Savage Rhythm (Club Volare)

by Cox, Chloe

  SAVAGE RHYTHM

  A Club Volare Rock Star Novel

  By

  Chloe Cox

  Copyright 2013 Chloe Cox

  All rights reserved.

  Just a quick note…

  I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted two characters to get their HEA this much.

  I know that’s weird to say, but any author will tell you that there comes a point where the characters kind of…start talking to you. They have their own opinions, their own reactions, their own pain—and it’s your job to continue to put them through hell for a little while. And like many people I’ve known in real life, Declan and Molly have traumatic pasts that they cope with as best they can. It meant a lot to me to be able to help them find their way to each other—and then find the strength to face up to those pasts because of that.

  But not before they discover that they can’t keep their hands off of each other, of course. ;) And let me tell you, everyone should have a guy with Declan’s particular, um, talents.

  You’ll see. :)

  Xoxo Chloe

  chapter 1

  Molly Ward was seriously reconsidering her choice of clothing.

  She had wanted to look respectable. In control. Smart. A woman who was not to be messed with, a woman who could hold her own with Declan freaking Donovan, lead singer of Savage Heart. Instead she felt constrained and fake, the too-small conservative blouse pulling tight in all the wrong places, her skirt scratching at her, her shoes pinching, even while the heels kept getting stuck between the wooden slats of the dock. She was on a dock, for chrissakes, not at some corporate whatever. She’d just been so worried about meeting the man himself and losing the upper hand right away, so terrified that she’d blow this life-changing opportunity before it even got started, that she’d overcompensated. Even her hair was in a severe bun.

  Someone like Declan would no doubt prefer that she show up in no clothing at all.

  Oh, that is a bad thought. Molly couldn’t afford distracting thoughts like that if she wanted to nail this job. She had no idea how many people had applied for the ghostwriting job advertised out of Club Volare L.A., of all places, but Molly had gotten it, and she was determined not to screw it up. Adra Davis, one of the founding members of the L.A. club, had believed in her, even when Molly gasped a little when Adra told her the subject of the book would be Declan Donovan. It made sense, in retrospect—Declan’s image needed a major overhaul after his fight in Philadelphia and his stint in rehab—but that didn’t make it any less insane.

  And that didn’t make Donovan any less of an irresistible, womanizing force of nature. The man was legendary.

  So, of course, she’d been having lots of bad thoughts about this job, starting right when she’d heard the name Declan Donovan. She’d had lots of excited thoughts, too, and lots of scared thoughts, and, most of all, lots of sexy thoughts, because not only was she touring with Declan and the remaining members of Savage Heart with the express purpose of getting to the bottom of Declan’s fight with Soren, the lead guitarist, and the original band’s break up—yeah, only the question everyone and their mother wanted answered—but, and this is what had obsessed her since she’d put two and two together, she had been hired for the job through Club Volare L.A.. Which meant that Declan Donovan was into BDSM.

  Which, if Molly was any judge, meant that Declan Donovan, confirmed rock star sex god, was also a Dom.

  Holy. Shit.

  Molly had always fantasized about dominant men. She’d been drawn to the Club Volare posting because she wanted to learn more about their world. About the sorts of things a Dom might do with her. But never, not once, in her wildest dreams, had she imagined that Declan Donovan might be one of them.

  Fuck. She could not afford to get carried away thinking about Declan in a sexual way, and not just because of the job, either. No way was Molly setting herself up to get fucked over by a guy like that again, even if Declan was the real deal, where Robbie had been a cheap facsimile.

  No freaking way was she going to lose control. It cost too much.

  But apparently she’d have to allow herself the occasional randy thought, because there seemed to be no stopping them. Also the occasional terrified thought, because, well, holy crap.

  Molly took a deep breath, set her eyes on the clubhouse at the end of the dock, and walked forward. What kind of a privacy-obsessed sex club would throw a party on a dock? Maybe she didn’t have the right to question, considering she was crashing said party, but it seemed incongruous. No matter. She was crashing this party, specifically, to get the upper hand with Declan Donovan, rock god Dom or no. She was here to let him know that she would get to the bottom of his fight with Soren Andersson, no matter how much he didn’t want to talk about it. She was here to announce that Declan Donovan would not be dominating their interviews.

  Right.

  He can’t sense weakness. If he senses weakness, he’ll never open up, and the book will be a failure and everything will be ruined.

  Molly put on her game face. She was almost there. She could see all the out-to-the-public members of Volare and their friends, laughing, flirting. She was sure they could see her, out of place in her cheap business casual attire, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that now.

  Unfortunately, the Volare people weren’t the only ones who could see her.

  “Hey, sexy librarian! C’mere!”

  Molly jerked her head around. “Sexy librarian” was definitely new—new enough that it actually penetrated her invisible catcall shield.

  The guys doing the catcalling, though—nothing new about that. Drunk. College-aged frat boy douchebags. Their clothing was more expensive than anything she’d ever owned, and they were doing their drinking while tying up an impressively large boat, but otherwise it was the same sort of harassment she’d gotten used to a long time ago.

