by Eden Bradley
—ANAÏS NIN
CHAPTER
One
Bayou Rouge, Louisiana, was a six-hour ride from Houston, an hour outside of New Orleans and home of a once well-known bar called the Bon Temps, which was now known as trouble personified.
Bat Kelly had seen—and caused—enough trouble to recognize the calling card.
He arrived at the bar’s door just before midnight on a Friday, looked up at the burnt-out neon sign that hung crookedly above the doorway and thought about all the places he’d been before this bar, this town, this type of life. They all strung together in one big blur.
“Owner’s got a big problem,” Dominick, the man who’d always managed to find Bat enough work to keep money in his pockets, had warned him hours earlier. “Place is a mess. You’ll only get half the money on arrival, half if you finish the job, as usual. There’s a bonus offered if you finish early.”
Gete toi.
“It won’t be a problem,” he’d told Dominick as he set out on his Harley from his last job in Texas.
It never was. For the past six years, Bat had built himself a reputation up the East Coast as one of the better coolers in the business. A crazier, willing-to-do-anything one, which put him at premium demand.
The scar that ran from just below the outer corner of his left eye toward the curve of his mouth proved the extremes to which his job pushed him, a reminder of an unfortunate incident involving an empty tequila bottle and a customer who refused to leave the bar.
Still, that scar, and the other war wounds along his body, didn’t stop the women from throwing themselves at him. For a while he’d considered that the biggest benefit of the job. Lately, it had grown old, and he’d begun to realize that growing up wasn’t nearly as much fun as running wild.
From where he stood, he could hear the music begin to play inside—jukebox rather than live band, and still the crowd began to cheer.
It was always the same sounds. Always the same.
Bat could still hear Big Red explaining the job to him, all those years ago. Bat had just turned twenty-two, was fresh out of the military after spending four years as a Marine sniper, on his belly in any and all godforsaken jungles the military needed him to be in—and going nowhere fast with his particular skill set, except maybe jail. He’d gotten tired of following orders.
The cooler’s in charge of everything, dig? The bouncers, bartenders, the entire tone of the bar. Keep a cool head and stay in control. That is, if you can get control in the first place.
Big Red died three years ago in a nasty barroom brawl over in Chattanooga. Bat had been called in a week later to continue Big Red’s work, by cleaning up a bar that had been on its way to closing. He’d almost refused, but did it in his friend’s honor, and used the money to give Big Red a proper burial. Once Bat had taken care of the local riffraff, business turned right around.
Not, of course, without significant risk to his own life, which was why the money was always so good. And he’d never planned on living very long anyhow. Probably what made him such a success. Either way, it left him unable to be caught in any one place by any one person for long, which was the way he wanted it.
“It’s the nature of the job, sugar,” he’d say, gazing soulfully into Gina or Jenny or whatever the fuck her name was this month or week or night, and she would nod back in understanding, because somehow he always managed to pick a woman who expected to be left.
Made him feel more like shit than if they’d just hauled off and slugged him.
Good thing he had pain management perfected. The freedom of town-to-town and the open road kept him sane, especially because he no longer had his friend to turn to. A man who was the closest thing to a father Bat had ever had.
It was why he still carried the letter Big Red had written to him, just weeks before he’d been killed. Kept it, but didn’t plan on listening to the instructions—the ones that told him to find a good woman to love before it was too late.
He was dead certain he wasn’t going to find that woman here.
He yanked the door of the Bon Temps open, stood one foot in and one foot out and surveyed the scene. The mix of smoky seduction—part danger and part sex—and that element of the unexpected when the lights dimmed and the music got louder always got his blood humming, aroused him like a woman’s touch.
“You coming inside all the way, baby? I’ll let you buy me a drink.” The woman who motioned to him from one of the tables near the door had already had a few too many.
“I’m sure you will,” he said, and maybe last month he would’ve taken her up on that offer, but not now. Instead, his eyes went to another woman—slim, tall, with a tray tucked under her right arm. Most of the eyes in the bar had turned to survey him, something he was used to, but not hers. She remained focused on her own thoughts. She leaned, elbow on the corner of the bar, surveying the scene with a serious face, but her body betrayed her by swaying to the music.
He moved closer to the bar to get a better look, and ordered a beer. The crowd was picking up steam fast—there were women climbing up to dance on tables and men who were ready to fight over them. And all of this was his problem now.
He leaned on the old bar, with its cracked wood that hadn’t seen loving care in a long while, and took a long swig from the bottle before glancing at the woman with the tray again. She was still moving to the music, watching the women on the tables, and he wondered if she’d ever allowed herself to lose that much control.
She was pretty, in a very regal, too-good-for-him way, with neat blond hair pulled back into a short, low ponytail, and startlingly dark brown eyes, the color of a cool, sweet glass of Coca-Cola on a damned hot day.
His first urge was to pick her up and get her out of there, but he’d been around long enough to know that if she was working here it was for one of two reasons: either she liked the attention or she needed the money, badly.
