Текст книги "Fire Me Up"
Автор книги: Rachael Johns
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
Chapter 3
As Travis left the gallery without even a backward glance in her direction, Billie slumped down onto a painted wooden bench and pressed her hand against her racing heart. She may have put on an act of bravado, but the truth was there was a raging inferno inside her body and it was all Travis Sinclair’s fault. It felt like everything he said to her carried sexual innuendo, even when it didn’t. But that thing about “tying anyone up” had definitely been full of suggestion and possibility, and dammit, it had turned her on.
Even in bed, her ex-husband and ex-boyfriends had never spoken to her in such a manner. She’d once suggested spicing things up a little in the bedroom and Saxon had bought her a jar of chocolate body paint, but they had never used it. He’d read the label and decided it sounded too messy. She couldn’t imagine Travis buying or needing body paint to mix things up; she reckoned he had his own bag of tricks and they’d be far messier, far dirtier than body paint. Whether she liked it or not, she was curious. A hot flush spread through her at the thought, her nipples were hard, and between her thighs she tingled with awareness as she actually contemplated running out onto Bourbon Street and chasing him down.
What was wrong with her? Maybe it was because she hadn’t had sex in forever. Her bitter split with Saxon had put her off men, but she’d thought her vibrator did a pretty good job of satisfying her sexual appetite. Then again, she guessed nothing matched the real thing, and without a doubt Travis’s real thing would be impressive. She swallowed and closed her eyes and…shook her head and opened them again.
What was she doing thinking about his penis?
She’d only just met the guy that afternoon and she didn’t even like him. Who cares if he looked like Chris Hemsworth’s dark-haired brother in leather? Bad boys had never been her weakness.
“Are you okay, Billie?”
She sucked in a breath, summoned a smile and looked up at Rolley, who now stood in front of her. “Yep. All good. Did you make a sale?” She gestured toward the front of the gallery where Rolley’s cutlery and crockery sculptures were displayed.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “Not yet, but the ladies are staying in town a few more days and promised to come back.”
“That’s really great.” She tried to sound enthusiastic because she was—all sales, even potential ones, were to be celebrated—but Travis had knocked the wind out of her, and she couldn’t focus on anything except his offer to keep her company later. Without a doubt he wasn’t offering to share a cup of coffee and some cookies. Whenever he looked at her it was with heat and intent, as if she were dessert and he wanted to eat her up.
“Who was that guy?” Rolley asked, sitting down on the bench beside her.
“Oh, Travis?” she said, trying to sound nonchalant when she felt anything but. “He’s the new landlord of the building. Well, one of them.”
Rolley frowned. “What was he doing here? Is he going to increase your rent?”
Billie tried to laugh, but it came out more like a defeated sigh. If only that was the worst of it. She could deal with landlord issues if only the landlord in question didn’t make every cell in her body swelter. “Right now he’s staying here while he tries to convince the other owners to sell the property.”
“Who are the other owners?”
“Ever heard of the Deacons of Bourbon Street?”
Rolley’s eyes widened, and a look of horror flashed across his face. He’d lived in New Orleans all his life, and his expression told Billie he knew them all too well. “He’s one of them?”
She nodded. “You knew the building was owned by Mr. Lombard—they call him Priest. Well, he died and left his property to four bikers apparently. I would have thought he’d leave it to his daughter—so did she, and she assured me nothing would change, but…” Billie’s voice drifted off as she remembered her conversation with Sophie and the man she’d called Ajax that afternoon. He hadn’t seemed too keen on the art gallery either.
“Hey, it’ll be all right.” Rolley put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his side before she realized what he was doing. It felt like a hug from an old friend, but she knew his words were empty. He couldn’t guarantee things would be okay even if he wanted them to be. What kind of chance would he stand against four rough, mean biker dudes?
