Текст книги "Fire Me Up"
Автор книги: Rachael Johns
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
Chapter 2
“Where in Australia are you from?” Travis’s question jolted Billie’s dangerous thoughts, and she startled slightly and stepped on Baxter’s paw.
The dog yelped, so she reached down and scooped him up. Holding him against her chest was comforting and also helped to masquerade the fact that her treacherous nipples were pointing through her cotton T-shirt, literally begging him to gape at them. What was with that? He’d been nothing but unpleasant since he stepped into the gallery and yet she couldn’t stop staring at him.
“Umm…” Where am I from again? Finally, after an embarrassing pause, she remembered. “Perth, in Western Australia.”
Technically she’d lived most of her life in Claremont, a well-to-do suburb not far from the city, but she figured Perth was close enough and he might actually have heard of it.
“Long way from home,” he drawled, and it kind of sounded like an insult.
She hugged Baxter closely. “Home is New Orleans now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You actually like this shit hole?”
She nodded once slowly, growing increasingly annoyed. He might be hot, but his attitude sucked. “Uh, affirmative. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“What do you find so appealing?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, hugging the seat as he stared at her.
“You mean aside from the beignets?”
She’d fallen in love with the vibrant city years ago when they’d watched a documentary about it in school. The art and music, the bohemian way of life had appealed to her, and visiting the French Quarter had been on her bucket list ever since. When she’d finally come here it had felt more like home than anywhere she ever had been before, and so she’d stayed, but she got the feeling Mr. Smug Leather Jacket wouldn’t understand any of that.
Yet, when he didn’t reply, she couldn’t help herself. “Let’s see, there’s the history, the food, the cemeteries, the art, the people, the cultural diversity, the plantations, the funky shops, the Tabasco sauce, the Mardi Gras, the ghosts…”
Baxter squirmed in her arms.
Travis finally spoke, nodding toward her pup. “I think you’re even boring the mutt.”
Heaving a breath in irritation, Billie plopped Baxter down on the ground and he trotted out into the courtyard, no doubt to slink off to his favorite afternoon nap spot under the piano. He’d obviously decided Travis wasn’t a threat. Personally she wasn’t so sure—she didn’t like the way her body seemed to be in direct opposition to her head where he was concerned.
“So if you hate this place so much, why are you even here?” she asked.
He half-chuckled and hit her with a look she couldn’t decipher. “Trust me, I don’t plan on staying for long.”
“Good,” she snapped before she could think better of it.
“For me, yes. But maybe not for you. Because when I sell this dump to the highest bidder, you won’t have a place to lay your pretty head at night or anywhere to hang your precious art, which, by the looks of it, makes me think I’m doing you a favor.”
His words were like a dagger twisting in her heart; she had no reply, but she bit down on her lower lip to stop it quivering. Maybe she really did need to see a lawyer; surely the lease she’d had with Mr. Lombard meant something. And Sophie. Billie needed to check her facts before she started letting Travis Sinclair get under her skin.
She shrugged, pretending his words didn’t affect her in the slightest, pretending this building, its contents and all it stood for didn’t mean the world to her. “I can sleep almost anywhere, and this isn’t my art, I merely sell it.”
He raised that dark, sinister brow again and his lips twisted up at the edges. Man, they were hot. His whole damn face was a work of art. “You make much money?” he asked.
Money! That thought extinguished the sexy one. She wanted to scream that money didn’t make the world go round, that there were more important things in life than wealth and how many zeroes were on your bank balance, but she summoned everything she had to shrug instead. “Enough. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get back out there.”
“I don’t mind at all. Far be it from me to keep you from your important business.” And he unfolded his arms and glared down at his computer screen. What was he doing? She itched to ask him or to peer over his shoulder at the screen, but there were two problems with that.
One, she didn’t want him to think she was interested. And two, she couldn’t risk getting up close and personal with him again. When he’d leaned into her earlier, they’d been so close she could smell the coffee on his breath and count the stubble on his jaw. Not that she’d had the wherewithal to do the latter, because being that close to him had hindered her ability to think straight.
Yep, distance was definitely required. She forced herself to take a step toward the door and then paused. “I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but if you’re going to sell the place, there’s no point.”
And with that she flounced out into the courtyard and took a deep breath the moment she was far enough away that he couldn’t hear. Although he’d unsettled her, she didn’t want to give him any indication of this fact. As wild animals can smell your fear, she guessed Travis Sinclair would only get worse if he knew the effect he had on her. Trying to forget that he was making himself at home in her kitchen, Billie trekked across the courtyard and down the little alley to open the gallery again.
