"No!" Tarrah screamed.

She darted in front of Brogan and took the full frontal thrust of the long serrated blade. The knife was buried to the hilt in her stomach. The man had a tight hold of the handle. He laughed cruelly and pulled it upward. The sickening sound of ripping skin and flesh and the sticky, sweet odor of blood filled the alley.

The man pulled out the knife and was ready to thrust at Brogan when one of the others yelled, "Soldiers!"

Tarrah's hands grabbed her mid-section. She looked at Brogan in shock, her face drained of all color except for the slight yellow cast from the lamppost, and then she slumped to the damp cobblestones.

The men ran like scalded cats. Brogan kneeled next to Tarrah and lifted her partly into his lap. Jaysus, the blood. He went to move her hand to inspect the damage, but she whispered, "Don't."

Dear God, she was holding her guts in. The Ulster pig had gutted her good and proper. He tried to shout, but not a sound came out of his mouth. It hung open in a silent scream of torment. As tears poured down his cheeks, he pulled her closer. He still made no sound, but his heart contracted in agony. He felt it might break and knew if it did, it would be the end of him, forever. He couldn't lose her, not after their promise of love this very morn. He'd promised to protect her, and then when Tarrah needed him most, he'd failed her. Brogan swallowed deeply and sobbed.

"Help! For Christ's sake we need help!" his voice cried out.

Two British soldiers stepped into the alley while two others started the pursuit of the men.

"You're under arrest," the soldier shouted.

"Aye, fine, just get her some help!"

One of Tarrah's bloody hands shakily reached up to touch his cheek. "I love you, Brogan Byrne. Never forget what we shared." Their gazes locked. Her eyes were moist. One single tear escaped and trailed down her pale cheek.

Brogan watched as that divine spark called life left her beautiful gray eyes until they were like those of a china doll: empty, dead, lifeless. Her breathing slowed and hitched in perceptible stops.

Her hand dropped like a sack of wet cement to the cobbles.

"She's done for, lad," the soldier stated.

Brogan was covered in her blood, his lap soaked. He reached with trembling fingers and closed her sightless eyes. He leaned down and gently kissed her lips. He could do nothing to save her. She'd given up her life—for him. How could he live with the knowledge? To know he could do nothing to protect the woman he loved? As the soldiers pulled him roughly to his feet, his body turned to stone and his heart to solid rock. Feck it all.

Chapter One

Someone was sucking his cock. Brogan opened an eye and gazed down the length of his naked body. She had blonde hair, whoever this bird was. He heard soft snoring intermixed with a slight wheeze. A naked black chick slept at his feet on the king-size bed.

The lipstick-smeared mouth eagerly sucked and licked, and his hips rose off the bed in raw, lustful gratification. Jaysus, she was good. He closed his eyes, and the memories of the last few hours played in his head like an eight mm porn film. He'd fucked the black chick from behind, pounding into her sweet, hot pussy while the white bird lay under the black one and sucked on her tits and fingered her clit. Another memory flash had him flat on his back, the blonde riding his cock hard with him eagerly licking the black girl as she writhed and groaned above his face. Her knees clamped his head tight while he stroked her pussy deep with his talented tongue. His prick twitched in response to his flashbacks and grew harder. Brogan had been doing this a lot lately, two at a time.

Brogan opened his filmy eyes again and tried to focus. He was close to shooting his wad. He gripped the back of the head of the unknown woman and held her in place as he began to thrust. He was not getting true enjoyment out of this. All he wanted was release. He groaned aloud as his hot cum spurted down her throat. She backed away and wiped her mouth, leaving a streak of blood-red lipstick and semen on her cheek.

Brogan pushed her aside in indifference. He sniffed the air. Sex, sweat, and Christ knew what else lingered and permeated the atmosphere. His stomach roiled and lurched in protest.

What had he taken last night? He never shot up since he usually appeared shirtless on stage. He couldn't puncture himself full of holes. So he usually took pills, or on occasion snorted coke. Booze, however, was his main stimulant.

He had no sooner stumbled out of bed than he collapsed to his knees on the cold tile floor and promptly puked his guts out.

He tried to stand, and then heard a deep voice call out to him. "Again, Brogan? Bloody hell, you need a keeper."

He hadn't even heard his brother enter the room. Brogan coughed up some green phlegm and spat on the tile. "Want the job?"

His younger brother, Nevan, strolled over to where he knelt on the floor, dry heaving like some sick hound dog. Nevan helped him to his feet. "Tell me you at least used protection before you stuffed your cock into those whores."

Brogan paused. "I can't remember. I don't think I did."

"Stupid bastard. Do I have to go out and buy a box of rubber johnnies for you? I will. What did you take this time?"

"Ah—coke. I think. Not sure. Over there, in the sugar bowl."

Nevan yelled to the women, "Oi! Get dressed and get the hell out of here, now!"

The women grumbled, stumbled about, and picked up their clothes. They were mercifully gone within minutes.

"Brogan, you look like shite, mate. You can't keep this pace. The women, the drugs, and the booze. You're losing weight. I can feel your damned ribs."

Nevan slung Brogan's arm around his shoulders and propped him up.

Brogan slumped against his younger brother, grateful for the support. "I can handle it," he croaked, not very convincingly.

"When is your next concert? How can you even stand in front of a crowd? You should see a doctor, my brother. You are not well. Let me take you."

Brogan could hear the affection in Nevan's voice. His brother hardly ever showed concern or warmth, so he couldn't dismiss this overture. "Okay, Nev, sure. Doctor."

Nevan led him back toward the bed, kicking empty beer and scotch bottles out of the way. He stripped off the smelly sheets and threw them on the floor. He laid Brogan back on the pillows.

"Big feckin' rock star with your own bloody band, Byrne 'N' Flame. You've got two gold records and more money than you can count. And more often than not, this is how I find you," Nevan muttered. He walked to the closet, pulled out a blanket, and covered Brogan.

"I'll get the maid up here to clean up the puke and other body fluids. Sleep now, my brother."

Brogan's eyes fluttered. He fought the urge to sleep. For in slumber, the nightmares came. His destructive behavior was the only thing keeping the demon at bay. His conduct disgusted even himself, which said plenty. Nonetheless, he continued to indulge, putting his meteoric rise in the rock world in jeopardy.

He coughed, and then rolled over to try to get comfortable. He had an upcoming concert in Philadelphia, although Brogan dreaded the gig. Not so much the music—performing on stage was one of the few times he felt at peace. The feeling of tranquility was far too fleeting.

A veil of darkness covered him, and he was transported back to the damp, musky alleyway in Belfast.

Cue up the nightmare.