  But she hadn’t expected to have to deal with it here. Volare had an impeccable reputation. These guys were definitely not Volare.

  Not now, she thought grimly. But she’d made the mistake of letting them know she’d heard them.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you,” one of them said. She didn’t turn this time. “C’mon, you’re making me all hot for teacher.”

  The others laughed. Assholes. How was it possible that otherwise normal adult males so frequently didn’t know the line between flirtation and harassment? Like the fact that she was walking away, visibly uncomfortable, wasn’t a clue?

  Unless making her uncomfortable was the point. Gross.

  Molly sucked in another breath and kept walking. Almost there. No big deal. She wouldn’t let it throw her off her game. She’d dealt with far, far worse.

  She could hear the party now, the clinking of glasses, laughter, mixing with the sounds of the waterfront, waves crashing into pilings, sea birds overhead, and she focused on that. Otherwise maybe she would have heard the douchebag come up behind her.

  Instead she just felt his hand on her arm before she knew what was happening, and then his breath on her neck, hot and smelling of whiskey, such a distinct, terrible smell, a smell that brought back way too many memories.

  She jumped and tried to pull away, violently. His hand was like a vise.

  “Hey, relax,” the frat boy said. He had sandy blond hair, same as Molly, blue eyes, a tan, and an annoyed expression. Like he was pissed at her for having the temerity to be scared.

  “Get your hands off of me,” Molly said, pulling again. She was starting to freak out a little bit. Starting to feel like she was losing control. What was it about this guy?

  “You don’t have to be such a bitch,” he said. “We were just trying to talk to you.”

  He’d called her a bitch. A bitch. And the w
orst part was that he wasn’t letting her go. Molly was trapped talking to this asshole because he was stronger than her and he wouldn’t let her go, and he freaking knew it. What did he want, an apology?

  “Get. Your. Hands. Off of me.” She seethed.

  Molly felt herself start to blush with anger, and that only made it worse. This entitled jerk was humiliating her, was making her look weak, was making her feel weak, in front of the very people she needed to impress. She could feel the attention of the Volare party on her now; this was officially a scene. And she was already fucking up her one golden opportunity. Her one chance to get out of that goddamn trailer park full of people who thought she was trash, her one chance to get away from all the things that had happened there, from the person she had almost turned out to be. Her one chance to make sure her sister Lydia didn’t have to go through the same things.

  “Or what?” the frat boy said. Then he smiled. Like he knew, he smiled.

  Like he fucking knew what she was, like he saw right through her. Like he knew he could do this because she was just what she’d always been, the trailer park slut, just like her mother, just like Robbie and his friends had said she was after what had happened.

  Be strong. Molly wasn’t going to let this jerk steal her future from her just because he felt like showing off for his jerk friends, and she wasn’t going to let anyone tell her she was a slut, ever again. She gritted her teeth and prepared to get medieval on his ass.

  But she never got the chance. The voice came rumbling from behind her, a voice she would have recognized anywhere, deep and resonant, the kind of voice that could have gotten rocks to get up and move out of its way.

  “You really want to find out?” it growled.

  And if she hadn’t been a fan of Savage Heart back in the day, the look on the frat boy’s face would have confirmed it. Declan Donovan was standing right behind her.

  Declan Donovan was threatening the frat boy. For her.

  “Dude, you’re Declan Donovan!” the frat boy shouted. He looked back at his friends like he was going to share the incredible news when a giant hand encircled his wrist. A giant hand attached to an equally giant forearm. Molly stared at the tattoos swirling around the cords of muscle and watched them all flex as Declan squeezed. Hard.

  “Get your hands off of her,” he said.

  The frat boy winced and dropped her arm like it was on fire.

  “Hey, it wasn’t like that,” the frat boy said, all eager to be buddies. “Just a mis—”

  “Get the fuck off my dock.”

  The frat boy blinked. Molly couldn’t help it: she turned to look up at the man who was coming to her rescue, and only then did she realize that she’d been avoiding looking directly at him.

  For good reason.

  Her mind went blank, confronted with that chest. Donovan was huge in real life, his tight black tank top clinging to muscles she could see even through the fabric, his arms knotted up in hard ridges of muscle, his skin covered in mesmerizing ink. He’d cut his black hair short in rehab, and it showed off his square jaw and angular cheekbones, while his black eyes glowed with anger at the cowering frat boy. She remembered that Donovan had never been one of those wilting, skinny rock guys; he’d always been the physical embodiment of the powerful music he made. But now? Had he actually gotten bigger in rehab? Or was that just the sheer fucking magnetism of the man?

  It was impossible not to stare at him once you got sucked in. Molly was already gone.

  “Oh, shit,” she whispered.

  Then she felt his hand on her arm, burning hot, and he gently pulled her toward him, away from the frat boy. “I said leave,” Declan snarled, his eyes boring holes in the smaller man.

  The frat boy left.

  Molly felt a thrill, watching the asshole leave with his tail between his legs, and that thrill embarrassed her thoroughly. How had she already lost her head just being this close to Declan Donovan? The more she thought about it, the more annoyed she was. She could have taken that guy. She wanted to be able to take that guy. To be the one to stand up for herself, to prove that she wasn’t helpless, that she wasn’t anything like Robbie or anyone else had said she was. To take back control. Molly felt like she constantly had to prove herself, and no one was quite as harsh a critic as Molly Ward herself.