Still, his sentiments were nice, and she appreciated them. That was Rolley all over—nice. He was also cute in a surfer, boy-next-door kind of way. And he was one of the most talented artists she’d ever met. He could make ordinary everyday household odds and ends into the most unique and beautiful pieces of art. She knew he liked her, as he asked her out almost every time he came into the gallery, but she’d told him she wasn’t ready to date again. Still, he didn’t seem to know how to take no for an answer. Only half an hour ago, he’d asked her to go to Café Du Monde with him later that night for beignets.
She adored beignets and couldn’t imagine ever tiring of them, but she didn’t want to give Rolley the wrong idea. Nothing had changed; she still wasn’t ready for another relationship, but if her body’s reaction to Travis was anything to go by…maybe she was ready for sex.
“Do you want me to stay here with you tonight?”
She jumped at Rolley’s words. Had she said the sex thing out loud? Lord, she hoped not. As sweet as Rolley was, looking at him didn’t make her insides tremble the way they did when she looked at Travis. Not that she planned on having sex with him either. She might be feeling horny, but she had a few requirements before she took her clothes off for a guy—the most important being that she actually liked him.
Maybe having Rolley stay over would be a good thing. Maybe if Travis thought she and Rolley were an item he’d back off with his wicked tongue. She dismissed this idea almost as soon as she thought it—for one thing, she didn’t want to use Rolley, and two, she doubted Travis would care if she were taken.
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.” Billie slipped out of Rolley’s grasp and stood, hoping the quake in her voice didn’t give her away. As long as she didn’t give Travis any indication of interest, she would be fine. And safe. “Are you still okay to look after the gallery while I work on Saturday night?”
“Of course, you know I’d do anything for you.” He smiled goofily at her, and she tried to smile back.
Two or three nights a week she worked for a local tour company, giving ghost tours around the French Quarter. The income she got subsidized what she made at the gallery and meant she could pay her bills and buy food, but she also loved the work. It meant meeting new people all the time and sharing her love of this great place; besides, she’d always had a fascination with ghost stories.
“Thanks.”
A young couple had entered the gallery and were admiring the painting Travis had seemed taken with earlier. Billie walked over to them hoping they’d be the chatty type that could help take her mind off the biker, the building and her carnal thoughts.
“Hiya,” she said brightly as she approached. “That’s one of my favorite paintings.” Truthfully they were all her favorites.
“It’s beautiful. I’ve always loved mermaids.” The woman leaned in close and grinned at the detail. “How much is it?”
“That one’s five hundred dollars, but the artist is also happy to take commissions if you have a color scheme you like or want your mermaid to look like someone in particular.”
“That’s cute,” said the woman, looking to her man.
He laughed. “Do you want to get one that looks like you? Or do you really like this one?”
“I love it.” The sparkle in her eyes and in the diamond on her ring finger told Billie she’d made a sale. Lorna’s artwork was one of her biggest sellers; she couldn’t wait to call her and tell her to come and collect her earnings.
“Great.” Billie took the painting down off the wall and wrapped it in a layer of delicate tissue and then some bubble wrap for protection, happy to have something to occupy herself. The couple pottered around the rest of the gallery, bought one of Rolley’s cutlery animals, and then went off to have dinner in Jackson Square.
The rest of the evening dragged. Although Billie was doing what she loved, talking with the locals and tourists that came into the gallery to admire the art, she kept glancing up at the entrance, on the lookout for Travis Sinclair. As much as she told herself she didn’t care, she couldn’t help wondering what he was getting up to out there. Was he dining at one of her favorite restaurants? No, she couldn’t imagine him in a place like Soho or Muriel’s; he’d likely gone next door to drink and chat up chicks at The Priory. Or to a strip club.
She sighed when the time came to close up and Travis still hadn’t returned. Why was she disappointed? Her prayers would be answered if he never came back. Rolley asked again if she wanted him to stay, but she politely declined and bid him good night before locking up.
A thought struck. How would Travis get back in? As far as she knew he didn’t have a key, although likely picking locks was just another one of his talents, along with talking dirty and being able to undress a girl with his eyes. He’d made her feel naked simply by looking at her.
