“Any damage?”
“A few scratches. I got lucky.”
“From the sound of it, very lucky. They’re taking Seychelle Dubois to the hospital in Fort Bragg. Do you know her?”
Savage was tempted to tell him he did, but he had no idea why, so he shook his head and kept going over his bike.
“You saved the kid.”
“Technically, she saved the kid. She shoved me out of the way and took the hit. I don’t know how she angled it, but at least she wasn’t killed.” He glanced across the street to the mother who was rocking the little boy, more to comfort herself than the child. “The kid all right?”
“Yeah. I’ll need your statement.”
Savage leveled his gaze at the man. “Just gave it to you.”
Jackson shook his head. “You’ve destroyed your hard-ass image, Savage. You’ve got all these people looking at you like you’re some kind of hero.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Savage snapped. He swung his leg over his bike and settled on the familiar leather. His Harley felt like part of him. Home. If he had one, it was on this bike. It was a Night Rod Special, all matte black with dull gunmetal-gray trim and blacked-out chrome and his one concession—the image of a dripping gray skull. He loved his bike, and it was a fuckin’ road rocket, sheer speed thanks to Harley-Davidson and a little help from Transporter and Mechanic.
“You headed back to the club?”
“You my mother now?”
Jackson grinned at him, not taking offense. He never did. He wasn’t a man to pull a power play just because he wore a badge, and that told Savage he was someone to contend with. Jackson was confident, which meant he didn’t need an ego for a reason.
“Don’t forget to wear your helmet,” Jackson said.
Savage flipped him off as he fitted the ridiculous half dome to his head and then waited for the deputy to step back. He got the hell out of there, thankful his bike had minimum damage, all cosmetic, and that the kid lived through the entire thing. With the wind in his face, he let the sea air unravel the knots in his gut he always got when he was around too many people. Usually, he could dismiss everything when he rode and just feel complete freedom when he was on his motorcycle, riding along the coastal highway.
Yeah, he was going to the clubhouse. He told himself that a million times as he neared the turnoff to Caspar, but he didn’t make the turn. Swearing, he continued to ride the highway, cursing himself for being all kinds of a fool. He knew better. He didn’t give a shit about a woman. He didn’t need or want one. He knew what he was and what he would do to one—what he needed from a woman. He got those things from women he paid or the patch chasers who would do anything at all for a chance at a man in a club. When he was particularly bad, he went to the underground clubs for satisfaction. No woman would want him or ever stay with him. She sure as hell would never love him.
He swore as he turned off the highway onto the road leading to the farm. Six families owned the farm jointly, and each had their own five acres. The rest of the acreage was dedicated to the very thriving farm. The ornate gates were open, and he drove through, knowing better—telling himself to turn around and mind his own fucking business.
He knew the way to the president of Torpedo Ink’s home. They all did. Half the time the entire club ate there. He rode in slowly and parked his bike in the designated area. He was thankful there were no other bikes present to indicate anyone from his club was there. He didn’t need any witnesses when he made a fool of himself.
The front door burst open, and Emily and Zoe waved enthusiastically from the doorway. The two girls had been adopted by Blythe and Czar along with their sister, Darby; a boy, Kenny; and the newest boy, Jimmy. The new kid was only six and still scared, but Savage was certain Emily and Zoe would help him adjust. They were sweet kids.
“Uncle Savage.” Emily jumped up and down. Zoe just smiled.
Savage picked up Emily and hugged Zoe. “Hey, you two, is your mom home?”
“In here,” Blythe called from the great room. “Having a cup of tea. Your favorite.” There was laughter in her voice. She knew he despised the stuff.
He put Emily down and watched as the two girls skipped off, and then he shut the door and stood there awkwardly, leaning against it. He wasn’t a talker. He left conversations to others. He was the man who took out their enemies, and he lived mostly in the shadows. Blythe was . . . sacred. To him. To all of them. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her in any way.