Free Lady Killer (Tangled Desires Book 2) by Misti Murphy Page A

Harbinger.” The big guy on the door claps me on the back and speaks loudly to be heard over the laughter and music coming from inside, as we step out of the club into the chilly night. “You’re always great to watch.”
    “Thanks, man.” I knock knuckles with him, and then clutch the woman beside me a little tighter, rubbing my thumb up the curve of her boob through the lace cutout that runs down the side of her little black dress. She smiles, her lips parting, and there’s lust in her gaze. I don’t particularly care. Sounds crass, I know, but this is just the way it goes. These women, they find me, and they know what to expect. A roll around in my bed. Sometimes I let them stay, even cook them breakfast, but after that she’ll catch a taxi, and I won’t see her again. Unless she’s a bunny boiler. I’ve learned to watch out for the crazy eyes. It’s the only reason I bother to pay attention to their faces. They don’t really want me to anyway. They want me between their legs, and that’s fine with me. I slide my hand up a little higher, tickle my fingers across one peaked nipple. “I can get you a taxi if you want.”
    “No, I want to go home with you.” She runs her hand down my back, gropes my ass through the back pocket of my pants, making her intentions clear. It always goes like this. I give them an out, a chance to walk away, but they never take it. I guess saying they slept with Harbinger is some kind of badge of honor. They never scream out my name, not my real name, in bed. It’s always my ring name. That’s who these girls are after, and it’s who I give them.
    We step out onto the road. The blacktop sparkles under the streetlights from the earlier rain. Moisture clings in the air, sweetening it. It still smells like the city, like exhaust fumes mixed with steel. I can’t even pick up a hint of wet leaves, or that fresh woodsy scent that accompanies rain back home. A few cars rumble by a couple blocks up on a main road, but other than the noise still filtering out of the warehouse the club’s situated in, it’s pretty quiet tonight. The rest of the crew will drink for hours yet, but not me. Drinking too much will fog my head, and I can’t allow that. Besides, my body is my temple. It’s what makes me as great as I am, and the season isn’t over.
    We’re not too far from my apartment, an overpriced studio on the upper side of the river, so I decide we’ll walk. If the woman, I can’t even remember her name, keeps up with me in her ridiculous heels I might even be nice and carry her up the three flights of stairs. I don’t do elevators. They give me the willies. They’re metal death traps waiting to claim innocent victims. I’ve seen Speed , and heard of people being stuck in elevators. I’m not claustrophobic, but shit, I prefer to take the stairs. There’s so much adrenaline pumping through my body anyway still from the fight. That’s why I won’t turn her away. Why I never turn them away.
    “Tom Hadley.” A woman’s voice calls out, and I stop short. No one calls me Tom around here, except for my manager, coach, and the guy who cleans the gym I train at when everyone leaves at the end of the day. Certainly no women. So I turn around.
    She stands on the pavement, staring at me. I can’t see her eyes properly, but there’s something about her. I give her a slow perusal, take in the red, strappy, heeled sandals on her feet, the silky looking, red shift dress that starts above her knees and would tie rather simply at the front if she weren’t busy tangling the length of silk into multiple knots.
    I notice the ragged edge of the seam at her shoulder that’s torn halfway down to her breast. When I get to her neck, I stop, scrunching up my brow as I squint. There’s red marks on both sides of her throat, long thick lines on her skin. I take a step toward her, and then another. They look like fingers, or rather the imprint of fingers on her all too pale skin. I don’t realize