She gulped, her body temperature rocketing again at the memory. Inside the house, she poured herself an ice-cold glass of water and downed it in a few gulps. As much as she wanted the problem of Travis to disappear, another crazy part of her wanted him to come back and undress her properly. To touch her with his hands and his mouth and talk dirty to her in the way she knew he could.
How she’d ever manage to sleep feeling like this she didn’t know.
–
Billie the Aussie had made him hard, and as Travis stalked down Bourbon Street, he decided he needed to get himself laid before he went back to her quaint little gallery. Fully charged and on the prowl, he passed a number of tourist shops selling plastic junk—the usual Mardi Gras beads and signs proclaiming BEWARE—LOOSE WOMEN AND PICKPOCKETS.
Wasn’t that the truth. The French Quarter was alive with debauchery and women more than willing to spread their legs for cash, a few drinks or a bit of biker ink. It wouldn’t take much to get himself some hot pussy for a few hours, but he was a little more picky than he had been back in the day. And tonight, none of the women lingering in front of seedy bars or on street corners with their skimpy outfits, high-heeled boots and cheap red lipstick made him want to stick his dick in them.
Because all he could think about was sticking it in Billie.
Fuck, she was hot. All blond and tanned and sunny natured, classy even. The epitome of everything he was not. Everything he didn’t usually go for in a woman. But suddenly his usual tastes seemed cheap and bland. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but from the moment she hit him with her fresh smile, he’d wanted to bend her over the piano and to hell with introductions.
Maybe it had simply been his mood, meeting her so close after his altercation with Ajax and Leon, which had made him feel as if his life hadn’t actually moved on at all. He hated feeling like Ajax’s bitch, but knew all too well what Ajax or Leon did to traitors. What they would do to him if he didn’t at least try to help them dig around the details of Priest’s death.
But damn, did he look like a fucking homicide detective?
Shaking his head at the thought he continued down Bourbon Street, scowling as hundreds of losers on bicycles streamed past him shouting “Happy Thursday” as they tried to fill the French Quarter with love, peace and laughter. If he were still wearing his Deacons cut, those cyclists would have hurried past him, not daring to try and meet his gaze. Although he didn’t often ponder his past life, he couldn’t help remembering what it felt like to ride through this town feeling like fucking royalty. For a boy who’d never had much of anything in life except a mother who cared more about voodoo and getting laid than her own son, the Deacons had given him a perverted kind of self-worth. In Tallahassee he was just another businessman, in New Orleans he’d been a part of something—people looked at him and his brothers with awe and a kind of fearful respect.
He’d liked it, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Priest had been responsible for that. He’d been the one who’d seen Travis’s potential and welcomed him into the fold. Made him feel part of a family for the first time in his life. A sick and twisted family, but a family nonetheless. From the moment he’d patched into the Deacons, Travis had known his brothers would always have his back.
But Priest was dead—accident, murder, even suicide, who the fuck could tell? And revenge and all the things he used to stand for wouldn’t bring him back. And it would risk the comfortable and close-to-normal existence that Travis had finally achieved this last decade. Depending on what they uncovered, it could get him thrown in jail or even killed.
Once the horde of bicycles finally passed, Travis continued on until he saw a group of women, obviously enjoying a bachelorette party, walk into a bar. He looked up at the sign—it was a tacky tourist joint with cheap cocktails on tap, the kind of place he wouldn’t have been seen dead in when he was a fully fledged Deacon, but it seemed as good a place as any right now to find what he needed. He walked inside and up to the bar and assessed the group of bachelorettes. Yep, he’d find something suitable here.
“Hey,” said a woman with Dolly Parton breasts trying to pop out of her tiny pink top. The word “Bride” was scrawled in silver writing across her breasts. Excellent. Some babe about to get hitched wouldn’t be looking for more than he could offer, but hell, she deserved a good time before she was shackled for life in eternal matrimony and he was just the guy to give it to her.
