The man returned a few days later and set up an easel to paint, tucking photographs in the corners of his canvas, facing the cottages. His camera hung around his neck. That was unusual and a red flag for Keys, who happened to be watching over Seychelle that day. He kept his eyes on the “artist.”
Seychelle emerged from her cottage to take a walk on the headlands around five that afternoon. The artist had lost the light. He hadn’t packed up his equipment. He’d eaten. He’d dabbed a few strokes of paint here and there on the canvas, but for the most part he’d gotten up and paced or stretched. The moment Seychelle walked out her front door, the man came to life, putting down his paintbrush and catching up his camera.
He took several pictures of her as she walked across the street toward the narrow path leading to the bluffs. He had to turn away from her as she came toward him, but the moment she was parallel with him, he backed away to put distance between them and began snapping her picture. He took photographs of her standing on the bluff with her hair blowing wildly and then more as she returned to her cottage.
Keys followed the stranger to the local hotel and waited until he had gone to dinner before entering his hotel room. Evidently, the man was a private investigator. Keys turned over his name to Code and, with a little digging, Code discovered Joseph Arnold had hired him to take pictures of Seychelle and report on her movements.
Savage thought his head might explode. His woman sat in her cottage, totally oblivious to the danger. In fact, with Brandon, she invited it to her. He was grateful for his Torpedo Ink brethren. Each of them took shifts, even those who were married.
His woman was racking up indiscretions, things they were going to be dealing with once she was back under his wing, because he was determined he was getting her back. He was willing her back to him. Finding a way. They belonged. She knew it. He knew it. She was scared and hurt and had every reason to be. She just had to want to be with him more than both of those things.
NINE
Savage went to the bar every Thursday night hoping Seychelle would come to sing with Maestro and the others jamming. He sat at the same table, at the very back, nursing a beer, willing her to come to him. To give herself to him. He knew what the cost would be to her, and it would be enormous. Still, now he knew he had something to give her back.
She needed him every bit as much as he needed her. He didn’t just need her. He wanted her. Her brightness. Her compassion. Her laughter. That directness that got to him every time. The way she was with the older people who counted on her. She gave and gave and didn’t ask for anything in return. He knew he could give a lot to her. He wanted to.
He drummed his fingers on the table, knowing the cycle was starting all over again. If his woman was going to come to him and he had any chance of getting her ready for the monster in him, it had to be soon. Bog, it had to be soon. There were too many things coming together too fast, building up around the others and in him, to keep the rage at bay. Fucking Arnold and Campbell stalking Seychelle. Various members of the club hurting or having nightmares when the past was getting too close.
He wrapped his fist around the neck of the bottle and took a slow drink of the cold liquid, letting it cool his throat, hoping it would ice down the fire gathering in his belly. All the while, his gaze never left the door. The bar was supposed to be somewhat quiet on Thursdays, but the band was too good, and more and more clubs were showing up.
Right now, they had four members of Venomous wearing their colors, and five of Headed for Hell. Both clubs could be a problem for Torpedo Ink as well as with each other. They’d postured at each other once, and Reaper had been there instantly. No one fucked with him, and the incident was over very quickly. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t start up again. The nine men were being watched closely.
The Venomous club had been chipping away at the borders of Diamondback territory, trying to carve a space for themselves by horning in on the strip clubs and drug trade. Plank, the president of the Mendocino chapter of the Diamondbacks, had come to Torpedo Ink and asked them to put a stop to it. It hadn’t been difficult to figure out that Torpedo Ink was being set up.
The Diamondbacks used Torpedo Ink when they needed them, but they wanted something concrete on them—something to hold over their heads. So far, they had nothing, although they’d tried to set Torpedo Ink up when they’d asked them to burn down the strip businesses the Venomous club had stolen out from under the Diamondbacks and bring the manager patches to them. Torpedo Ink had looked into the situation and found out the Venomous club had murdered one of the women and regularly abused the others working for them in the strip clubs. The Diamondbacks had gotten the patches and the bodies and burned down clubs, but had not gotten any evidence that Torpedo Ink had anything to do with any of it.