ceiling or something.”

That’s not a soothing thought for when I’m sleeping here tonight, but it wasn’t a rodent in the ceiling he’d heard. It was the pest who creeps around my mind. But he’s gone too far.

“I’ll help you look for it. Maybe the guys picked it up with the other equipment.” Johnny moves towards the back, but I wave him off.

“That’s probably it.” I know precisely where it is. “I’ll see ya later.” I give him my best reassuring smile and head to the back of the store to grab my keys, phone, and the bat before slipping out the back door and heading straight for Gage’s house.

As I navigate down the street, I look at the houses that can only be described as a string of fortresses. I already know the one at the very end of the street belongs to the dickhead himself. And to my surprise, the entry gate is wide open. He’s here. His truck is parked along the circular driveway, between the front of the house and a freakin’ fountain.

A gigantic stone statue is situated in the middle of a round pedestal as water flows over the edge, giving the appearance of the angel walking on water. It’s out of place here. Only Lucifer obliterating humanity would be fitting for the creature who dwells here.

Screeching to a stop behind his truck, I grab the bat and make my way to the porch. He must’ve been anticipating my arrival because the door swings open as I lift the bat to use it as a knocker.

I step forward, onto the threshold of the door, as close to nose-to-nose as I can get with him, but don’t dare step into the house. Not yet. I will if I have to. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” His posture is relaxed, his bare feet crossed at the ankles as his hands tuck into his jean pockets. His forearms are revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-down. Relaxed. That’s how he looks. Because he knows he’s in possession of something that will get to me. Deeply.

“Give me my fucking guitar right now. Or you will regret it.” My fingers clutch the weapon in my hand so tightly they ache, but it’s the only thing I can do to rein in the rage flowing throughout my body.

“Ah. Your guitar. You really should keep up with your possessions better. Now your boy band bitches will have to go on without you.” Easygoing. Nonchalant. Uncaring.

But the smug he-has-the-upper-hand-on-me look is what drives me over the ledge. And he’s about to catch my fucking temper. I take a step back, turn and head straight for his truck. Bringing the bat up, I swing it with everything I have, and the barrel smashes against the passenger window, splintering it into a web of glass. I rear the club back again, swinging. Again and again. Connecting with anything and everything on the truck. Taillights. Fender. Hood. Windshield. Over and over with every bit of anger I possess.

One final hard swing has the bat connecting with the already battered windshield. My chest heaves as I attempt to catch my breath, my full-on rage slowing just enough to allow for a breath. Looking to where the source of my wrath stands, I see he is casually lounged against the doorframe. Asshole.

I fling the bat out of my hand, it smashes against the truck one final time as I say, “You should really take better care of your possessions.”

Still unmoving, he replies, “I tried. She refused me. Again.”

I can’t win. I just beat the shit out of his truck—should have beaten the shit out of him, actually—but what’s the point? He lets blockheads do that for fun. There’s absolutely nothing he gives a flying fuck about. Why can’t I be like that? It’s what I want. It’s what I always strive for. Then nothing, including him, could ever get to me.

Slowly, I walk back towards where he stands, stopping a few feet away. I’m not his possession and never will be. “Because no amount of pleasure is worth the misery you cause. You are not worth the pain.”

His smug look wavers for a split second but it comes back, situated perfectly. He hasn’t lost anything. He has nothing to lose that he can’t replace. I know his truck will be repaired. Or perhaps he’ll discard it and replace it with a shiny, brand-new one. Or maybe he doesn’t even care enough to replace or repair it, he can just switch to one of his other vehicles. Ryan’s bragged enough about Gage owning multiple. But there’s one thing he’ll never own. Me.

17

Gage

The bass vibrates through my body; the beat of the music humming through my veins. I down another shot of whiskey before Memphis passes me a refilled one, which I down too. He does the same before sliding our empty glasses across the bar.

“Damn it.” He drops his phone on the bar, silencing the device. “Ryan’s blowing up my damn phone.”

“Turn it off.” That’s what I’d done with mine. I think so, anyway. I’d gotten tired of the messages. Most were Ryan asking if I was fighting tomorrow night at the Den. No. Not for any other reason than I don’t fuckin’ want to, so he has no choice but to accept it.

“Are you sure about passing on tomorrow night? The rematch with Pete would bring in a good crowd.”

“Nah. Let Ryan go at it.”

Memphis lets out a laugh louder than the blaring music, and when the bartender looks over at us, I signal for another drink. She gives me the same sultry smile that she had when I handed her my fake ID. It’s the best money can buy. Even if she caught on, I doubt she’d refuse to serve me after I’d slipped her a few extra bills across the bar before we even started drinking.

And it had been worth it. She kept the booze coming as fast as we could drink it. Thank fuck, too, because I can hardly stomach sitting here watching Kinsley playing without feeling like shit. She shouldn’t be up there with them. I knew the plan wasn’t perfect, but I thought it’d throw her enough to skip out or at least knock her off balance. It hadn’t. She had a glistening replacement before the show even started, and the band took the stage right on time. She does work at a music store, after all. And her clothes—simple, plain, wearing flip-flops for fuck’s sake. She’s never looked more beautiful.

Downing my next shot, Memphis clicks his full one against my empty glass.

“Maybe we should slow it down,” he adds, dropping his to the bar.