Savage Love (Savage Trilogy #3) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,70
know how Kane has drawn that line in the sand after killing Pocher’s brother but he has, and I intend to have him draw that same line for us.
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at the location of the cigar and whiskey club an hour early, which was my plan. I take up a discreet spot in a coffee shop across the street from the club, where I watch the comings and goings. The result is not much more than a bunch of stuffed shirts who leave a little looser than when they entered the joint. As for the choice of meetings spots, Pocher probably holds a shit ton of meetings here while indulging in his cigars and whiskey and that’s most likely why Kane knows he’s here. He has this place watched. He knows this is the meeting spot Pocher favors. Or perhaps it’s the Society that favors this spot.
I glance at my watch and it’s five minutes until six. There’s no sign of Kane but he may be waiting for me to show myself. I dial his phone. It goes to voicemail. If the bastard no-shows, he’s next on my hitlist.
I toss cash on the table and exit the coffee shop, walking across the street to the door of the club. Kane is still nowhere in sight, and I decide, fuck him. I’ll negotiate. I’ll figure this shit out. I always do. I enter the building to a security desk. “I’m here to see Pocher,” I announce to the stiff-necked geek behind the desk, with jet black hair, and wearing black-rimmed glasses.
“He’s expecting you, Mr. Savage. Go right down.”
Jesus.
Mr. Savage comes out sounding like a pervert porn show on that man’s lips and I pray to God that I never hear my name spoken that way ever fucking again. And he said it while telling me to go “right down.” And what do I do? I go right down the steps, just me and my arsenal of weapons they didn’t check me for. Lucky me. Unlucky them. And fuck me, already the spice from the many versions cigars reek, punching a hole in my nostrils. I’m not smoking a cigar, for any level of peace.
At the lower level, I’m inside what feels like a damn sex club for old people. There’s antique furnishing and smoke in the air, while low hanging chandeliers are dropped over the top of heavy wooden tables. Even the hostess that greets me has cleavage to her belly button but she’s not old.
She bats her eyes at me and points to a room behind a curtain. “Are they naked back there? Because if they’re naked back there, I don’t want to see a bunch of old man balls.”
She laughs. “No. They’re not naked.”
She better be right, I think, heading in that direction. Once I’m at the curtain, I inch it back to find a large room with a random cluster of sitting areas. Pocher’s sitting at a table, with two armed guards standing behind him. I inventory their weapons, or potential weapons, and how they carry their bodies, their hands. They have skills, just not my skills. There’s also a pretty girl chatting Pocher up to his left. He’s fifty-something, thin, almost gaunt, with graying hair. She’s twenty-something with ridiculously large breasts and blonde hair. On any other day, I ignore her, just like I am this day. On any other day, those guards would already be dead, but I’m showing restraint. For now.
“Rick Savage,” Pocher greets. “I had a feeling I’d be seeing you tonight. Join me.”
I stop on the opposite side of the table but I don’t sit. “What do you want with Candace?”
“You. She brought me you. And we both know you're far more useful to me than she ever will be, though she decorated Gabriel’s arm quite nicely. A shame he’s dead. I had big plans for him.”
“If you think me a man without resources, you’re wrong.”
“You should sit.” He motions to a waiter. “Get the man a vodka.”
The choice of vodka is his way of telling me he knows all my dirty deeds. Gabriel told him. Tag probably ran his mouth as well until he figured out he was a liability. I press my hands on the table. “What do you want?”
“A trade.”
A waiter sets a vodka in front of me. I ignore it, focused on him. “I don’t trade.”
“I know you know who, and what, I am. I know you know what that can mean for you, good and