Fire Me Up

by Rachael Johns

  “No wonder you’re in a fucking mood,” Blue mused.

  Hah, a mood. If that’s what this was, he’d been in it for a long time. Ever since Lorna’s actions had thrown him in jail with no one to bail him out. Yeah, he was still bitter about that.

  If he hadn’t met a Deacon inside, found an ally in the most unlikely place possible, who knew what would have become of him? He’d cut all ties with his so-called mother, imagined she was dead and found a new family in the Deacons of Bourbon Street. So many things he’d done with the MC could have gotten him tossed right back in the slammer, but everything had been worth the risk because being part of the Deacons was the first time in his life he’d ever truly felt like he belonged.

  “What did you do?” Ajax wanted to know.

  “Told her to get the fuck out of my building or I’d make her.”

  The others chuckled.

  “Good to see you haven’t changed too much,” Blue said.

  No, not deep inside, Travis thought. He was still a loose cannon, liable to snap the moment someone aggravated him.

  “You don’t need to talk about it or anything, do you?” Ajax asked, a pained expression on his face.

  Travis gave him a look like he was the one who was crazy. Had hooking up with Sophie turned him all fucking touchy-feely?

  “Fuck no.” He lifted his glass and took another sip. “She’s not worth it. She’s never been worth it. We have bigger things to focus on.” Right now anything was preferable to thinking about his mother, or the fact that he’d probably just blown any chance he ever had of fucking Billie again.

  “Good.” Ajax patted his jeans pocket. “Because I was going to give you my phone and tell you to call someone who cared.”

  Travis couldn’t help but smile. Deep down he knew Ajax and Blue did care. Whether they wanted to or not, they cared about each other, about the Deacons and about Priest, or they wouldn’t fucking be there.

  “Why don’t we go for a ride?” Blue suggested. “Clear our heads and then work out our next step.”

  “You know I’m always up for that.” Ajax pushed off the stool. “You coming, Cash?”

  Travis didn’t even flinch at the name he’d discarded when he left ten years ago. Instead he put down his half-full glass and pushed it back toward Sophie. “Okay.” Maybe a ride was just what the doctor ordered. It had to be better than drinking himself stupid.

  Without saying much, he followed his two old friends out into the secure alley behind The Priory where they’d all been keeping their bikes. Blue and Ajax were already in their leathers, their Deacons cuts in pride of place. They climbed atop their machines and Travis realized they looked like bikers, ready to rule the road, and he looked like a nobody. No longer a businessman in his scruffy jeans and black T-shirt, yet no longer a biker. It was like he was in limbo—stuck between the only two worlds that had ever meant anything to him.

  “What’s wrong?” Leon asked, glaring at him as he stood beside his bike.

  “I haven’t got my leather.”

  “What?” Ajax screwed up his hard face. “How the fuck did you ride into town?”

  Travis shook his head. “I meant it’s next door. With the rest of my stuff. At the gallery.”

  Both men’s expressions grew dark. “We need to talk about that,” Ajax said. “A fucking gallery in the Deacons clubhouse. But later. For now, why don’t you just walk on in and get your shit?”

  Travis swallowed. Because that would mean facing Billie. And although he felt no remorse for the way he’d treated Lorna, an unfamiliar feeling sat in his gut whenever he thought about Billie witnessing all that. He guessed she’d want to have it out with him and…

  Blue interrupted his musing. “It’s the art chick, isn’t it?” He actually cackled. “Lorna isn’t the only woman fucking with your head. Man.”

  “You fucking her?” Ajax asked.

  That had been the thing about the club—everyone knew everyone’s business, and while it had seemed the norm back then, Travis liked to keep his sex life private these days. “What if I am? Not gonna let it stop me going for a ride. Back in a minute.” And with that he strode out of the alley and marched in the direction of the gallery.

