Let It Go (17 page)

“Savannah!” a familiar voice sounds.

“Hey Tami Lynn!” Savannah returns her excitement, a welcome distraction from the daunting gigolo revelation.

Tami Lynn approaches, dressed to impress in a black, lacy, haute goth ensemble, hanging on Larry’s arm. Savannah manages to impede her surprise at
Scary Larry’s
attendance, taking in his appearance, something between a rocker and
The Dark Knight.
He sports black leather skinny pants with matching combat-style boots and a long coat resembling a cape. His dark hair stylishly spiked, accentuating his alabaster skin.

“This is Larry,” Tami Lynn introduces, stressing
Larry
without the
Scary,
“from the office.” She gleams bashfully at Savannah.

Savannah nods at him, a smile surfacing, content with the enthusiasm his presence offers to Tami Lynn. “I’m glad y’all could make it.” She quickly acquaints Jac.

“I love your outfit,” Tami Lynn eyes Jac’s rebellious style. Larry holds fast to her hand, his apprehension surfacing in the noisy crowd. He whispers into Tami Lynn’s ear, his glance settling on Jac. “No way!” Tami Lynn exclaims at his disclosure. “Are you a derby girl?” she asks.

“Yeah.” Jac affirms, a grin forming at the thought someone would recognize her as such. “I’m a blocker with
The Pulverizing Peaches
.”

“Jac-You-Up,”
Larry expels, looking at her awestruck. The pitch of his soft baritone voice surprising Savannah, certainly not what she expected to come out of him. She looks to Tami Lynn, affirmation in her delighted expression.

“You a derby fan?” Jac attempts to draw Larry out of his seemingly obscure shell.

He nods his head, a sheepish smile forming. “I have season tickets. Suicide seats,” he says proudly, affluently speaking derby terminology for the best seats in the house. The most dangerous seats at only ten feet from the outside of the track, giving the advantageous fans opportunity to become part of the derby brawl as players fly and crash into them after a hard hit or block.

“Thanks for the support.” Jac finds herself growing demure, a rare and strange occurrence. “We don’t exactly draw a large crowd.” She ponders their small fanbase.

“Maybe you can get an autograph. At the next meet,” Tami Lynn encourages Larry. “Is that what you call it? A meet?” Tami Lynn giggles.

“A bout,” Jac and Larry respond in unison. Larry retracts, clutching tighter to Tami Lynn, suddenly aware of, and agonizing over, his conversational boldness.

“Jac has a bout next week. Y’all should come. Get your picture taken with the team,” Savannah advocates, proud of her big sister’s notoriety.

“We could do that?” Tami Lynn looks to Jac, who exhibits animated confirmation. “You want to do that?” she turns to Larry.

“Well, yeah,” he whispers his eager participation.

“Can I help you?” Jac asks agitated, turning to the man standing closely to her left among the packed house. Her attempt to ignore his casual recurrent contact in the form of
accidentally
bumping into her has stirred her dander.

“My bad,” he excuses, happy with the conversation starter. “Must be the electricity in the air.” He flashes her a flirty, handsome grin, alluding to the crowd and the energy, inadvertently pulling him in her direction. He looks around the grand room, eyeing the bountiful and beautiful crowd. “I always gravitate toward the best-looking girl in the room.” He winks.

Jac’s infamous leery eyebrow ascends, inspecting him. The man is well built and attractive with his sandy blond surfer boy hair, his light eyes bright and confident, his full smiling mouth and jaw surely inviting. His complimentary pickup line quite possibly attractive to a more eager woman does not impress Jacqueline Bondurant. Having to look down at him in her four-inch heels giving the already lanky femme paramount height, she simply turns back around to the company of Savannah, Tami Lynn and Larry. Savannah giggles at Jac’s communicative non-reply.

“We’re going to have a look around,” Tami Lynn excuses herself and Larry. “He’s got some really cool pieces.” Her eyes dart about the room at the primitive displays.

“Sounds good,” Savannah says, her attention pulled to the man at Jac’s left. Refusing to be brushed off, he awaits another opportunity to engage her big sister.

“I didn’t catch your name,” the man interjects, awaiting Jac’s reply. “I’m Gavin McAlister.” His last name enough to provoke her curiosity.

“You’re related to the artist?” Jac says, her investigatory urge kicking in. What better way to get the dish on Brody than through his family.

