by Nicole James
He walked down the hall to the bedroom to get some clean clothes and paused as his eyes hit the big king sized bed.
Holly was on her stomach, her face turned toward the set of sliders that opened onto the second deck. The shears let the morning light into the room. The sheet rode low on her hips, so low he could see the dimples at the base of her spine. His eyes wandered over all that exposed skin, the graceful line of her back, and the bit of exposed side boob.
His gaze dropped to the pile of clothes on the floor, including the matching bra and panties she’d tormented him with. It was going to be damn hard rolling the bike out, knowing there was a gorgeous, naked woman in his bed.
He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture, then grinned at the shot.
Sighing, he moved down the hall to hit the shower.
***
Holly stretched and lifted her head. Her eyes popped wide when she realized where she was.
Crap.
Last night came rushing back to her—the party, Jason, Joker coming to get her and punching him, then bringing her here, their conversation, her throwing herself at him and him turning her down.
She dropped her face into the pillow. Oh God! She’d made a complete fool of herself—taking off her top and offering herself up on a platter like that! Ugh!
She drew in a breath and lifted her head. The sheets smelled like him and whatever soap he used lingered on the fabric, and God it was a good scent. She grabbed a fistful of pillow and dipped her nose, breathing it in again.
Scattered memories of last night sifted through her brain.
Climbing onto his lap, kissing him, pulling her shirt off…
Yes, he’d blown her off, but before he’d pushed her away, he’d been into it just as much as she’d been. She supposed she couldn’t blame him; he was a biker, and a topless woman had shoved her bare breasts in his face; of course he was going to take full advantage of them.
But he’d stopped. He claimed it was because she was off limits, made that way by Undertaker himself. And she believed it. Hell, she knew it was true. He’d been right; she was playing a game before, trying to get him to go there when she knew he couldn’t. Maybe even trying to get him in trouble.
But things had changed.
She’d been childish. After her place was broken into, she started to think maybe Joker wasn’t as big a jerk as she’d thought.
She leaned over the edge of the mattress and located amongst the heap of clothing on the floor the tiny bag she’d carried last night. She pulled her phone out and looked at the time.
Ten a.m.
And two texts from Joker.
Got called out.
Club business.
I’ll give you a ride home when I get back.
Help yourself to food in the fridge.
The second was a picture of her in his bed, and the caption read: You’re cute when you snore.
Oh God. Now she really was mortified.
Hell if she’d be here when he returned.
She flipped to her back and stared at the ceiling. It was a good-sized room with a big platform bed that was the focal point and took up most of the space. A set of sliding glass doors to her left opened out onto a forward deck. The place could use some decorating, but it had a good layout.
Boy, what she could do with a room like this. She’d love to decorate it.
She punched in Chelsea’s number, but she didn’t pick up. Holly bit her lip and called Miranda.
She answered on the second ring.
“Holly, are you okay?”
“Yes, thanks for tattling on me!”
“I’m sorry, but you were talking about going off with him and—”
“Never mind. I need a ride. Can you come get me?”
“Chelsea’s not here. And I don’t have a car. My brother took it to the beach.”
“Damn it.”
“We’re supposed to be leaving as soon as Chelsea gets back. Where are you?”
“Somewhere on Lake Ponchartrain, I think.”
“You think? Are you with Joker?”
“I’m at his place, but he’s gone. And I really don’t want to wait for him to come back.”
“Are you okay? I mean—”
“I’m fine.”
“I can call you as soon as I hear from Chelsea, but the way she was partying last night, it might be hours before she rolls in.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Holly hung up and stared at the wall. She could try to call a cab or Uber, but she didn’t have any money on her. She could call Cat, but then she’d have to explain what she was doing there, and she’d rather not get into that, especially the part about Joker dragging her out of a party. And if Blood were around, he’d get that story out of Joker, even if she didn’t tell Cat.
So, she was stuck. Damn it.
The sound of a boat on the water carried to her, and she sat up, peering out the window. She yawned and stretched, then stood, slipping on her clothes.
She wandered through to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared inside. Milk, beer, and some wrapped leftovers. She passed on those for the pizza box on the second shelf. There were two slices left.
She snagged one and the carton of milk.
Then she sat at the bar and ate.
Her eyes moved around the room, taking in the work he’d been doing on the place.
She had to admit she found it out of character for a biker to live on a boat—or barge—or whatever the heck this place was.
But it was actually pretty cool he was converting it to a home. It had the potential to be awesome.
The living room/kitchen combination was really quite large, with huge sliders that let in tons of light. The floors and ceilings were both wood, and he’d sheet-rocked the walls, but they hadn’t been painted yet.
She nibbled on her slice of pizza as she slid from the barstool and wandered over to some paint cans on a drop cloth in the corner. He had several small cans of different colors, and judging by the small squares of paint he’d brushed onto the wall, he was trying to pick a color. There were about eight different shades.