  He psyched himself up for a run-in with Billie, but when he arrived he found it wasn’t necessary. The loser Rolley was there, playing with his forks and spoons. The mermaid paintings he’d trashed had been cleaned up and there was no evidence in the gallery of the altercation. Rolley looked up when Travis stalked past the piano and then went quickly back to his work. Good. Travis wasn’t in the mood for discussion, especially not with that hippie.

  He barged into the house, stormed through the kitchen and tried to ignore the lingering scent of strawberries, which evoked memories from last night, as he went into his room. Besides the barely slept-in bed and the bag on the floor, his clothes and other crap spilling out of it, you could hardly tell he’d been here. Maybe he shouldn’t have been. If he’d stayed in The Priory or at a hotel, he’d never have run into Lorna, but neither would he have met Billie. He pushed that thought aside—she was nothing more to him than a good lay—and dug down to the bottom of his bag.

  “Bingo,” he muttered to himself as he pulled his cut out of his bag. He held it up in front of him and stared at it as if it were something planted by aliens. Why had he brought it with him? He’d tucked it away in his wardrobe the last decade, wondering each time he moved whether he should toss it into the trash, but he’d never been able to bring himself to do it. Why? Had his subconscious been harboring thoughts about wearing it again one day? No. He shook his head as he shrugged himself into the leather vest.

  He’d kept it because it was part of his past, part of what had formed him into the man he was today. If the Deacons hadn’t found him, fuck knows what would have become of him on the streets. Not wanting to dwell on all this anymore, simply wanting to lose himself on the road, he threw everything back into his bag, picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. Then he walked back out of the house, and out of the gallery, to join his brothers.

  “What the fuck took you so long?” Ajax growled and then revved his bike, making no comment on Travis’s attire.

  Travis didn’t reply. He simply dumped his bag inside the back door of The Priory, yanked on his helmet and then climbed onto his own bike.

  Ajax rode out first, then Blue, with Travis following close behind. At first it felt strange cruising down the streets of the French Quarter, the wary eyes of tourists turned on them—like he’d traveled back in time—but as they drove farther out and hit the open highway, the magic of the wind against his face, his brothers riding alongside him, started to pour through his body.

  He’d been riding solo for a decade and while there was still a buzz in that, there was nothing like riding in a pack. For a split second he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to come back, to join forces with Ajax and Blue and to revive the Deacons. But although the thrill of the ride had gone to his head, in truth there were too many reasons not to leave his new life behind—his apartment, his company and the fact that he didn’t have to look over his shoulder wherever he went. Besides, without Priest at the helm, the club wouldn’t be the same. In reality, nothing was ever the same the second time around.

  Travis tried not to think anymore as he roared along the road close behind Blue. They rode for what felt like hours, cruised past a few plantations, and then on their way back into town, Ajax slowed at a bend in the road. Immediately Travis knew what this spot meant and why they were here.

  His body grew cold as he parked on the edge of the road next to the others, then climbed off his bike and took off his helmet. The three of them stared at the cruddy cross on the side of the road, a Deacons logo etched into the wood. It looked pathetic, far too insignificant for a man of Priest’s magnitude. Emotion Travis hadn’t let himself feel, not when he’d heard Priest had died, not even at the funeral, washed over him. His eyes prickled and his breathing slowed as he finally cam
e to terms with the fact that his president wasn’t coming back. The only man he’d ever looked up to was dead, and the police weren’t doing anything about it.

  “It wasn’t a fucking accident,” Ajax said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t care what anyone says.”

  “No way,” Blue agreed.

  “I know.” Travis’s jaw locked and he wiped his eyes with the back of his palm, finally admitting what his gut had told him all along. What he’d been trying to ignore because he’d told himself it didn’t matter. But, it did matter. “My bet’s on the Ministry.” He scowled as he recalled the run-in with Blade and the others last night.

  Ajax looked up. “Blue said you saw some of them?”

  Travis ignored the fact that Blue had obviously been too amused by the situation to keep his trap shut. “Yep, they were mouthing off in Café Du Monde about Priest. Blade was acting real cocky.”

  Anger darkened both Ajax and Blue’s already hard expressions.

