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leather vest. Her face was painted white like a geisha and her eyes burned out at the audience from a band of black makeup that striped the upper part of her face like a mask. Her lips jumped out in brilliant red, a match for the single vibrant streak running through her rock-and-roll hair.
    He stood stock-still, staring at Zoe as she slowly rotated her hips in a suggestive circle.
    “Let’s hit it, lovers!” she howled into the mike, and loud, pumping thrash blew out at him from the speaker stack.
    Zoe started to sing, her voice strong and sultry as she strutted across the small stage. She pumped her arm in the air, thrust her hips. She slid a hand over her crotch and threw her head back in feigned ecstasy as she sang about sex and desire and taking what she wanted when she wanted it.
    He stood frozen at the exit for almost the entire first song. Finally he shouldered his way back through the crowd to take up a position against the bar, his arms folded across his chest as he watched Zoe perform.
    He’d never seen anything like her. Without a doubt, every heterosexual man in the place was hard. Probably half the gay ones, too. She was every man’s darkest fantasy: pure, unbridled sex, strutting, shaking it, daring every man in the audience to want her, to try to satisfy her.
    Halfway through the second song, she tugged at the studs on her vest and pulled it open to reveal a black lace bra and a second rose tattoo across her hip and half her belly. The crowd howled its approval. She slid a hand from one breast to the other then down her stomach, all the while singing about liking it hard and fast. She turned her back as she threw the vest to one side. He stared as the rest of her tattoo was revealed.
    Etched into her skin in shades of black and gray, the tattoo curved around her hip to climb her spine, a thorny rambling rose that promised as much pleasure as it did pain. It disappeared beneath the tangle of her hair only to reappear again as it twined its way around her throat.
    Movement near the front of the stage drew his attention. A bare-chested, burly skinhead was hauling himself over the lip of the stage. Liam started pushing his way through the crowd, seeing the inevitable in his mind’s eye—some drunken idiot pawing at Zoe, security rushing in, fists being thrown, broken faces and bones. He’d barely taken three steps before Zoe walked straight up to the interloper and placed the spike of her heel dead center of his chest. She didn’t drop a note as she pushed him off the stage.
    Liam stopped, staring at her for a long moment.
    He had no idea who she was, what had made her into the woman onstage whipping four-hundred-odd people into a sweaty, horny frenzy.
    Slowly he returned to his station at the bar.
    It was going to be a long night.
    SWEAT TRICKLED DOWN Zoe’s spine as she worked the stage. For the first time all day, she felt like herself. Seeing Liam Masters again after so long had thrown her, dredged up some of the bad, old stuff from the past. But she’d burned it off by the time she sang the chorus to “Come and Get Me,” and by the time she was on her knees belting out “Release Me,” she felt invincible.
    Mikey hammered out the last few chords of the song as she pounded her fists into the stage, thrashing her hair around. She was grinning like a madwoman when she stood and made her way to the drum riser to grab the bottle of water she’d dumped there, the thunder of applause vibrating through the soles of her stilettos.
    “You are on fire tonight, babe,” Kane, the drummer, said as she dropped her head back and sucked down water.
    “I feel good,” she said. “What’s next?”
    “‘Make It Hurt,’” Kane said, checking the playlist taped to the floor beside his kit.
    Zoe lifted the hair off the back of her neck.
    “Okay, let’s go.”
    She strode to the front of the stage to grab the mike. Faces screamed up at her out of the audience. She loved these gigs. Becoming Vixen for the