He got out his wallet, slapped a note on the bar and ordered cocktails for the bride and her entourage. Once upon a time he didn’t buy drinks for women, but he’d moved up in the world and he liked to uphold a charade of good manners, even if he abandoned them the moment he got anyone naked. It was more fun this way. When he flashed his cash around, women got a certain idea of him; when he fucked them up against a wall, they forgot all about his money.
“Ooh, generous—I like that in a man.” The bride leaned into him so he could see right down her cleavage.
He whispered, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” And reached around to cup her ass.
The blushing bride squeaked and her eyes widened. He saw a mixture of shock and curiosity.
“Where are you from?” he asked, making an attempt at conversation.
“California.” She giggled as if this were the funniest thing in the world.
“What brought you to New Orleans?”
“I’ve always wanted to visit. Heard it was a lot of fun and I wanted a little fun.” She batted her eyelids up at him. “Do you know where I might find some fun, big guy?”
“Come with me and I’ll show you.” He caught her hand in his and started walking toward the back of the bar, which he guessed like most places around here opened up into some kind of courtyard. Sure enough, off to one side were a couple of shabby doors leading to the bathrooms. He kicked one open and pulled the bride inside.
“I don’t even know your name,” she whispered as the door banged shut behind them.
He pushed her up against the wall, put his hands on either side of her head and glared into her eyes. “You don’t need to. Not for what I have in mind. Consider this your last hurrah.”
She licked her lips. “Do you have a condom?”
“Is the pope a motherfucking Catholic?” He pulled one out of his back pocket and dropped it between her tits.
She giggled as she grabbed it and then whipped her T-shirt off over her head. As he put his hands on her tits, she ripped the plastic packet open with her teeth and tugged at his belt buckle. She yanked him free and then dropped to her knees, rolled the condom over him and then sucked him into her mouth. The phrase “gagging for it” came into his head and he didn’t mean himself. Maybe it was the latex, but it was the worst fucking BJ he’d ever had in his life. You shouldn’t be able to think while being sucked off, and you definitely shouldn’t be thinking of another woman.
But hell, all he could think about was Billie on her knees at his feet. Her head at his groin and her mouth covering his cock. He grabbed the woman’s hair and yanked her off of him—
“What’s wrong?” the bride asked, looking up at him as he shoved himself back in his jeans and buckled up his belt.
He offered her no answer and gave no apology. “Enjoy your party.” Then, he opened the door and stalked out before she had a chance to dress herself. He left the trashy bar, aware of the eyes of the bachelorette girls boring into his back but not even glancing their way, instead heading straight for a joint where he knew he could find hard liquor, the best burger in town and a dingy corner where no one would bother him. He didn’t want to go back to Billie in his current mood or he was liable to do something the old Travis would do.
Finally, sometime after midnight, he made his way back to the gallery, still tense, still fucking frustrated and feeling as if he’d punch the next person he saw in the face. Unfortunately, he found Ajax and Leon on the sidewalk just outside The Priory, and they weren’t the type you punched in the face if you valued your life. They both wore their Deacons cuts with pride, and he got the feeling they were waiting for him.
“Evening, boys,” he said, digging the key out of his pocket and continuing on to the gallery.
“ ‘Boys?’ ” Ajax grunted. “This isn’t prep school.”
Travis felt his brothers right behind him as he pushed open the steel gate; it whined as if in protest, and he wondered if Billie heard it. Or if she was already asleep in bed.
“Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Leon asked.
Travis turned his head to look at them. “I didn’t think you needed an invitation. You own this shit hole too.”
Ajax nodded. “Glad you’ve seen sense.”
Leon and Ajax swaggered into the gallery, which was dimly lit with a few security lights.
“This is cute,” Leon said, jabbing his finger into one of the rabbit-human-balloon paintings. Cute wasn’t a word Travis had ever heard Leon use before and his tone said he thought it anything but.