  “I could fucking skin him,” Ajax snarled.

  “But with half our guys gone and the other traitors now wrapped up in the Ministry, we can’t take them on our own,” Blue pointed out, his whole stance tense and angry. He wasn’t one who liked to admit defeat. Travis knew his brothers weren’t scared; they just weren’t stupid, either. They were all good fighters, but you didn’t need to be a mathematician to know the three of them couldn’t win up against the whole fucking Ministry. They needed to be smarter than that, use their brains and gather their forces again.

  “We need evidence to take to the cops,” Travis said.

  “The cops? And what the fuck are they going to do?” Ajax threw his hands in the air. “They’re too damn scared of the Ministry—just like they were of the Deacons—to do anything but turn a blind eye.”

  “Let’s worry about that when we have the evidence.”

  “Right. And how the fuck are we gonna get that? Walk into their clubhouse and ask for a confession, start throwing around accusations?”

  “No.” Travis shook his head. “I’m going to do some more digging. Sophie gave me that list of Priest’s business affiliates. I’m gonna hack into their computers, their bank records, but I’m also going to do the same to every last Ministry motherfucker. You’d be amazed what the old paper trail can uncover.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Ajax growled, “because I’m sick of sitting on our fucking hands. I want revenge for Priest, closure for Sophie, for all of us.”

  The three men nodded in agreement and Travis felt something shift inside him. For the time being, he was no longer alone. He wasn’t back, not for good, but while he was in NOLA he was fucking going to be a biker again. And he was going to get to the bottom of Priest’s death even if it killed him; because, for all his faults, Priest had also done a hell of a lot of good and Travis had never wished him dead.

  Chapter 9

  Leaving Rolley in charge of the gallery, Billie hopped on her bicycle and rode the short distance to Lorna’s house, Baxter trotting alongside her. Her fingers gripped the handlebars harder than they ever had before—not because she was scared of falling off, but because her whole body was tense with fury. And perhaps a smidgen of fear.

  She still couldn’t believe the way Travis had turned from an easygoing, bloody good kisser into a near psychopath in a matter of minutes. She’d easily have believed that of the man she’d met three days ago, but not of the man who’d been almost sweet in Café Du Monde and then made her scream in ecstasy half the night. A traitorous shiver of pleasure zapped through her at the thought.

  She had the worst taste in men, from the control freak of her ex to the bloodthirsty, vengeful reaction Travis had just displayed. What had she been thinking? Or rather what had her hormones been thinking? The wanton hussies had no scruples.

  For a moment back there, she’d actually thought Travis was going to hit his mother. Of course at that stage she hadn’t known the familial connection—Lorna had never mentioned a son—but, whatever his reasons, his aggression had scared her. It had been so unexpected after the night they’d shared and the sweetness he’d shown her when he’d let down his guard.

  She honestly didn’t know which side of Travis Sinclair was the true one. Was he a mean, emotionally messed-up loose cannon? Or was the Travis she’d slept with—the one he hid from the world—the real him? There was the distinct possibility he’d put on that sweet act simply to get inside her pants.

  Argh. Her head ached from the confusion and she wanted to scream.

  Part of her wanted to go after him and make him talk, demand he tell her why he’d lost it in her gallery, but another part of her didn’t think she should push him too far. He wasn’t the chatty type and after all, he did own her building. She needed to think about her business. No matter how she felt inside, she couldn’t afford to risk everything she’d built up here.

  Hoping time and space would give Travis a chance to cool down, she’d chosen the safer option, a visit to Lorna instead. The woman had left without her money; Billie wanted to give it to her and also make sure that Lorna would continue exhibiting with her in spite of what had happened with Travis.

  She propped her bike up against Lorna’s front fence and paused a moment to admire the elaborate designs and motifs that made the ironwork fence a thing of beauty. Honestly, until she’d come to New Orleans, she’d thought the fanciest fences were white picket, but they had nothing on the designs of the French Quarter. And it wasn’t just fences. The local architecture fascinated her. Lorna’s Creole cottage with its bright blue doors, orange window shutters and the jungle of mismatched flower baskets hanging from the roof awnings might not be as magnificent as some of the Quarter’s finer houses, but it made her heart glow just looking at it.

