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“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.