She pushed back the iron gate, secured it against the wall and looked out onto Bourbon Street. It was late afternoon on Thursday and the tourists were already filling the streets, their happy laughter drifting toward her as they chugged down bright-colored cocktails in plastic tumblers. Baxter awoke and tottered out after her, collapsing on a spot on the pavement just outside the gallery. She smiled, soaking in the ambience that generally relaxed her. There was no place on earth like the French Quarter, where folks from all walks of life came together and drank alcohol on the pavement (or sidewalk, as the locals called it). She loved that there were strip clubs and tattoo parlors right next to a swanky restaurant or jazz bar, and then farther along, a shop selling voodoo. Bands play music right in the middle of the street, and fortune-tellers and artists alike set up alongside each other in Jackson Square. Her favorite thing in the world was strolling through the streets, and it never ceased to amaze her what she’d find. No matter how many times she walked along Royal Street or down Chartres, she always found a new boutique or another café to try. There was something magical about the place, and sometimes she swore that the shops changed on a daily basis.
An elderly couple walking past—the woman wearing Mardi Gras beads—stopped, both of them stooping down to scratch Baxter behind the ears. He rolled over onto his back and stuck his legs up in the air, demanding a belly rub.
Billie smiled at the couple. “He’s such a tart.” She hoped she and Baxter could lure them into the gallery; she hoped maybe other wanderers would see them enter and follow. Travis would see the crowds and realize her gallery wasn’t something to snicker at.
“He’s adorable,” replied the woman. She had some kind of European accent, but before Billie could ask them where they were from, the couple waved and walked past, on up the cracked pavement
The Priory next door. Billie’s gaze lingered on the bar—the onetime bikers’ hangout was a dimly lit, no-frills kind of place that had given her the heebie-jeebies on the few occasions she’d stepped inside, but if she wanted to ask Sophie about Travis, well, there was no time like the present.
Knowing she could see the entrance of the gallery from inside the bar, she sucked in another breath, ordered Baxter to “stay” and then headed next door.
Classic rock music blared from the stereo when she stepped inside and a stench you’d never smell in Australia anymore assaulted her. Strong liquor mixed with cigarette smoke. She tried not to breathe in too much of it as she ventured farther inside, pausing while her eyes acclimatized to the darkness. A couple of women—actually they looked more like teenage girls dressed in tight black clothing—sat at the old wooden bar, drinking and giggling alongside a man who looked like a cross between a criminal and Tarzan. He wasn’t blatantly good-looking in the way Travis was, but still, there was something strangely alluring about him and she wondered if he was also one of the infamous Deacons.
One of the girls looked at Billie disdainfully. “Can we help you? You want a drink or something?”
“I’m looking for Sophie.”
“She’s out back, stocktaking or something,” the other girl said, nodding toward a door behind the bar.
“Thanks.” Billie didn’t reckon the girls heard her as she made her way around the bar, trying not to grimace at the stains on the black-and-white tiled linoleum floor. This bar could be amazing—something really cute and funky like her gallery—if only Sophie spruced it up a little. She walked past the rows of glasses and bottles that adorned the wall and shelving, and pushed open the door at the end.
“Ajax. Stop.”
At Sophie’s words, Billie blinked and then gasped, her hand rushing to cover her mouth as she realized what she’d stumbled upon. Sophie was propped on a bench, her denim skirt up around her waist, a man’s head at her crotch and her hands in his hair tugging him upward. While something in Billie’s brain told her to turn and run, she found herself frozen to the spot, mesmerized, and if she were honest, a little turned on by the blatant sexuality in front of her.
“Stop, Ajax.” Sophie shoved the guy and although he barely moved, he chuckled, stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then turned around to grin wickedly at Billie.
Now, this dude looked like a biker! She couldn’t help but stare at his dark blond hair, slicked back as if the only comb he ever used was his fingers, and his piercing blue eyes. They were far too alluring for someone with so many menacing tattoos littering his skin. And his close-cropped beard did nothing to hide his arrogant expression.
“You joining us?” he asked, and she couldn’t quite tell whether or not he was serious.
Billie gulped, her cheeks flaring. Why oh why was she still standing here? “Um…I…” She started to back away. Hell, she’d never be able to look Sophie in the eye again. Could this day get any worse?
“Leave her alone.” Sophie was pulling down her skirt and straightening as she spoke. She looked at Billie and shrugged. “He makes me a little wild.”
Ajax’s grin widened. “Is that what you call it?” And Sophie shot him a glare but her eyes showed adoration, not annoyance.
“Billie’s from next door,” Sophie told him. “She runs the gallery in the old clubhouse.”
“Art in the old clubhouse?” Ajax folded his arms across his chest and stared at Billie unnervingly. So bikers weren’t the shaking-hands type, then? “That’s fucking tragic.”
“I’m guessing you’ve met Cash?” Sophie said to Billie.
“Who?”
Sophie smirked. “Oh, sorry, I mean Travis. He’s going by his legal name now, but he’ll always be Cash to the club.”
