Fire Me Up

by Rachael Johns

“Rolley!” He almost dropped the pastry box as she launched herself at him and hugged him like she’d never done before.

  “Billie?” When she let him go, he looked at her like she was high on drugs. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “Sorry, long day and I’m starving.” She eyed the box of beignets—not that she thought she could stomach even half of one in her agitated state—and pretended that was the reason for her overly effusive hug. Normally she was careful not to lead Rolley on, but tonight his feelings for her had slipped her mind as it was far too full of other stuff.

  He beamed, his grin stretching from ear to ear as he pulled back the lid on the box. “They’re all yours.”

  “You’re going to make me fat.”

  “Impossible. But even if you were, you’d still be gorgeous.”

  Billie ignored his compliment and took a beignet but didn’t put it into her mouth. “Are you sure you’ll be okay here tonight? I still have a houseguest.”

  “The biker?” Rolley rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine. As long as he doesn’t start intimidating the customers, I won’t have to rough him up.”

  Billie smiled, thinking about how Rolley couldn’t even bring himself to kill an insect. He was one of the good guys, and it would be so much better if her body had chosen him for its sudden obsession. “Call me if there are any issues.”

  “There won’t be.” He took a beignet out of the box and put the rest down on her desk. “You have a good night.”

  “Thanks.” She started down the alley toward the entrance and then realized she didn’t have her bag, her ghost tour T-shirt or name badge. Dammit, she’d hoped to escape without another run-in with Travis. Taking a deep breath, she went back past Rolley, pretending to take a bite of the beignet, and then snuck into her house. She felt like some kind of cat burglar as she crept through the kitchen and tiptoed down the corridor to her bedroom, cringing when one of the ancient floorboards creaked under her feet.

  Despite her best intentions, she glanced into Travis’s room and then breathed a sigh of relief as she saw him passed out on the bed. This time she wouldn’t make the mistake of going any closer.

  —

  Travis woke to the sound of the sliding door closing and the scent of strawberries lingering in the air. Where the fuck was he? He sat up in bed, feeling as if he’d been dozing for days, and looked around the room. Within seconds everything came flooding back: the fact that he was back in NOLA, once again mired in the MC and shacked up with a pretty little artist bitch who wanted to hate him but had melted beneath his touch.

  He inhaled deeply, guessing Billie was responsible for the sweet aroma. His stomach grumbled, but it wasn’t food he was hungry for. He rolled out of bed, tugged on his jeans and a shirt and then decided to head out into the gallery for a little fix, but when he emerged he was disappointed. The only person in the gallery was the dark-haired hippie, doing something with pliers and cutlery. So he was responsible for the little figures made of spoons and forks that people apparently handed over their hard-earned cash for.

  Travis glared at him. “Where’s Billie?”

  The guy with the pathetic name glared right back. “She’s out. Working.”

  “I thought she worked here?”

  Rolley shrugged. “Maybe she does something else as well.”

  Travis’s fists clenched at his sides, not liking where his mind went when it thought of what exactly Billie’s other employment might be. Was she stripping in some seedy club? Serving drinks topless? “What exactly does she do?”

  “What’s it to you?” Rolley snapped. Travis noticed his grip tighten on the pliers as if he thought he could use them as a weapon.

  Hah! It would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. If Travis wanted, he could make Rolley talk, but he no longer used his fists to get things done. Besides, it was true. Billie meant nothing to him. He shrugged. “Just curious.” And then he noticed the Café Du Monde box on the desk where Rolley was working. Without asking, he leaned over and helped himself.

  “Hey, they’re for Billie!” Rolley snatched the box and held it against his chest as Travis sank his teeth into the first beignet he’d had in a very long while.

  He didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but damn, he’d forgotten how good these things were. No wonder people trekked from all over the world to taste them. He popped the rest of the fried dough into his mouth, thinking about how much better it would be hot, and strode out of the gallery without another word to Rolley.

