Page 61 of Jackson
Jackson’s mind had been reeling since he’d seen Paula at Josh’s adoption party. He couldn’t describe the anger and possessiveness he’d felt when Chris had been touching her.
For days he had been torturing himself with what-ifs, and it had brought him nothing. Now, his shift on door duty over for the night, he was sitting at Club Indigo’s bar, staring into a glass of sparkling water.
Someone slapped him on the back. “You look like shit.”
He turned around to see Captain Connor.
The Scot grinned at him. “Just returning the favor.”
Jackson gave a cynical laugh as he remembered the funk Connor had been in almost a year ago, and how he’d used the exact same words.
“I won’t fight you, Connor,” Jackson said as he thought back on that moment.
The bulky man shrugged. “Paula?” Connor was a man of few words.
Jackson nodded. “I came on too strong, too fast, and too soon. She isn’t used to being a submissive.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “But damn, she walked in on a robbery,without her bulletproof vest, without calling for backup, in a place she had no business being.”
Connor settled on a barstool next to Jackson. “So?”
“I punished her by taking my belt to her ass.”
“Did she safeword?”
Jackson shook his head.
“Did you break the skin?”
“No, never! She let me take care of her after, rub in arnica. I thought everything was fine, and then she took off her collar and walked out. Fuck me, if I understand women.”
Connor chuckled at that. “What man ever does?”
“Speaking of women”—Jackson gestured to Suzie, who was waiting on the ground near the play area—“you’d better go and grab your woman before she gets more agitated.”
Connor’s grin widened, and he waggled his eyebrows. “Let her act up. Gives me more reason to beat her little ass.” His gray-green eyes sparkled. “Of course, I don’t need a reason, and I promised her a whipping tonight.” He rose and placed his big palm on Jackson’s shoulder. “Take care, man.” Connor accompanied his parting words with a squeeze that had him wincing and the sadist grinning.
Jackson gulped from his water, but the fizz was gone, and it had lost its flavor.
Although he was not into severe pain himself, he decided to watch Connor anyway. The man put on a great show with the three-foot, single-tail whip. Connor once told him he’d had his whip for more than ten years and felt as one with it.
Jackson waited for Scott to replace his drink then turned around to see who else was at the club. Henry and Lincoln were nearby, and Henry claimed Lincoln’s mouth in a possessive kiss while he fisted the older man’s short hair at the base of his neck.
How Jackson longed for his Melda.
The pain of not having her with him blinded him for a heartbeat, and he closed his eyes. When he reopened them, Scott had wordlessly replaced his drink, and Henry was approaching, with Lincoln following close behind.
“Good evening, Jackson,” the Black man greeted him gently as he settled on the barstool and Lincoln knelt on the ground.
“Evening.”
“Thinking about a certain detective?” Henry inquired, a tad too casually.
“Am I that obvious?”
“Nope, I’ve asked Connor to beat a bit on Lincoln later”—Henry rubbed Lincoln’s head affectionately—“and he told me we should talk with you first.”
“Meddling and gossiping. You’re worse than women,” Jackson accused.
“Yup”—Henry grinned—“but not as bad as the PD.”