She grinned, sat on the floor, and started popping the lids off.
***
Joker pulled up, and the minute he shut off his bike he heard the blaring music coming from inside his place. He smiled. Little Brat must be up and awake, and judging from the volume, not suffering from a hangover.
He went aboard and glanced around the deck. The empty bottles from the night before and all remnants of their little tequila party were cleaned up. The deck had been swept and the chairs all lined up in a perfectly square neat little conversation grouping. Seriously, had she used a ruler to measure the equal distance between each chair?
Maybe Little Brat had OCD. He chuckled. Doubtful.
He moved through the slider.
She had her back to him, a drop cloth spread out on the floor, and she was painting a mural on his wall. She danced to the music, her body swaying to the beat between strokes with the paintbrush.
His eyes moved down her body. She’d cut the bottom of the torn pants off, turning them into shorts. And when he said shorts, he meant short shorts!
Goddamn, the girl had legs and an ass worth watching, especially when she was doing that sensual little shimmy. Fuck yeah.
His eyes moved to the wall again. “Least I don’t see a picture of me with horns and a pitchfork.”
She spun and let out a gasp. “Holy crap, you scared the shit out of me! How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know that Billie Jean is not your lover.”
She grinned, and dipped her head as a faint pink blushed her cheeks. “Well, ya know, Michael is the King of Pop.”
He lifted his chin to the painting. “Whatcha doin’?”
The painting took up the whole wall and was done up in soft muted browns and golds. In the foreground was the iconic silhouette of a New Orleans paddlewheel docked at night
, its golden lights reflecting off the dark Mississippi River and the lights of the Crescent City Connection twin-span bridge in the background.
It was a stunning scene.
She turned to look at the wall. “Oh, um. You had all these colors and…” She shrugged. “I guess I got a little carried away. I can paint over it if you don’t like it.”
“Didn’t say that. I think it’s beautiful. Really. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you.”
“I had no idea.”
“I painted it from a photograph I took… um, you know, that night you found me in the Quarter.”
He nodded. “I see. Memorable night.” He glanced to the wall. “In more ways than one. And now, it seems I have a souvenir.”
Her face tightened. “Like I said, I can paint over it, just pick a color. It was presumptuous of me to…” She waved her arm to the wall, then dropped it.
“Babe, I love it.”
She turned slowly and looked at him with sparkling eyes. “You do? Really? You mean it?”
“I do. Really. I mean it,” he teased her with her words then glanced around the room. “You rearranged the furniture.”
Her gaze roved over the grouping. “I thought it made better sense this way, I mean with the view and all…”
He nodded. “Guess it does. Guess you know more about this stuff than I do. You’ve got a flare for it. Even the deck stuff”—he gestured outside—“looks better the way you’ve got it.”
“You really think so? Because I was thinking about changing my major to Interior Design. You don’t think that would be stupid, switching from accounting to that?”
He grinned. “Do you want to be an accountant, babe?”
“Not really.”
“Then there’s your answer.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple. Do what you love.” He gestured to the wall and the room. “You do this for money, for homework?”
“No.”
“No, you did it because you love doing it.” He lifted his brow at her. “It’s not complicated.”
“You make me feel like I could make a go of it.”
“You got talent. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”
“Thanks.”
“You hungry?”
“Starved.”
“I’ll make you something.”
She huffed out a laugh. “You cook?”
“You maligning my cooking skills, woman? And here I was trying to bury the hatchet.”
“Sorry. You can really cook?”
He chuckled. “Not a bit.”
She rolled her eyes.
He moved to the fridge. “Looks like its reheated leftovers from the party or I take you out. Your choice.”
She bit her lip. “There’s a really good Po’boy place near campus.”
He grinned. “Po’boys it is.”
She looked down at herself. “But I can’t go out looking like this.”
“See your point.” He leaned back against the counter. “Everybody’s gone for spring break, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“So, you’ve got basically no plans for the week.”
“Nope.”
“How ‘bout you stay out here with me? Help me finish fixin’ up the place. I can give you a little money, feed you; I’ll sleep on the couch, and you can have the bedroom. We’ll swing by your place, get you some clothes. It’d save me on gas not having to go back and forth and check on you all week.”
She shrugged. “I guess, since I’ve got nothing else to do.”
“Don’t pout; it’s not pretty.”
“I think Undertaker was being ridiculous telling me I couldn’t go.”
Joker huffed out a laugh. “Right. You tell him that?”
“No.”
“Um hmm. And you won’t.”
“Still.”
“He’s got his reasons, Hol. Good ones.”
“You agree with him?”
“Yeah, I do.” His gaze met hers, daring her to say something. She wisely kept her mouth shut. “No comment?”
“Well, since we’re burying the hatchet and all.”
“Smart answer, girl.” His phone went off, and he pulled it out of his pocket.
It was a text from his sister. The message was short, but he knew exactly what it meant.
She’s at it again.
“Fucking A,” he muttered.
