Chapter 4
Sinclair
"He’s bloody good." Saint nods toward the stage in front of us, where Damian’s letting loose on a solo guitar riff.
"Brilliant," I agree, as I swig from my bottle of whiskey. MacAllans’ twelve-year-old, which was all the bar had. Their most expensive whiskey and I’d bought it. And yeah, it was with the money Saint and I had made on our early transactions on the stock market already.
We’re in the VIP lounge that hangs over the crowds of people below.
The front rows are packed with women, many swaying, singing along.
As I watch, Damian moves forward to the edge of the stage.
He falls to his knees, and the crowd roars.
He throws back his head, hair rippling around his shoulders, eyes closed as he gives in to the notes of the guitar…
then stops. The last notes die away. There’s silence for a second then the crowd screams and there’s a surge toward the stage.
They break through the barriers. Girls jump on the stage, throwing themselves at Damian, before security can reach him.
They manage to extricate his limbs before escorting him off stage.
"Wowzer." Weston grins. "And that, ladies, is how a rock star is born."
"No shit." I swig more from the bottle of whiskey, before Arpad seizes it from me, gulps down a healthy portion of the liquid, then wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
Edward ambles over to join us. Arpad offers it to him. Edward refuses, but before Arpad can pull back his hand, Baron snatches it from him. He tilts it to his lips, then lowers the bottle. "Asshole." He stares at Arpad. "The bottle is practically empty."
"So?" Arpad grins.
"I need more alcohol, man."
"Now you’re talking." Saint nods toward the now empty stage, "What say we head on over to the Rockstar’s dressing room, see what he has for us?"
"Let’s do it." I push away from the window, head for the exit.
The rest follow me. We walk down the steps, elbow our way through the crowds pouring out of the concert hall.
Reaching backstage, we cross the hallway and run into a gaggle of girls—groupies.
They'd flocked to Damian's shows from his very first concert, and only grown in number with every gig since.
Their leader is a blonde busty girl with a skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh. Her tits are bursting out of what passes for a blouse. She drags her gaze down my chest to my crotch, before raising a wide-eyed gaze back to my face.
"Are you with Damian?" she breathes.
"He's with me." I drawl. "Why do you ask?"
"Can you get us in to meet him?"
"Oh, I can do more than that." I lean in close enough for the metallic scent of her hairspray to overpower me. My balls shrink. Shit, I lean away from her, and she swoops down, grabs at the front of my sweatshirt. "Please, please can you get us in? The girls and I are dying to meet the Rockstar."
"Oh?"
She nods.
I glare down at where her fingers clutch at me. She pales, then hurriedly releases me
"What do you guys reckon?" I jerk my chin toward the rest of the Seven. "Should we get the girls in?"
Behind me, Arpad whistles. Someone else—Baron, maybe—catcalls.
I grin. "I take that as a yes, then?"
There is a chorus of yes's from the men.
"What do we get in return?"
"Anything." She licks her lips. "Whatever you want. And your friends too..."
"Is that right?" Weston chortles.
A dark-haired girl steps forward. "It is." She moves toward Wes, drags a finger down his chest, "You guys are so much more macho than the rest of his band too."
I bark out a laugh, "Flattery will get you—"
"Everywhere." Saint completes my sentence.
"Give us a few minutes ladies, then get your asses in there," I order.
The girls giggle, primp their hair and all but eye-fuck us as we walk by.
We reach the door at the far end, just as it bursts open.
Damian's drummer and his bass guitarist burst out.
"What's the hurry?" I frown as his drummer lurches to the side then slams into the wall in his hurry to get away.
"Ah, you don't want to go in there," he stammers.
"What do you mean?" I reach for him. He evades me, brushes past the other guys and races up the corridor.
The bass guitarist, holds up his hands. "Shit, if I'd known what he was mixed up with, I'd have never agreed to be in his band."
I swoop down, grab his collar and haul him to his feet. "What the hell do you mean? You'd bloody well explain yourself."
He nods toward the closed door, "Why don't you find out for yourself?"
"I have a better idea." Saint grabs his neck and twists him away from me. "Why don't you tell us instead?"
"I.... I..." He shakes his head, "The men..." He swallows, "The men inside, they..."
The smell of something foul rends the air. I glance down to find a puddle pooling under him. "Shit, he pissed himself."
"What the—" Saint launches the guy away from him. The bass guitarist falls to the floor, then jumps up.
He careens forward, the other guys make way and he runs past them and in the wake of the drummer.
"What the hell is going on here, what frightened him so much that he wet himself?" Saint mutters.
Exactly.
I shove open the door, stalk inside, then pause in the middle of the room. Saint and Edward flank me.
"What in the ever-lovin’ hell?" I exclaim.
Damian’s in a corner of the room, which is not large, by any means, but the men he’s facing seem to swallow up what little space there is.
All three of the strangers are dressed in suits tailor-made for them.
Their hair is buzzed close to the scalp and all are clean-shaven.
Two of them stand facing us, their palms folded in front of them, their stance wary, their gaze honed in on us.
The man in the middle is younger, our age…
Maybe a little older. As I watch, he swings at Damian, who ducks.
He punches suit-guy, who staggers back, recovers, then lunges forward to catch Damian on the side of the head.
"Hey, stop that." I jump forward, Saint and Edward on my heels, only to be stopped by the guards. At least, I assume they are guards. The bastards are massive, at least six-feet six-inches tall, hulking shoulders that almost block out the sight of our friend being beaten.
I hear the sound of more scuffling—a fist connects with flesh, a yell, then Damian reels back. Anger pounds at my temples and adrenaline laces my blood.
"Get away from him." I punch the asshole in front of me and he doesn’t react. Shit, are these guys made of stone?
I exchange glances with Saint, who nods.
We back up, then lunge forward, aiming at the same guard.
He grunts, then staggers back. I bury my fist in his side, again and again.
Saint does the same. As one, we retreat, then spring forward and head butt him.
This time, the guard bends over in pain.
I swing out at him, catch him in the shoulder, the face, and he sways.
Saint kicks his leg out from under him and he topples to the side.
I turn to find Arpad and Baron have tackled the other guard while Edward and Weston head to Damian’s defense. "Back the hell away," Weston growls at the man whose fist is raised toward Damian.
The stranger looks between them, then releases Damian, who stumbles back.
Edward grips his shoulder, rights him, then turns on the stranger. "Who the hell are you? What do you want?" he barks.
The stranger glares at Damian, "You going to tell them, or should I?"
Damian shakes off Edward’s grasp, then straightens and glances between us. "This is Nikolai Solonik. He is part of the Russian Bratva."
”The Bratva?" My heart begins to race, my pulse rate ratchets up. "He belongs to a crime syndicate?"
"The Bratva," Nikolai turns on me, "are more than a crime organization, we are a—"
"—Brotherhood," I fold my arms across my chest. "In fact, doesn't Bratva translate to brothers from the Russian?"
He smirks, "So you English toffs are not completely stupid then?"
"British," I growl. "We’re British, you asshole."
His grin widens, "You British bastards ready to watch your friend take on the reigning champion of the Bratva in the next street fight?"