  Although it wasn’t quite seven o’clock, The Priory was already abuzz with people and loud music, but Travis wasn’t in the mood for another run-in with Ajax and/or Leon. He could go ask Sophie if she’d made that list yet and then start working his way through it, but something had him heading in the direction of the Hotel Monteleone instead. Micah had been keeping a low profile over the last week, appearing only when Ajax absolutely demanded it, but Travis saw no reason why he should get away with this. They both wanted out and with their two heads working together, they might uncover answers faster.

  He strode down the middle of the street—because that’s what you did in the French Quarter—dodging the already tipsy tourists exclaiming over the sights, the people as much as the actual buildings. Old homeless women on bikes proclaiming the message of the Lord; people shouting down from balconies asking women below to flash their tits for tacky, plastic beads; so-called musicians set up in the middle of the road busking; horses and carts giving those who didn’t want to step in vomit a more refined tour of the Quarter; scary-looking guys holding signs saying BIG ASS BEERS, and a tour group sipping cheap Hurricane cocktails out of large plastic tumblers while they listened to some woman tell them this was one of the most haunted cities in the world. He couldn’t believe people actually paid to listen to that crap or believed the bullshit stories fed to them by the tour guides.

  “It’s great to have y’all here tonight.”

  Travis stopped in his tracks, almost stumbling on a crack in the road as he heard the Aussie voice at the front of the crowd, attempting a bit of the local lingo. He’d know that voice anywhere. Pushing past a couple of guys who were sipping girly drinks, he almost tripped again at the sight of his tenant in dark skinny jeans and a fitted polo shirt with some kind of logo on her breast pocket.

  Ghost tours were her other job? He supposed it beat some of the other alternatives.

  Billie tossed her wide smile at the group. “I’m so excited to share with you some of the awesomely spooky history of New Orleans. There’s three hundred years of pirate, voodoo and zombie history right here; it’s a magical place and almost every building has some kind of haunting or ghost-sighting story to tell. Unfortunately we’ve only got an hour tonight, but I’m going to do my best to show you as many haunted sites as possible. But please”—she lowered her voice to a theatrical stage whisper, a streetlamp flickering behind her adding to the eerie effect—“be careful. This city has one of the highest rates of missing persons in the world, so be sure to watch each other’s backs.”

  While the tourists muttered their excited fear, Travis couldn’t help but snort at this dramatic warning. Sure, people disappeared in the French Quarter on a fairly regular basis, but there was generally a logical reason. The Deacons had been responsible for a number of such disappearances, the Ministry many others, but the tourists didn’t want to know about the real underworld of New Orleans. Billie met his gaze as he smirked, and he knew he’d been caught. He lifted a hand and gave her a little wave. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as if she’d swallowed something sour, before she hit him with a deadly glare.

  “And remember, this tour is for paying guests only. If you haven’t already shown me your ticket, please do so now or head inside and buy one.” She nodded toward the tacky tourist bar they were gathered in front of.

  A couple of people broke away from the group, but Billie ignored them, raising her eyebrows at Travis instead. He’d never imagined going on one of these tours in his life, never
mind paying for it, but he guessed Billie thought he’d either leave or refuse to pay. He wouldn’t put it past her to call security. Fortunately for him, he wasn’t scared of security, but he couldn’t shake the desire to irritate the hell out of her and ruffle all her pretty little feathers.

  With a smile in her direction, he turned and headed into the pub behind them, pushing through the crowd of low-rent drunks to get to the bar. He handed over good money for a ticket and then went back onto the street. Billie’s group was already halfway down the block, but he strode to catch up. She was talking about a restaurant that had a resident French ghost when she looked up and saw him. She stumbled over her words, losing her train of thought, as he flashed the ticket for her perusal.

  “Welcome,” she finally said. “Glad you could join us.” But she didn’t sound happy at all. She glanced at the building behind them and then back to the group. “Now, where was I?”

  “You were saying the ghost was a winemaker and had impeccable standards in his restaurant?” he told her.