“I’m Savannah Bondurant. This is my sister Jacqueline,” Savannah comes to Gavin’s aid, knowing Jac will only continue to allow him to make a fool of himself should he be so inclined.

“You’re Savannah.” Gavin connects his middle finger and thumb, placing them to his lips giving in to an unsophisticated whistle in Brody’s direction. Making a total scene, he points to Savannah, causing Brody to break free of the crowd huddled around him and head in her direction.

“Ooh.” Savannah ducks, uncomfortable with the attention. “Really, you don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, but I do,” Gavin ensures. “He told me to be on the lookout for you.”

“Go,” Jac prompts her to meet Brody. Not quite ready to meet him, she has some groundwork to do.

“You want to come with me?” Savannah asks, wary of leaving her ‘date’ unattended.

“I’m good. You go.” Jac gives her a nudge in Brody’s direction.

Realigning herself from the big shove off, Savannah meets Brody halfway. He sweeps her off her feet, literally, embracing her tightly to his frame. “Ooh!” she giggles at his enthusiasm. “Must be a successful show,” she says as he lowers her sparkly silver heels back to the floor.

Brody’s head swivels at all of the SOLD signs aligning his pieces. “More successful than I thought it would be.” He beams, his kind eyes and warm smile brilliant. “Almost sold out and have quite a few back orders.”

Jac watches from a distance, taking notes from her conversation with Gavin. She notices how Candy Wooten watches, too. The cougar’s eyes trailing after Brody and his interaction with Savannah. “You better not be sizing up my sister,
huntress,”
Jac mutters.

“Huh?” Gavin inquires.

“Nothing,” Jac says. “You were saying?” She encourages Gavin to continue with his McAlister family history, all the while her eyes tracking the goings-on across the room.

“You’re gorgeous,” Brody compliments Savannah, his hand encircling hers. He holds her arm out to her side, spinning her around slowly, enjoying the full three-sixty of her exquisite frame. Stopping momentarily at a hundred and eighty degrees to take in his favorite asset, he whispers sexily, “Da da-da da dah.” Returning her front to him, he bends to kiss her upturned lips. Savannah offers up her cheek instead, a mixture of bashfulness at the crowd and her
gigolo
concerns.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Savannah nibbles at her bottom lip, scanning his massive physique in a downplayed black suit, black undershirt and black tie. His matching dark hair and five o’clock shadow giving prominence to his steel blues, peeping through equally matched dark curled up lashes. “A regular GQ cover,” she adds.

Brody eyes her suspiciously, his steel blues searching, wondering why she
gave him the cheek
when it was her lips he was after.
Another time, McAlister
, he coaches. “I’ve got some people I want you to meet.” He takes her hand, leading the way.

“Not Candy Wooten?” Savannah blurts out, completely disinterested in meeting the socialite
prowler.

“No.” Brody answers, completely off guard. “My parents. I want you to meet my parents. Why would I want you to meet Candida Wooten?” he uses her formal title.

“Oh, so you don’t want me to meet her?” Savannah’s wheels turn as if he would purposely avoid introducing the two women.

“What?” he says, his confusion growing.

“Is this the young lady you’ve been telling us about?” His stepmother, Annelle McAlister, interrupts, happily making Savannah’s acquaintance and quickly introducing her to Brody’s father, Chance McAlister.

Annelle is a page right out of the Old South, her attire impeccable and appropriate, her drawl deep and generational. Brody’s lineage is clear in Chance’s eyes and facial structure, his frame still quite formidable. He wriggles uncomfortably in his stifling suit top accompanied by Wranglers and ostrich quill boots, sporting a felt cowboy hat to match. Savannah feels as though she’s in the presence of the elusive and handsomely-aged Marlboro Man.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Annelle continues. “I’ve taken up following your column in the paper,” she whispers to Savannah, knowing her earthly husband has no interest in such trivial natures.

“Oh,” Savannah blushes, quickly pondering her latest journalistic entries, her tendency for direct, intimate chat now causing her some concern. “The pleasure is mine.” She retreats, attempting to make the visibly agonizing Chance McAlister at ease by including him into the conversation. “Did you teach Brody how to do all of this?” She points at the stellar woodwork.

“I started him out,” Chance replies, the tone of his rich deep voice dead-on with Brody’s. “He grew up in Texas, you know. Well, part of his childhood. We had a ranch. I thought he ought to be self-sufficient. Any man that can use his own hands to create, he’s a step above the rest.”

