Page 225 of Back in the Saddle

“Thanks for the warning,” Luna muttered.

“Why’s he called Sausage?” Harlow asked.

We all paused and looked at her.

“Oh. Eww,” she said, then scrunched her nose, and the fact Harlow could be cute even in this situation was testimony to the awesome powers of her cuteness.

“Just to say, don’t call him that to his face,” Jinx advised. “We girls got that name for him, and he knows about it and thinks it’s hilarious. But that’s because no one has ever called him that direct. He wouldn’t find that funny.”

With the tone she used to speak it, I made special note of this advice.

None of us got the chance to ask what to call him before Jinx ordered, “Let’s do this.”

She then got out, so we all got out with her.

Persia, Divinity, Skyla, Lotus and Genesis met us in the driveway before we followed Jinx to a garage at the back.

She hit the side door, knocked, when someone bellowed, “I’m receiving!” she pushed through, and we came in after her.

The instant I hit the man cave that was Sausage’s throne room, I made the decision to redecorate my entire apartment.

Black walls. Unfinished ceiling. Fantastic lighting. Glass-fronted beverage fridges filled with beer. A floor to ceiling rack of wine. A fully stocked bar made of padded black leather tufted in diamond shapes.

The space was shared by a pristine, gold-painted Camaro, its year, I wasn’t sure, but my guess would be it was from the seventies. It was parked there, not because this was a garage, but because that car was so hot, it was a piece of art.

In a dope contrast to the black, two tan leather couches faced each other over a glass-topped coffee table that had some telltale leaves and buds on it, and if that wasn’t telltale enough, someone had left behind their rolling papers.

And behind the man lounging in a massive tan leather chair that was set up on a plush, black-carpeted dais, was a portrait of said man, looking like it’d been painted Leroy Neiman.

It was kick…freaking…ass.

I wanted one.

No.

Ineededone.

I forced my attention to the man.

He was Black. Even seated I could tell he was tall, and large, but not out of shape. Pure muscle. He was also bald. And he had a Mike Colter look about him that wasspectacular.

He was smoking a cigar and had put aside a magazine when we entered, a look at which shared it wasSports Illustrated.

“Jinx,” he said expansively, opening his arms wide. “You always bring me presents.”

“Hey, baby,” she replied, walking right up to him.

She gave his cheek a kiss.

She then stepped off the dais and to his side, saying, “You know the girls.”

“Don’t know all the girls,” he said, eyeing my crew. Then he looked to Jinx’s posse. “No love?” he asked.

They all marched up in a line with various “Hey, baby,” “Hey, honey,” and “Hey, sweetie,” with one, “Hey, daddy,” along with cheek kisses.

“These bitches are Jill, Kelly, Natalie and Dylan,” Jinx introduced us, and we each raised our hand when she said our names like we were indicating we were present to our teacher.

I knew this was a grave errand, and I had the best guy in the world, but I hoped I got to give a cheek kiss to this guy.

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