Ajax snorted. “He’ll always be a dick.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “You’re all dicks. Always have been.” She looked back to Billie. “He and Cash don’t exactly see eye to eye.”
Ajax’s smile was practically lethal. “In the sense that I’m gonna cut off his balls and feed them to the alligators if he doesn’t shape the fuck up.”
“Is it true he owns the gallery?” Billie asked, hoping to distract Ajax from his thoughts of mutilation.
The big biker eyed her. “Why? What did he tell you?”
“Nothing much. Just that the building is his, and he plans to sell it to the highest bidder and toss me out on the street.” Billie felt tears she didn’t want prickling to break free.
“That’s terrible.” Ajax looked at Sophie, his gaze unreadable but a hint of laughter in his voice. “What kind of jackass treats a woman like that?”
Was he being sarcastic? The tone of Ajax’s voice made Billie think he was yanking her chain. An uneasy quiver scuttled down her spine.
“Don’t worry,” Sophie said to Billie. “It’s true, Travis does own the gallery, but so do Ajax and two of the other Deacons. He can’t sell it without their consent.”
“Which he’s not getting,” Ajax growled. “He might be my brother, but I’m definitely not his bitch.”
Billie couldn’t help but puff out a breath of relief. Ajax might not be the kind of guy she wanted to meet in a dark alley, but his words were music to her ears. “Thanks. I guess I’ll be going now. Sorry about…” Billie swallowed and gestured toward them, then wished she could just evaporate.
“No problem.” Sophie turned back to Ajax, grabbing hold of the leather vest he wore, yanking him against her and leaving no doubt in Billie’s mind that they were going to finish what’d she’d walked in on. “Just shut that door on your way out.”
Ajax laughed as Billie fled. She felt like a total idiot, an innocent little girl who’d walked in on a grown-up party, but at least she had Ajax’s word—whatever that was worth—that Travis wouldn’t be selling her gallery anytime soon. Travis was an arrogant ass, and although he’d attempted to intimidate her, although he, too, was a tough biker, he didn’t scare her quite the way Ajax did. She had no doubt that if Travis tried any funny business with the building, Ajax would put a stop to it fast.
As she walked back through the bar, slinking past the teens and Tarzan, she shuddered, not wanting to imagine what kinds of things Ajax might do to him. She’d watched Sons of Anarchy and guessed whatever he had planned, it wouldn’t be pretty, but that wasn’t her problem. The welfare of Travis Sinclair wasn’t her problem; Travis himself was.
And something told her he was going to be a very big problem indeed.
–
Travis was fucking starving. He’d been working for hours trying to ignore the sweet, fruity smell of Billie that lingered in the air, the happy, grating voices that occasionally wafted in from the gallery and the tension in his muscles whenever he thought of Ajax’s stupidity. While setting the ball rolling on his latest security contract, he’d been researching estate laws and joint tenancy so that at least the next time Ajax and/or Leon ambushed him, he could set them straight. He wasn’t sure whether he could trust the lawyer who had delivered the will. He’d worked for Priest and the club forever, and although he appeared legit, his association with an outlaw club likely meant he could be trusted about as much as Ajax.
Unable to concentrate, Travis let out a frustrated puff of air, pushed back his seat and grabbed his jacket. It was far too hot for leather in New Orleans, and it wasn’t like he needed to advertise he was a Deacon anymore; besides, this jacket had no patches. The only club affiliation he had these days was inked into his back. But he felt naked walking the French Quarter without his jacket. He shrugged into it, grabbed his sunglasses off the table and slipped them on, despite the fact that it was early evening and unnecessary.
He took them for security, in case he recognized an old enemy and needed to be incognito. Without Deacons’ patches the Ministry likely wouldn’t bat an eyelid in his direction, and that’s the way he wanted it. He was done with that shit—fighting for the sake of fighting, fighting for the fucking brotherhood. What a fucking joke. In the end, Priest and the Deacons had treated him no better than his pathetic excuse for a mother, and he owed nothing to any of them.
He shut his laptop, then dug around in a bowl on the kitchen counter that looked to be full of keys. “Bingo,” he said as he found one labeled courtyard. He didn’t know how late he’d be and guessed Billie wouldn’t want to wait up to let him in. Although waking her up could be interesting. An image of her looking all sleepy and disheveled landed in his head and he shoved aside the arousal that flared within him at the thought.
Stepping out into the gallery, he shook his head, still unable to believe the change. It was like going to sleep in a brothel and waking up in Disneyland, not that he’d ever been to Disneyland or ever planned to go. He glanced around, paying little attention to the artwork as his gaze zeroed in on Billie near the entrance, chatting to some asshole with dreadlocks and a Hawaiian shirt. The guy reached across and brushed something off her shoulder. Travis’s gut tightened at the thought of another dude touching her when he’d been unable to get the image of touching her himself out of his head these last few hours. Maybe this guy looked more like Billie’s type, but that didn’t mean Travis liked it.