  “Oh, yes, right.” Billie didn’t thank him or smile. “Although it is believed there are a number of spirits in this particular restaurant, its French founder is said to be the most active and has never quite relinquished control. He wasn’t a nobleman, but he had a taste for fine things and good service, and still ensures this is what patrons of his restaurant experience today. Many of the staff here tell stories about him moving the silverware, napkins, tables—anything if it is not to his liking.”

  He bit his tongue as the gullible people around him exclaimed over these things, getting more and more excited as Billie took them to some of the famous buildings of the French Quarter. They paused again on Royal Street.

  “Right behind us now is arguably the most haunted house in New Orleans, known as the LaLaurie Mansion.” She gestured at the three-story house behind her as a number of the group lifted their smartphones and started snapping.

  Aside from the delicate ironwork on the second-story balconies, the house was nothing special on the outside, but rumor said it once held a lavish interior, the place of many extravagant social gatherings. It reminded Travis a little of the Delecroix mansion, which was supposedly one of the properties they’d inherited from Priest.

  “It was owned by Dr. Louis LaLaurie and his wife Delphine, and it is well documented that Delphine was a brutally cruel women who tortured her slaves on these very premises.”

  Travis listened as Billie went on to tell a story he’d heard a number of variations of over the years. You didn’t grow up in the French Quarter without learning about its checkered past. He’d never had much interest in the paranormal, which was pretty much the “normal” in New Orleans, but Billie’s words enchanted him. Her voice was soft and lyrical, and if he weren’t such a cynic maybe he would have bought into the fantasy, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the first woman who’d told him these stories. His own mother had been so fascinated by all things ghosts and voodoo that she hadn’t even realized that tales of vampires, zombies and ghosts didn’t make good bedtime stories for a young child.

  Then again, that wasn’t the only thing she’d screwed up when it came to motherhood.

  Travis’s head started to throb. What the hell he was doing strolling through the streets of the French Quarter with a bunch of tourists listening to this crap? As if he didn’t have anything better to do.

  “And behind us is one of the many haunted hotels in the area,” Billie told the crowd when they stopped in front of another building. “This hotel was once a morgue, and you can imagine the number of spirits who might haunt it. There’ve been rumors of children who died in the building during the city’s outbreak of yellow fever in 1905 running up and down the stairs at night. People actually come to this hotel because they want a paranormal experience. I particularly like the story of young honeymooners who stayed about fifteen years ago. They left disappointed after a week and requested their money back as they had not seen, felt or heard any ghosts. Two weeks later they developed the film in their camera and found a photo of the two of them sleeping taken from above. Convinced their mystery photographer was a ghost, they repaid their fee and now visit every year on their anniversary.”

  While the crowd around him sighed, Travis scoffed. People could be so damn gullible. “One of the hotel staff probably snuck into their room and took a photo,” he said, loud enough so that everyone turned to look at him. “In fact, there’s a reasonable explanation for most of your stories.”

  “I see we have a nonbeliever in our midst.” Billie tried to sound mocking, but the quiver in her voice gave away her annoyance.

  “Not a nonbeliever, just a man who’s seen enough to sort the trash from the truth, and what you’re dishing out, sweetheart, is trash.”

  Billie crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “The hotel doors have locks, and the couple would have had to be pretty heavy sleepers not to wake up for an intruder, who then somehow hovered above them and snapped a photo.”

  Travis shrugged one shoulder lazily. “What hotel doesn’t have a master key?”

  “Fine,” Billie snapped. “Even if a member of the staff did sneak in, how do you account for them taking a photo from above the bed?”

  Maybe she had a point there, but he wasn’t one to admit defeat. “They probably have peepholes or a special camera stand.”

  Billie rolled her eyes. “There’s always one.” She lifted her chin high and smiled at the crowd, but it wasn’t the full smile she gave the people that came into the gallery and she certainly didn’t aim it at him. “I hope you’ve enjoyed the tour so far. We have just one more stop, and I think this story is going to really intrigue you.”