  But worst of all, now Declan Donovan thought she was weak, too. The one guy she needed to take her seriously. The one guy who…

  Oh God. He was looking at her. They were so close she could practically feel the heat coming off of him, and she knew it was crazy, but she would have sworn, sworn, that she could feel those eyes leaving a hot trail up and down her body.

  “Are you ok?” he asked her.

  That voice. God.

  If she thought she’d felt weak before, she had no idea what weak was.

  Suddenly she was furious. Not really with anyone in particular, but with the world, the universe, whoever. This was so manifestly unfair—she had worked so hard, had struggled so much, and now she was just another damsel in distress? Bullshit.

  “Is this your dock?” she asked him.

  “What?”

  “You told him to get the fuck off your dock. It’s yours?”

  Declan’s hand had migrated from her arm to her lower back while he scared off the frat boy and he hadn’t moved it, not even as she turned to him so that it rested on her hip. Now his eyes met hers and it became very, very clear to her that he wasn’t going to move it, unless maybe she asked. Molly considered herself a strong woman, but not quite strong enough to do that. Not just yet. In a minute, maybe.

  “It’s mine while I’m on it,” Declan said.

  Molly licked her lips and rallied. This was stupid. Silly. “Like a territorial thing?” she asked, one incredulous eyebrow raised.

  A hint of a smile flickered at the corner of his full lips, the softness there offset by the scruff on his jaw.

  “Yes,” he said.

  He didn’t seem to think he needed to say anything else.

  Molly swallowed. She hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t thought he would just straight up own the caveman thing. Did this mean she was in his territory? Part of his territory?

  The idea both turned her on and infuriated her.

  Declan studied her face and smiled. He was amused. “You’re mad I took care of that guy,” he said. A statement, not a question.

  “No,” she said, maybe too quickly. “Maybe. It’s just that I could have taken care of him myself. I’m not helpless.”

  “No one said you were.”

  “No, you only acted like it.”

  What the hell was she doing? Picking a fight with Declan Donovan? It was like the childish, try-hard version of trying to impress him. She knew she had a valid point, but that wasn’t all she was reacting to. She was reacting to Declan himself. To how overwhelmed she felt just standing next to him. Like she had to fight for every breath, every thought that was not about him.

  What would happen when she was stuck on a tour bus with him twenty four hours a day?

  Oh God.

  He was still looking at her. Calm. His hand hot and heavy on her hip. Jesus. She had to draw a line, here and now, before she lost control of the whole project.

  “Your hand—” she started.

  His voice cut through the air, sharp and strong.

  “Tell me your name.”

  Without even thinking, she told him. “Molly Ward.”

  She blinked. She’d just…obeyed. The look on his face said he’d noticed. His thumb pressed into her hip bone a little bit more.

  “The writer,” he said, almost to himself, his voice a low, satisfied hum. “Ain’t that lucky.”

  Whoa. Danger, Will Robinson. Molly shook her head and stepped back to get free of his molten touch, and immediately felt more in control. Jesus, but the man was lethal.

  She forced herself to look him in the eye and said, “You need to keep your hands off of me.”

  chapter 2

  Declan re
moved his hand, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off of Molly Ward. He missed contact with her already. He hadn’t even thought about it, just put his hand on her, like it was normal. It took both of them too long to realize it wasn’t.

  This was something.

  “As you wish,” he said.

  Molly looked at him sideways and then rewarded him with a sly smile. “Don’t Princess Bride me, Declan Donovan,” she said. “I have a feeling you only obey orders when it amuses you.”

  And where had this woman come from?

  “You would be correct,” he said, grinning. “What clued you in?”

  “This is a Club Volare event, right?”

  Declan let his eyes drift south momentarily to the straining buttons on the front of Molly’s shirt. No button should be put through that. Come to think of it, no man should be put in close proximity to a woman like this if she was going to be off limits. Especially not on a tour bus. For eight weeks. His balls ached just thinking about it. She was dressed up in a way he could tell wasn’t natural for her, just by the way she held herself, and yet damn. Those curves. Those brown eyes. That dirty blonde hair, starting to wisp out of that bun and play around her face.

  Fuck me.

  He said, “You should know, that won’t be the last time I touch you.”

  Declan believed in honesty. There was no shortage of women willing to throw themselves on his dick, but this one seemed determined to avoid his touch like the plague, even though it visibly turned her on. Nipples didn’t lie, not when they were tight and poking through her cheap shirt, and neither did her dilated pupils or her flushed skin, and if she cared to look down she’d have seen how freaking hard he was already. There was just no explaining physical chemistry, and between the two of them it was potent. All the physical indicators he’d trained himself to recognize as a Dom screamed, “Do me now!”

  And yet she was telling him no.

  He’d always liked a challenge.

  Molly stiffened. “Excuse me?”

  “That won’t be the last time I touch you,” he said again. “Only next time, you’ll beg me to.”