Savage Vandal (82 Street Vandals #1) - Heather Long Page 0,1

door?” I did my best to ignore the pitted feeling in my stomach. The locks were all that offered me privacy when I was here. If they removed the lock…

The man glanced over his shoulder, and the startling slate gray eyes seemed to peer right into me. I forgot how to breathe for a moment as he straightened. I had to tilt my head to maintain eye contact. “No,” he said slowly, the faintest hint of a drawl in his rough voice. It settled into my bones like a bruise that didn’t hurt so much as ache.

I shook my head to free it from the awkward thoughts. “Then why are you messing with it?” It was probably his job, and the last thing I needed was to be harsh so I kept my tone even. At the same time, that dressing room was the one place I could legitimately call my own when I was with the company. My escape.

My freedom.

“Fixing the lock,” he told me, and I shifted my workout bag. “I’ll be done in a couple of minutes.” He moved to the side to let me in. “But I wanted to make sure this was secure for you.”

The volume of gratitude swelling through me was ridiculous. Smiling, I touched his arm as I moved past him. “Thank you.”

The firm muscle of his biceps flexed under the brief touch, but I withdrew my hand and shut up my internal observations. Bodies, their build, their musculature, and how they moved always fascinated me. But most people didn’t like it when I stared, so I learned to save it for when I was people watching or waiting in the wings while others went through their routines.

Safer that way.

“The other one was flimsy.” His words came out as more of an accusation than anything else, but I only nodded as I hung up my dripping coat and dropped the bag on the little sofa. It was just another dressing room in a long line of them. A room not bigger than sixty-eight square feet, but it was mine. I took a savage kind of satisfaction in that.

“I know,” I said absently. Two notes waited on my table. One had Marta’s distinctive handwriting. The bitch had keys to my room. “Um…” I paused to glance over to where he still stood, staring at me. “Who else gets the keys to that?”

Keeping my gaze pinned to his unfathomable eyes rather than his beautiful muscles—where had that come from?—I unzipped the hoodie I’d worn under the jacket. Layers. Always layers. When I performed, I’d be damn near bare, but that was when I was on stage and moving with the music and the silk drapes. When I flew.

Otherwise, I needed my layers of clothing like armor. Except right now, when that armor was still wet enough to leave me chilled.

“Just you,” he said as if he had to measure out the words, but I’d turned away to keep from staring and stripped the hoodie off. I wore just a tank top under it with a simple cotton bra. I’d be changing everything. The jeans had to go too. Speaking of which, I stepped out of my shoes.

The silence behind me grew intense, and I flicked a look up at the mirror. My guest glared at me, the heat in his eyes promising the kind of violence I was all too familiar with. Chills raced across my skin, and I swore. I shouldn’t have started stripping with him right there, even if my clothes were damp.

Folding my arms, I pivoted to face him, but he’d already looked away. His movements were harsh and stilted as he finished his work. “I added a deadbolt,” he said, motioning to the device. “It only locks from the inside.” From this angle, the hint of a tattoo peeked out from below his collar, just the tip of a wing. I had to wonder what the rest of it looked like.

“Thank you,” I said when I found my voice. Despite the dangerous expression he’d worn, I was grateful. Now, if he could just go…

“Emersyn!”

Only discipline kept me from flinching at Eric’s voice. It was the only warning I received before he loomed in the doorway. Or would have, except for the fact that my gray-eyed visitor easily had two inches in height on him. He also shifted his position so that he all but blocked the open door.

Oh, I was going to pay for that later. “Sorry, Eric,” I told him

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