An argument between two guys in the far corner of the bar pulled his attention reluctantly. Their voices were loud, but no one could really hear them well over the jukebox, the drunken bragging, the tinkling giggles of the women—and no, this scene never changed, north or south, from state to state and county to county. The mating dance was still the same, even in a run-down old place like this, where the patrons tipped the scales more on the wrong side of the law than the right one.
Midnight was both the witching and the mating hour whenever alcohol was involved. He’d forgotten how badly the heat affected things around here, forgotten how easily it made his blood boil and his body ease, until he was loose and languid enough to do some table dancing of his own.
The pretty blond woman moved to a table near the men—began to pick up empty bottles and balance them on her tray. He found himself taking a step in her general direction as the men grew louder, glass shattered in the form of beer bottles knocked off a tabletop and everyone quieted to watch the fight.
Things could—and usually did—go downhill fast, from good times to bad times in seconds; it took as little as one punch or the flash of a knife, and it was all over. With the music fueling the backdrop, the men began swinging and threatening to involve others in their brawl.
And somehow, the pretty blond woman thought she could break up the fight all by herself. She stepped nearly in between the men, tray up to protect herself, and she was yelling something—probably Stop or Please stop—and she was going to get herself knocked out, at the very least.
He saw the flash of the knife’s blade before anyone else, was over between the two men in seconds, cracked the wrist of the man who held the knife and broke the blade. But the entire thing had gone to shit—and so Bat took the blond woman by the waist, picked her up and set her down on the bar.
“Get behind it and stay down,” he growled in her ear. She smelled sweet, like gardenias, and fuck that he’d notice that now.
He watched the bouncers rush to the rescue and took a step back in that general direction. The two guys, who until this point had been s
pending the better part of their night mixing with the crowd instead of working it, did their best to stop the fast-growing melee. Until one of them decided it was a good idea to pick up one of the fighting men and hurl him toward the plate-glass window at the front of the bar.
Yeah, good thing Bat had been promised a bonus for this one.
It had only taken the big blond man one arm to effortlessly save Catie from the melee and place her gently on the bar. The voice that told her to stay down was not nearly as gentle, but it strummed her insides as surely as if he’d touched her intimately.
She didn’t duck down the way he’d told her; instead, she continued to watch the man cut through the brawlers with a near effortless grace, hair falling over his forehead, and his hands—she could spend hours, days even, sketching them and still not get them right. Large, graceful and strong, they flexed and fisted, capable and rough, scarred and elegant. Hands meant to cover a woman’s body.
After one of the bouncers threw a patron in the direction of the new plate-glass, last-of-her-savings front window, the next few moments happened in slow motion.
The man who’d saved her caught the other man mid-flight without seeming particularly concerned, set him down right in front of the window and called out, Laisse les bon temps rouler, in perfect Cajun cadence.
The crowd went wild, the fight immediately dissipated and suddenly everyone was ready to simply continue the party again.
She’d been in town for two weeks, that phrase was repeated at least fifty times a night—and still, no one had ever said it in a way that shot heat straight through her like his rendition just had. Maybe because he’d been staring directly at her as he’d drawled the words. He had a long scar bisecting his right cheek and a way of looking at her that made her blush.
“Bat’s back,” the bartender named Henri said as Catie watched the crowd.
“That man’s name is Bat?” she asked.
“Yes. He grew up around here. I didn’t think he’d ever come back to town,” Henri said. “He was a wild one.”
“Looks like he still is.”
“Tigers never do change their stripes.”
Despite the heat, Bat wore a black leather jacket, along with boots and faded jeans. She pictured him riding a Harley, fast and hard, and then she tried to catch her own breath.
She slid through the throngs of people—mostly women—angling themselves to get a better look at the man who had to be the cooler she’d hired earlier that week.
She went through the supply room and pushed out the door that led to the small alleyway behind the building. The air was a pungent slap, hot and thick, and her vain hope of catching any sort of breeze vanished immediately. She put her palms to her face, which was still flushed, and drew in a deep breath.
The alley led to the main road on one end and the back lot on the other, and she turned to face the parking lot, leaning a shoulder against the rough wall. A big, black motorcycle was parked so it nearly blocked the entrance to the alleyway, and she fought the urge to move closer to it. The bike had to be Bat’s.
Bat.
Dominick, the man she’d dealt with on the phone, had refused to give her a name. Then again, she’d refused to wire him any money, so she supposed they were even.
You’ll know him when you see him, Dominick had said, and yes, apparently so.
She’d thought she could handle anything after working in New York. One look around and she knew she’d been really wrong. She was definitely out of her element here. Severe culture shock.
Her mom had grown up here, right in Bayou Rouge, and up until her death six years ago, Mama still had the slight twinge of a Louisiana accent and the weakness for bad boys she’d never been able to shake.
Catie had stayed clear of that path, even though this kind of life at the bar was what she knew—late nights, big crowds, hard work.
There was a lot more of that waiting for her inside. As she turned to head back, an unfamiliar hand gripped her tightly around her throat. She scratched at that hand, unable to scream or breathe, as his free hand went roughly from one breast to the other.
