“Oh, for God’s sake, now you’re just making shit up,” Jackson burst out. “Clyde never said that.”
“I think Doris was making that shit up too,” Savage pointed out.
Jackson nodded. “I see your point. This chicken is damn good. I’m taking Elle to Alena’s restaurant tonight. Already have reservations. She’s been looking forward to going for weeks.”
“Got something to say to me, spit it out, Deveau,” Savage said. He wasn’t buying into the small talk. Jackson wasn’t a man to make small talk. As a rule, he didn’t string five words together, but there he was, blocking the sidewalk.
Jackson nodded toward Seychelle. “It’s obvious the way you look at the woman how you feel about her, but I can see you made up your mind you’re not going there.”
Savage couldn’t believe he was that damn easy to read. And he wasn’t so certain Deveau was right. “She deserves a hell of a lot better than me, if it’s any of your fuckin’ business.”
Jackson studied him. “Don’t be in such a hurry to give that woman up, Savage. You think I deserve to be with Elle? If that had anything to do with it, I’d be nowhere near her.”
Savage shook his head. There was no explaining to Jackson what he was.
“You ever think maybe she needs you? Look at her. Really take a look at her. This world is a place that’s going to eat someone like her, chew her up and spit her out. She’s not like either of us. She’s never going to develop a protective shell. She’s never going to be able to find a way to shield herself against the sharks of the world. She won’t even see them coming until it’s too late. You, however, just like me, can see them while they’re still just shadows. Think about it, Savage, before you leave her hanging out there alone.”
Deveau took another bite of his chicken, stepped around Savage and walked away. Savage cursed again under his breath and made his way into Doris’s yard. It was small, the grass just a little overgrown. Doris, Seychelle, Alena and Blythe sat on four rattan lawn chairs surrounding a table. A little distance from them was another table with lawn chairs clearly brought from the clubhouse. Lana, Anya, Breezy, Soleil and Inez sat together at that table.
A wealth of food was laid out at each table for the Torpedo Ink members to grab when they were hungry. Several coolers filled with ice and drinks were at the ends of the tables and chairs for anyone to grab water or beer if they wanted something to drink.
Savage went straight to Seychelle. He knew he was late and should have picked up a hammer and joined in the work, but he’d left early to get to Absinthe’s. Too early. He knew Seychelle had felt him disconnecting from her. Dropping a hand on her shoulder, he leaned down to brush a kiss on her temple. The moment his lips came in contact with her skin, his gut tightened into knots and his heart ached.
Doris grinned at him. “It looks so good already, Savage. I can’t believe how fast the porch is going up. I haven’t even seen the back. And Alena and the others brought all this food.”
He nodded, keeping an expressionless face. “Yeah, they like to show off.”
She giggled. “You’re so outrageous.”
“I brought you iced tea,” Blythe said. “I made it just for you. Your favorite.”
“I’d give you the finger, but even though Czar’s in the back, he’s bound to have eyes on you,” Savage said. “Catch you ladies later.”
He made his way around to the back porch, needing to separate himself from Seychelle. Just looking at her took his resolve away. She was dressed in leggings. She normally wore jeans, but he knew her spectacular ass was most likely still a little sore from the night before. Just the thought of his marks on her skin and how they got there sent his body into a frenzy of hot, sparking arousal.
Her simple tank framed her full breasts and those perfect nipples he had far too many fantasies about. She wore her hair up in a ponytail. Even that put thoughts in his head that shouldn’t be there. He knew more ways to weave hair into ties that would keep her very still while he wielded his own magic with his whip. He was a master with a whip. Shit. He had to stop thinking about it.
He had drawers of custom-made, perfectly balanced whips in his home, just waiting. Untouched. He never thought he’d ever use them. Beautifully crafted. Each one of them. Signal whip. Gallery whip. Bullwhip. Snake whip. He had them all. Short. Long. He could lay down just about any pattern he chose with those whips. He could write his fuckin’ name with a whip and never break skin, just leave beautiful welts that would last for days. Very few could wield a whip and not break skin, not when they were laying down a pattern. And not when they were fully aroused.