  You could tell two artists lived here, and Billie had felt right at home the two times she’d visited before.

  But admiring the aesthetics was not why she’d come here. Baxter joyfully went ahead of her up the short path and pushed open the screen door with his snout, not bothering to wait for Billie to knock, but she hung back, something akin to guilt making her a little queasy. What would Travis think if he knew she was with his mother right now? Her heart felt heavy at the thought, but then…

  “Lorna, are you in there?” Billie hurried after the dog and called into the house. No man was going to control her anymore and if Travis had a problem with her doing business with one of her artists, well, that was his problem. He shouldn’t have stormed off.

  Within a few seconds the older woman appeared. Her eyes were red and her cheeks blotchy; she’d obviously been crying. In fact as she came closer, Billie could still see dampness on her eyelashes. No matter that she’d been an addict, no matter what kind of mother she’d been to her son, her pain and remorse right now was obvious.

  “Billie.” Lorna attempted a smile as she held the door open. “I’m so sorry for what happened in the gallery.”

  Billie frowned. “Don’t be silly. You’re not the one who needs to apologize. I just came to check you’re okay.”

  Lorna cocked her head to one side. “Do you know my son well?”

  Heat flared within at just how well she knew Travis, but that wasn’t what Lorna meant. “No. I’ve known him all of three days. He told me he didn’t have any family and I never knew you had children, so…”

  “You’d better come inside. I’ll make us some coffee.” Lorna smiled down at Baxter. “Come on, little guy.”

  Billie wavered a moment. She’d only come to give Lorna her money, but she couldn’t leave the woman in such obvious distress. Together, Baxter and Billie followed Lorna down the hallway into a very homey kitchen. The last time Billie had been here, she’d admired the eclectic collection of art and other odds and ends that lined Lorna and her partner’s walls and every available surface. The house could have been an art gallery. It was a rainbow of color, and although none of the furniture matched, it worked so well and suited its owners down to a T. At the same time it felt like home,
so much more so than her family’s posh, immaculately kept house in Claremont had ever felt.

  “Take a seat.” Lorna gestured to the table as she started making the drinks.

  Baxter, always happy to lounge, slumped onto the floor—his short, stumpy legs meant it wasn’t much of an effort—and Billie pulled a seat from under the table. As she sat, she noticed a few old Polaroid photos on the table. Without thinking, she reached out to pick one up and glanced down at the bright-eyed, cheeky-grinned, blond baby. Was this Travis? Hard to reconcile the baby with the dark-haired, dark-souled man he was today, but both her brothers had been fair-haired as babies and now boasted near-black mops of hair.

  Lorna crossed to the table with two big mugs of steaming coffee. She gave Billie one shaped like a unicorn, with an actual horn sticking out the side, and despite the situation, it made Billie smile.

  “He was a cutie,” Lorna said, and Billie realized she’d been caught with the photos.

  “Travis?” Billie clarified, looking up to meet her gaze.

  Lorna nodded, a sad smile haunting her lips. She wrapped her hands around her mug—it had hand-painted tiny cats all over—but didn’t lift it to drink. “I’m sorry to bring that bad feeling into your beautiful gallery today. If I’d known, I’d never…”

  Billie cut her off and without thinking, reached across the table to take her hand. “Hey, you don’t need to apologize. Travis was out of line.” No matter how her hormones felt about him, the ruckus he’d caused in her gallery was unacceptable. “He had no right.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Lorna looked into Billie’s eyes, her own welling with tears. “He had every right.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t talk about this ever because I’m so ashamed, so sad, and I worry that if I start dwelling on it I’ll need something to get me through the pain, and I’m done with those addictions. At least I hope I am. It’s an ongoing uphill battle, but I don’t want to be that woman ever again.”

  Billie nodded, letting Lorna know she understood.