“You don’t belong here, bitch,” a voice menaced in her ear, and she started to panic in earnest as the grip grew tighter, flailed her arms uselessly as the man used the element of surprise against her and put one hand between her legs.
As quickly as she’d been grabbed, she was released. She stumbled forward a few steps, drew gulps of precious air into her lungs and turned back in time to see Bat reaching out for her, and the attacker taking off toward the street and not looking back.
Suddenly she was sure her own legs weren’t going to hold her up any longer.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Bat demanded, grabbing her before she slid to the ground.
“Nothing,” she managed, buried her face against his chest and stayed that way for a few moments. He smelled like leather and soap and the freedom of the open road, and her hands clutched the supple material of his jacket until she finally lifted her head to meet his gaze. Being in his arms was comforting and she didn’t want him to let go.
He didn’t. Instead, his eyes searched hers. They were light green, like a smooth piece of sea glass she’d found at the beach years earlier on a rare weekend off.
He didn’t seem angry anymore. He kept one arm around her waist while he took his free hand to caress the tender, bruised skin around her throat, then put two fingers to the right of her collarbone.
“Your pulse is racing,” he said. “Do you need a doctor?”
His accent was thicker now, as though being inside this bar had brought it out. She was aware of the too-close proximity of every part of his body to hers, the scare from the near attack fast becoming a distant memory thanks to Bat’s touch.
“No. He scared me more than he hurt me.”
“Good. That’s good.” Concern—and something else—flashed in his eyes for a brief moment. His thumb traced her jawline and rested finally on her chin. And then he leaned in, close enough to kiss her. “You were dancing back there, before the fight.”
“I was standing by the bar, not dancing.” She had moved away from the crowds, took temporary refuge behind the bar while dropping the empties in the garbage as the jukebox started up. And even though the crowd was more than rowdy, she’d felt a hit of jealousy as she watched the women dance and smile.
“I asked inside about the owner—they pointed me in your direction,” he said, and here, in his arms, desire was back. It was an odd feeling, like the heat, only worse, as if her skin was pulled too tight and was too sensitive for even the softest fabric.
“You’re the cooler I hired.”
“Yes. I’m Bat Kelly.”
“Bat? What’s that short for?”
“It’s just Bat—not short for anything. And normally, I don’t find the owner taking orders and bussing tables.”
“I can’t just sit around.”
His next words were a growl, the way his very first words to her had been. “Do you always get into this much trouble in one night?”
She pulled back. “It’s not my fault I was nearly attacked.”
“You got in the middle of something inside the bar you shouldn’t have. And you fired the manager, Catie chere.”
The employees and patrons must be only too happy to talk about it—the woman named Catie Jane who the regulars nicknamed Catie chere—the woman who’d arrived in town to threaten their good time. “I thought they’d stop if they saw a woman. And yes, I fired Darren, two days ago. He was skimming.” She put a hand to her throat. “You don’t think…”
“I don’t put anything past a man whose livelihood went up in a puff of smoke. That wasn’t a smart move. What made you think you could waltz in here—”
“I didn’t waltz in—”
“And clean up this place single-handedly,” he finished. “You were supposed to wait for me before you made any changes.”
“I didn’t know when you’d be arriving.”
&nbs
p; “Impatient,” he muttered. “Stubborn too.”
“If you’ve got a problem working for a woman—”
“I’ve never had a problem working for a woman—under them, on them, whatever gives them the most bang for their—”
She held up a hand in protest. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Don’t worry, sugar. Fine city girls like you aren’t my style. But you’ve alienated the staff and the regulars. This isn’t New York City and you’re doing a shitty job. You’ve got to step away from this place and let me handle it.”
“I have to keep working—my tips are the only money I’ve got coming in now that I’m here.”
“What’s your deal, chere?”
“My deal? My deal is that my uncle left me this place in his will and all I’m trying to do is sell it.” But the Bon Temps, with its post–Hurricane Katrina crowd, was tougher than she’d thought. The crime in the area and the insurance premiums were both up, and the heat was enough to drive anyone insane. She’d tried to shake it by standing under an ice cold shower—even though her skin went numb from the freeze, her insides still ran hot and she itched for something that she was apparently unable to scratch.
The locals didn’t seem bothered by the heat at all.
“You’ve got no one to help you?” he asked.
“If I did, I wouldn’t have hired you.”
“The bartender told me about your uncle. I’m sorry,” Bat said, his drawl sincere.
She’d refused to concern herself that this particular establishment had been in her family for generations or that it was her uncle’s dream to restore the place to its previous reputation, before drugs and lowlifes had taken hold. The hurricane hadn’t helped. The college draw was minimal, even though the location was perfect for that type of crowd.
“You should see the place during bike week,” the lawyer who was in charge of her uncle’s estate had told her. “It’s a pit stop for the Hells Angels on their way to Florida.”
Yeah, she’d be so far gone by then. “I didn’t know him. Didn’t know he existed, or that he knew anything about me, until after he died.”