“Problem?” Holly asked.
He typed a short response and looked up at her. “How do you feel about taking a little road trip?”
“Where?”
“Mississippi. I gotta go home and take care of something. You wanna ride along? We’ll take the truck.”
“Where’s home?”
“Hattiesburg. About two hours away.”
She shrugged. “When do we leave?”
He grinned. “My kind of woman. No twenty questions, just ‘when do we leave?’ I like that.”
She leaned on the bar and gave him a sassy smile. “You like a lot of things about me, Joker.”
Chapter Sixteen
Joker and Holly ended up getting their Po’boys to go on the way out of town after a quick stop at her apartment. They polished the sandwiches off and were down to a bag of shoestring fries.
“Toss me a fry,” Joker said, his hands on the wheel. A second later a fry landed on his crotch. He gave her a look. “Really?”
“You said toss, I tossed.” She grinned then threw a second. “Here, have another… and another.”
He threw them back until it was an all-out fry war.
“Okay, quit. I give.”
She munched on a fry and giggled.
He glanced from the road to her. “You’re fun when you’re not being a bitch.”
“Thanks, asshole.”
He chuckled.
“You’re kind of fun, too, when you’re not being a dick.”
“Thanks, babe.”
Two hours later, they pulled up to a small, brightly painted cottage-style house. There was a porch and a wooden sign with a drawing of a hand. It read physic medium, palm reader, and crystal healer.
Holly’s eyes cut to Joker, her brows raised, and scoffed, “Friend of yours?”
He unbuckled his seatbelt. “My mother.”
The laughter melted from her face, and she gaped as he climbed out of the truck. “Your what?”
“Come on.”
She followed him out of the vehicle and up the walk to the porch. Her eyes gave the house another survey. It was small and cute with gingerbread trim and flowers in planters; nothing creepy about it, except for that sign which stared back at her and freaked the crap out of her.
Joker reached for the wooden screen door and walked right in.
Holly felt a little weird as she followed, unsure of what exactly she was walking into. The screen door creaked and banged shut behind them. Holly’s gaze quickly flicked around a small entryway with rooms leading off to the left and right and a hall straight ahead. On the left was a dining room; on the right was a room with a curtain across the entry. She imagined that must be where his mother conducted business, reading palms and whatever else she did. Holly wondered if it contained a table with a crystal ball or Ouija board.
“Ma!” Joker called out.
“I’m back here,” a feminine voice replied.
Joker’s hand closed around hers and pulled her along behind him. As he led her through the dining room, she took in the oval shaped oak table and floral wallpaper, and thought it all very normal looking. A moment later, she entered a quaint vintage kitchen. It was a cheerful yellow with a Formica table and matching vinyl-padded chairs in a pale aqua.
The aroma of fresh baked cookies reached her nose as she came face to face with Joker’s mother. She had to be in her early fifties, but she didn’t look it. She had a beautiful face with barely a wrinkle and long hair the same shade as Joker’s with only a touch of gray at the temples.
Her eyes were
blue and her smile bright.
“Hello, son. I baked your favorite cookies.” She set a pan in the sink and pulled oven mitts off her hands. A couple dozen cookies sat cooling on a rack on the counter.
Joker gave his mother a hug, then swiped a warm cookie. “Did Maggie tell you I was coming?”
“No, your father told me last Wednesday.”
Holly frowned, and her eyes met Joker’s. How would his father know he was coming? She didn’t think even Joker knew he was coming until this afternoon.
His eyes shifted from her to his mother, but before he could respond, Holly asked, “Will I get to meet your father, too?”
“Not hardly, babe. My father is dead,” he replied.
Her eyes darted back to his mother, wondering if the woman was completely looney. “Oh.”
“Ma, this is Holly; Holly, my mother, Ellen.
Ellen clasped Holly’s hands tight with both of hers and stepped close, studying her face. Then she nodded and looked to her son. “Yes, I see now.”
“See what, Ma?”
“Your father told me about her.”
“Ma, don’t start. You want her to think you’re crazy?”
“She won’t think that, will you, Holly?”
“No, ma’am,” Holly lied.
“Yeah, right.” Joker huffed out a laugh and snatched a cookie. He bit into it, but stopped chewing, staring down. “You forgot the pecans, Ma.”
Without missing a beat, the woman, still holding Holly’s hand in hers, stared into her eyes and replied, “Well, baby, I had to leave them out. Holly’s allergic to nuts, aren’t you, dear?”
Holly nodded, mutely. How the hell did she know that?
Joker’s eyes shifted to her. “That true, Hol?”
“Y-yes.”
Ellen’s gaze finally broke from hers to glance at Joker. “Your father told me.”
Joker rolled his eyes. “Where’s Maggie?”
“She’s off running around with her friends.”
Holly wanted to ask him the millions of questions running through her mind. This was all too bizarre for words.
Joker pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and his thumb moved over the screen as he munched on the cookie.