  “If that asshole doesn’t ruin it for us,” muttered a weedy-looking guy only a few feet away from Billie.

  Knowing the guy was referring to him, Travis’s jaw tightened and he was about to retort when something made him bite his tongue. He was being an ass simply for the sake of being an ass. But that’s what being back in New Orleans did to him.

  It unbalanced him. Made him act like someone even he didn’t like.

  Billie led the still eager crowd onto the last stop of the night—a pub rumored to have been the haunt of a number of famous locals. As she spoke about Andrew Jackson and even voodoo queen Marie Laveau, Travis slipped away from the group and headed toward the Hotel Monteleone.

  Chapter 6

  How Baxter could sleep while Billie tossed and turned in bed she had no clue, but he was snoring soundly beside her, oblivious to her inner turmoil. She craved the sweet oblivion the dog had, but the thoughts of Travis that invaded her head prevented that. It was one thing for him to stake a claim on the gallery—that was bad enough—but he’d had no right to do what he’d done that night. No right to try and make her look stupid when she was working.

  When he’d appeared in the midst of her tour group, for a few brief moments she’d been glad. At least her body, tingling with awareness, had been happy to see him. She’d been stupid enough to believe he might actually be interested in what she had to say. Crazy and hopeful, when all he’d wanted was the chance to aggravate her again. This time in public.

  Fury tensed her muscles and she gripped her pillow hard against her chest. This could not go on. Tomorrow morning she was going to sit him down and have a chat. Or rather confront him and make him listen. Travis had already told her he didn’t do conversation. Well, that was fine, because she planned on doing all the talking. She was going to lay it on him, tell Mr. Worships Himself Sinclair that she wouldn’t be walked all over. And she wasn’t going to let him touch her in the process.

  If he were here now, she’d do it right this minute, but she hadn’t heard Travis come in yet. She glanced at her watch—it was way past midnight. Where could he be? Her mind led her to a number of possible places, most of which would boast a bevy of women eager to please a hot bad boy. Her ribs squeezed tight around her heart at the thought. Why did this even bother her? They were w
elcome to him. But as her hormones screamed that she was a liar, she heard the groaning of the gate at the front of the gallery and was still.

  She listened to heavy footsteps trudging across the courtyard. The door to the house opened and the footsteps grew louder, closer. Then there was one single but loud knock on her bedroom door. She sat up straight and was yanking the sheets around her neck and cursing herself for not putting furniture in front of the door, when it opened and Travis filled the doorway, light from the hall spilling over him. He looked like some kind of fallen angel.

  “What are you doing here?” she spat, unsure whether she was scared, pissed off or aroused by his presence in her bedroom. Maybe a cocktail of all three.

  As he stepped into the room and switched on her light, Baxter stirred, lifting his head and then leaping off the bed to go and greet the enemy. Billie’s insides contracted at the sight of Travis stooping to scratch her little dog on the neck. “I’m sorry for acting like a jerk today,” he said finally.

  Well, that was unexpected. She raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was referring to manhandling her without permission or trying to ruin her tour that night. He obviously thought his behavior the other days was acceptable. “So, the big, bad biker can apologize?”

  He shrugged. “Occasionally. When I’m in the wrong, which just so you know, isn’t often. But to show I mean it I’m taking you out for beignets.”

  Maybe she was asleep, because this had to be some crazy-ass concoction of her vivid imagination. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

  “And?” Travis ran a hand through his hair, and she shivered imagining that hand on her instead. “There’s a reason Café Du Monde is open 24/7—it’s always time for beignets.”

  Her stomach rumbled loudly in agreement but she ignored it. “And, I don’t take kindly to being told what to do.” Lord knows her ex had been the king of that. Well, she hadn’t finally broken free of her marriage to let someone she hardly knew pick up where Saxon had left off. “Have you ever considered I might be more likely to say yes if you asked me rather than told me?”