He liked it even less when she smiled up at the man and then giggled at something he said. Travis narrowed his eyes as the man folded his hands in front of his chest as if he were begging. Dumb-ass bastard. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he started toward the gate to Bourbon Street, but something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.
He stalled in front of the multicolored picture of mermaids swimming with alligators; it incorporated paint and material and glitter and all sorts of other shit you’d find in a preschool. It wasn’t to his taste or anything, but something about it stirred a memory he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Had he seen the same mermaids somewhere else? He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, about to move on when Billie approached and the air around him filled with the scent of strawberries again.
“Before you tell me that’s a piece of crap or something and that it’s a scam for me to try and sell it, consider this…the artist who created this reformed her life thanks to her art.”
He wondered why she thought he’d care but he stared at her, taking the opportunity for a close-up ogle. He’d been a jerk earlier, simply because he could be, simply because Ajax had riled him up, simply because this was New Orleans, and Billie had been there for him to take out his frustrations on. He’d calmed a little now, but he kinda liked it when she was pissy with him. Her tits heaved up and down and her eyes sparked with passion. He pretended to listen as she went on about some woman who’d lived on the streets, almost died of an overdose and then met an artist who offered art therapy classes, which brought her back from the brink.
“That loser giving you trouble?” he asked, not uttering any words of sympathy or understanding about the woman, instead nodding toward the guy who was now talking to a group of ladies about a sculpture. He was talking with his hands and the women seemed to be hanging on his every word.
Billie frowned and followed his gaze. “Who? Rolley?”
Travis sniggered. “What kind of a name is Rolley?”
“It’s no stranger than Cash.” She cocked her head to the side. “Why are you called Cash anyway?”
His jaw tightened. Who’d told her his road name? Had she spoken to Ajax or Blue? Even Prince? Nah, Prince wouldn’t have told anyone; he wanted to move on from the past as much as Travis did. Ignoring her question, he persisted. “He’s obviously interested in you.”
“So?” She tried to flick her hair back off her shoulder as if it had once been long. He liked it short, cropped around her chin. Made her look a little like a naughty pixie. “What’s it to you? Is it such a stretch of your imagination to believe that someone might find me attractive?”
Travis raised his eyebrows. Fuck no, it wasn’t a stretch at all. At that moment he was fantasizing about punishing the pixie. He unashamedly glanced down over her body, imagining exactly what she’d look like without that little T-shirt and flowing skirt.
Clearly flustered by his gaze, Billie crossed her arms over her chest. “Rolley is a nice guy.” The insinuation was clear—she didn’t consider Travis a nice guy. She’d be right. “And a very talented artist, but I’m only interested in him in a professional capacity. Fact is, I’m not interested in any man.”
“Is that right?” He’d bet his Harley he could make her interested, although it could be fun if she did put up a bit of a fight. “Do you ride for the other team then?”
“No.” She screwed up her pretty little face in obvious irritation. “Just because I don’t want to be some man’s property,” she hissed, lowering her voice, “doesn’t make me a lesbian.”
He held up his hands. “Hey, don’t get so defensive. I don’t have a problem with lesbians. Do you? ’Cause that’s kind of not kosher these days.”
She glared at him. “Are you always this infuriating?”
He shrugged. “If you’re not a lesbian, are you in training for the convent?”
“This conversation is ridiculous,” she snapped. “But if you must know, I’m recently divorced and not in a hurry to get shackled to a man again.”
He smirked. “Who said anything about tying anyone up?” Although his pants shrunk a couple of sizes at the thought of Billie’s hands tied to the bedpost with his belt while he thrust into her.
Her cheeks went bright red and he hit her with his most suggestive smile. He wondered what kind of cocksucker her ex-husband must be. Travis never planned on getting married himself but if he ever did, no wife of his would cut and run.
“I…um…” She stuttered as if she didn’t know what to say.
He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “I’m going out to get some food, but if you feel like some company later, you let me know. Remember, I’ll be sleeping right next door to your room.”
And with that he turned and stalked away. He passed Rolley and the women he was trying to con into buying a sculpture and was almost at the gate when Billie called after him.
“There’ll be a snowstorm in hell before that happens!”
He didn’t turn back, but he imagined from the tone of her voice that she had her hands on her hips and a glower on her face. As he stepped out onto Bourbon Street, he glanced left and right at the hordes of people stumbling up and down the road. Although it was only early evening, there was already a pool of vomit not too far from his feet. He chuckled. Yep, New Orleans was as close to hell as anyplace on earth, and he might not be a weather forecaster but if he decided he wanted snow, then there’d be snow.
