Page 2 of Madness & Mayhem

“Enough!” a man yelled, drowning out the sound of the Allman Brothers in the background. “I said enough!”

The music shut off inside the house, and suddenly there was a deafening silence.

I stared up at the night sky and saw stars, though I wasn’t sure if they were real or not because I’d hit my head.

A swarthy face covered in gray stubble appeared over me. I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, and my attention was drawn to a jagged scar that graced his forehead. It bisected his eyebrow, missing his left eye, and disappeared as it thinned out down his cheek. His wavy salt-and-pepper hair fell into his face, and he hastily ran a hand through it, trying to get it out of the way. It didn’t stay put.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was raspy, like he hadn’t spoken in a long time.

“Hey,” I wheezed.

“I’m gonna help you sit up. Okay?”

“Okay.”

His arms came around me and he helped me into a sitting position. My head swirled and my vision danced with black spots. I collapsed against the stranger, my cheek brushing his shirt.

His chest was taut with muscle. It felt strong.Hefelt strong.

“Brooklyn,” Willa cried, suddenly crouching next to me.

“I’m okay,” I said. It was a half-truth, and I grimaced as my vision winked in and out.

“Like hell you are,” the man holding me grumbled.

“I’m fine,” I insisted and made a motion that I wanted to stand. Willa and the stranger aided me. Willa let go, but the man kept his arm around me.

Good thing, too, because I crumpled into him when I tried to stand.

“I think she might have a concussion,” the stranger said.

“Your shoe heel is broken,” Willa lamented. “Damn. It was cute.”

“My heel is broken?” I asked, my voice sounding way more forlorn than it should have.

“Your shoe is the least of your problems,” the man holding me said.

I gained the strength to push away from him. I looked up.

And up.

And up.

I found myself glaring at his chin because he was nearly a foot taller than me. “You don’t understand. The shoes madethe outfit.”

He arched a brow and absently rubbed a thumb across his cheek. The raspy sound of his whiskers against his finger sent an unwanted curl of desire through me. It was inherently masculine, and I noticed.

The man radiated testosterone.

“You look like you want to say something,” I said.

“I don’t,” he stated.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

He paused for a moment. “Slash.”

My gaze instantly went to the scar across his forehead. “Slash,” I murmured. Our gazes met and everything else around me seemed to fall away. The lights from the clubhouse illuminated his sculpted jaw, the angular planes of his face.