“The most self-employed man I’ve ever known,” Brody compliments his father, his arm squeezing around Chance’s back, gripping his shoulder firmly. “Whatever you want. He can build it from the ground up.”

“Ah, thank you, Son,” Chance dismisses, his arm reciprocally squeezing around Brody’s lower back, pressing his cheek to his son’s heart momentarily, as he is a bit shorter than Brody.

Savannah enjoys the ease with which the men display a familiar affection, both secure enough within themselves to do so, unbridled by such macho stigmas.
Aw,
she expels internally, the action causing the strings of her heart to tighten a bit. Each exposure to Brody’s emotional dimensions pulls her deeper into her own affection for him.
Oh, get a grip, Savannah.

Breaking their hold, Chance continues, “I never did anything quite like this though.” He looks around the room, pride resonating in his eyes and in his heart at his son’s achievement.

“Now that’s not true,” Annelle says. “Just last week he built me a cherry wood wine cabinet. With a hanging rack for my stemware. One side’s room temperature. The other side is refrigerated. It has wheels and everything. It’s just the most beautiful thing. We’ll have to have you over sometime, Savannah. So you can see it.”

“I’d like that,” Savannah responds to Annelle’s effortless warmth, having trouble taking in all the open familial stimulation. Her own family a bit closed in comparison.

“Take it easy, Daddy,” Brody coaxes his fidgety father, knowing there is a college football game currently on the tube that he’d much rather be watching than socializing with
highfalutin
strangers. “Savannah’s a Steelers fan,” Brody attempts to keep the conversation going with a familiar focus for Chance.

“The Steelers?” Chance pipes. “Now that’s an admirable team. So long as you’re not a Giants fan,” he mentions one of the Cowboys biggest rivals, “you and I’ll get along just fine.” He grins at Savannah, causing her to reflect how much the affection mirrors Brody’s. “How’d you end up a Steelers fan?”

“My father was born and raised in Pittsburgh,” Savannah says softly, the closeness between Brody and Chance reminds her of how much she misses that relationship with her own father. “We used to watch with him every Sunday. He never missed a game,” she recovers.

Picking up on her use of past tense, Chance takes the liberty of deducing the fact that her father is now passed. “You have any siblings, Savannah?” Chance asks.

“Two sisters.”
And a brother
, she thinks an afterthought to herself, still adjusting to Noah’s addition.

“I bet that made your Daddy feel real special. You girls taking an interest with him.” Chance smiles at her affectionately. Annelle gives Chance a little squeeze on his hand, proud of his paternal acknowledgment.

“Brody,” a high-pitched female voice calls, interrupting their intimate circle. Candy Wooten, in all of her bubbling, bountiful glory approaches, slinging her hand through the crook in Brody’s elbow. “We’ve just sold out!”

Savannah’s eyes settle on Candy’s hand laced around Brody’s elbow to which he quickly and subtly removes. Candy looks up at him, his steel blues engaged on Savannah. Following his line of sight, Candy aggressively and gallantly extends her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“This here is the object of my son’s affection,” Chance gouges, his initial impression of the domineering socialite very unfavorable. “Miss Savannah Bondurant.”

Candy playfully bats her hand off Brody’s chest. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” Savannah briskly corrects, forgoing the handshake, her opinion of the intrusive, high-maintenance woman on par with the elder McAlister’s.

“Well, then. In that case, I won’t feel bad about taking him away.” Candy flagrantly smirks at Savannah. “I need a few signatures from you,” she prods Brody. “You want to get paid, don’t you?”

“I’ll only be a minute.” Brody’s apologetic eyes fix on Savannah.

“Go,” Savannah says, as if it bothers her in the least.

“I don’t like that woman,” Chance mutters as they walk away.

“Now, honey,” Annelle quiets him. “It’s just business. All he needs is a foot in the door. Doesn’t matter if it happens to be a witch’s boot.”

Savannah chuckles at Annelle’s delivery, wondering how it is that an insult can sound like a compliment coming off the tongue of a Southern woman. Savannah searches the crowd, finding Jac. The sisters talk without words, assessing one another’s comfort. Appeased at Jac’s response, Savannah stays put.

“Is that your sister?” Annelle asks, having caught their interplay.

“Yes Ma’am. That’s my oldest sister, Jac.” Savannah elaborates on the uncustomary female handle, “Jacqueline.”