Free In Pursuit of Prey: Of Gods and Consorts, Book 1 by Savannah Jordan Page A

it at the wall. Phone pieces fly apart like shrapnel. The plaster cracks. A picture of the band crashes to the floor.  
    Kicking the sharp bits aside, I hustle down the hall and grab a clean shirt from the bedroom. Just three steps to the closet, in and out, and it’s still too long. The room, the lyrics on the wall, brings everything Sekhmet and I had crashing back in on me. By the time I snatch up my keys and lock the apartment, the last damn thing I want to do is go onstage and bare my soul.  
     
    The Nova rolls through the neighborhoods, and I know by the traffic clogging the streets it’s going to be a busy night at Seduction. Normally, nights like this amp me up. A great crowd is like a drug in the blood. I used to crave it, used to sing my throat raw to see the people react.  
    I park the car a block from the club, hoping a walk in the cool air would clear my head. A fucking pipe dream. I’m a twisted, torn-up mess inside, and the last place I want to be is here. After everything I’ve done, all the days I’ve sold and hours spent under a succubus’ spell, now I dread it. Singing to the goddess, watching her moving to and through my words…I don’t want to sing for anyone else.  
    People press wall to wall inside Seduction, even more than the normal nights we play. Shoving my way back toward the stage and dressing room, I hear whispers and have a good idea why they’re all here. My moment with Sekhmet made the front page of the Entertainment Page of the Lakeshore Chronicle .  
    Wonderful. I groan. Fucking wonderful. She’s the one person I don’t want to think about, and they’re all here hoping to see more of her.
    Faceless people stand all over the floor. Redheads, brunettes, blondes. My heart kicks up a notch when a curvy blonde threads her way toward me, then I see her face. I should’ve known by the lack of fiery connection that it wasn’t my goddess.  
    Heart plummeting in my chest, and possibly about to fall out of my ass, I take the stage with Diablo’s Decadence. Strobes pulse light into the black, the mirror ball fractures the beams and hurls the shards into the crowd. The energy is here, the audience is buzzing, and I might as well be dead to it all.  
    Spotlights flood the stage, the band launches into our opening riff. On cue, I open my mouth and the lyrics fall out—empty of emotion, empty of any power I would’ve put into them. One stanza in and Jazz gives me a ‘what the fuck, dude?’ look. My mind keeps retracing my steps the past couple nights here. I see Sekhmet in the crowd, I can feel her body beside me, my cock aches to be in her. Then, the rhythm builds behind me. Jazz rips into the lick leading into the song I’d sung when the goddess and the girl danced for me.
    The hurt and anger on Sekhmet’s face roar to life in my mind. She acted like her heart was broken in the Temple. I know mine is.  
    “I-I’m sorry,” I mumble into the mic. “I just can’t sing this one tonight.”
    The click of the microphone settling into the clip cracks like thunder in the night, loud over the silence of the crowd. I stand still for a moment, their eyes on me, my heart and mind elsewhere. Then, I turn my back on everything I’d sacrificed for and walk offstage.  
    I can’t do this anymore. I’ve got nothing but blues left.
    Jazz smacks a hard hand on my shoulder halfway to the door.  
    “What the fuck is going on?” His eyes are wild, jaw working like he wants to chew on me.
    “Never mind, Jazz.” I try to shoulder past and meet his arm instead.  
    “Don’t tell me to never mind!” He shoves me back a step. “This is the band that your pissy mood is affecting.”
    “Sorry,” seems so inadequate, but I say it anyway. “I need some time.”
    We stand, fists balled, jaws locked and angry, glaring back and forth. For all his bluster, Jazz is a pussy. He backs down first, and I stomp past.
    “You’ve got until next weekend. If you can’t perform, we’ll find another