“This is a fucking travesty.” Ajax glared around disdainfully, looking as if he’d swallowed a lemon whole.
Although Travis agreed with them on the one hand, he felt strangely protective of the place that was clearly Billie’s love and life. What was that about?
He shrugged. “Priest let it happen.” And maybe that showed that he wasn’t the person they wanted to believe he was. Ajax and Leon remembered him as this great guy who lived for the club and his brothers, but if that were the case he wouldn’t have tossed them all away like trash. Travis didn’t have any love left for the man who’d pretended to give a damn, who’d given him a family and then snatched it all away.
Without another word the three of them trekked inside. Ajax and Leon snooped around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, cursing under their breath at Billie’s pretty things before pulling back chairs and parking themselves at the table.
“It’s not what it used to be,” Travis said, deciding to get straight to the nitty-gritty. None of them were the type to sit and make small talk over cups of tea.
Ajax leaned back in his seat, pulled out his cigarettes and lit up. “It could be.”
Travis sat opposite him. “You buy Micah and me out, it’s all yours. You don’t want to do that, we sell and split the profits.”
“You don’t fucking tell me what to do,” Ajax growled, his blue eyes narrowed. Leon didn’t say a word, but the expression on his face echoed Ajax’s.
Travis glared right back, refusing to be intimidated. Ajax might have been Priest’s VP, but with Priest dead and the Deacons disbanded, Travis didn’t have to take his orders or his shit anymore. “Priest named us as joint heirs. If we can’t agree on what to do with the properties, the estate will—”
“Don’t hit me with your legal shit, pretty boy,” Ajax snapped. “I don’t give a fuck about that. These buildings are Deacons buildings and that’s the way they’ll always be. I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to talk about Priest’s murder.”
“It was a fucking accident,” Travis said, unsure whether he believed this to be the case or not.
“No such thing as accidents,” Leon growled, his fists clenched on the tabletop. “You think Priest would crash his bike?”
“So what the fuck if it wasn’t?” Travis eyed Ajax’s cigarette, wishing he hadn’t kicked the habit years ago. He could really use one right now. “What the fuck has it got to do with us?”
“Where’s your loyalty?” Ajax hollered. “You’re a fucking disgrace.”
“Don’t talk to me about fucking loyalty. What loyalty did Priest show us when the shit hit the fan all those years ago?”
“He sent us away to protect us, to protect the club!”
Travis scoffed at Ajax. “What a fucking joke. The club doesn’t even exist. He sent us away to save his skin, I’m telling you.”
None of them knew exactly what had gone down ten years ago. One minute they were going straight, becoming the respectable biker club that does charity rides for sick kids and all that. Next minute they were doing one last job. Well, someone had fucked up—they’d killed the wrong person or something—and a side of Priest they’d never seen before had come out to play, proving to Travis you could never trust anyone.
For the first time Travis could remember, Ajax looked a little worn down. “He left us his property, didn’t he? That’s gotta mean something.”
“Yeah, but why? Have you thought about that? Could just be because he felt guilty, and this was his way of making things right. As if giving us shit will fix the past. Or it could be something more. Whatever it is, I don’t want to be involved. The best thing for all of us is to sell this shit and go the fuck our separate ways again.”
“Not gonna happen.” Leon again, this time with the look in his eyes he used to get when he was in enforcer mode.
The skin on Travis’s back—the one branded with the Deacons mark—crawled as he remembered watching Leon cut the tattoo off a traitor once. There was no point trying to reason with these two, no point trying to make a deal. That would be like making a deal with the devil—if he didn’t do what they wanted, they’d simply kill him or remove his ink. Painfully. They likely wouldn’t let him off the hook even if he agreed to give them his share of Priest’s shit. So…
“Fine, have it your way. I’m in.” At least if they thought he was on their side, they’d stop hassling him, and that would give him time to work out his own game plan. “Tell me what you know.”
