Hold Me Down (The Deacons of Bourbon Street #3)

by Jackie Ashenden

  Hold Me Down is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Jackie Ashenden

  Excerpt from by Strip You Bare copyright © 2015 by Maisey Yates

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Strip You Bare by Maisey Yates. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9781101884683

  Cover design: © Okay Creations

  Cover photograph: © Gabriel Georgescu/Shutterstock

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Strip You Bare

  Chapter 1

  Leonidas St. John Delacroix III—who was preferred to be known as Blue—kicked his boots up onto the worn wood of the chair in front of him and leaned back to survey the bar.

  Fuck, the more things changed, the more things stayed the same. Ten years since he’d set foot in The Priory, the bar his old motorcycle club, the Deacons of Bourbon Street, used to frequent, and it was like he’d never left. Still the same shitty cracked black-and-white-tiled linoleum floor. The same layer of grime that coated said floor and the worn and peeling wallpaper on the walls—a combination of sweat, spilled alcohol, and years-old cigarette smoke. Same fans on the ceiling, turning lazily, moving the muggy air exactly nowhere.

  And same kind of crowd. Tourists looking for the authentic New Orleans experience, a few locals looking for escape, and the usual down-and-outs looking for oblivion.

  Except it wasn’t entirely the same.

  The Deacons who used to call this bar home were conspicuous by their absence. Since a hurricane nearly destroyed their town and the death of the old man, Priest, their president, had nearly destroyed the MC, the club was in ruins, its members dispersed.

  It broke his heart if he thought about it too much. Just like it had broken his heart when Priest had exiled him from New Orleans to a nowhere town on the Louisiana bayou ten years earlier. A heart that had stayed broken throughout the long years he’d spent there, marking time, keeping the vows he’d made to himself. Until the day came to return.

  Blue grinned savagely to himself. Well, fuck, now that day was here. Ajax had given him the call a couple of weeks earlier, giving him the news Priest had died and he was needed back home. And he hadn’t been able to get back fast enough.

  It was just a pity that the club that had once been more a family to him than his own blood relatives was now a mere shadow of its former self. Hell, not even a shadow. More like a ghost.

  But, shit, he wasn’t going to think of it in those terms. He had his last vow still to fulfill. There were four Deacons left and if it was the last thing he did, he was going to restore the MC back to its former glory. And get a little payback for Priest’s death while he was at it.

  Murder and revenge. Fuck, he missed this place.

  He folded his arms and narrowed his gaze, focusing on the bar with its pitted wood and ancient bottles stacked behind it on glass shelves. Fancy liquors that no one ever drank. Beer or bourbon, that was the deal here.

  A woman was leaning against the bar. She had her back to him, tight jeans showcasing generous hips and a nicely rounded ass.

  He let his gaze move over her, allowing himself to enjoy the sight. It had been a long time since he’d had anything decent of the female persuasion to look at—not many chicks out where he’d been living. Hell, a long time since he’d touched a woman at all. The brothers would probably call him crazy if they found out he’d been celibate all this time, but that had all been part of his vows.

  He wouldn’t wear his cut. Wouldn’t ride his Harley. Wouldn’t touch a woman until the day he rode back up Bourbon Street, a Deacon again.

  The woman shook her hair back, long and straight, gleaming copper in the dim lighting of the bar. A memory turned in his head of another copper-haired girl. Serious sky-blue eyes in a passionate, willful face. Younger than him, but not enough that he didn’t listen to what she had to say. A friendship that had grown after he’d left the Delacroix ancestral mansion for the streets of New Orleans and the Deacons.

  A friendship he’d broken when he’d had to leave.

  Alice Day. What had happened to her in the ten years he’d been gone? He should look her up, see what the deal was. Her father had been the Deacons’ mechanic, another one who’d passed away while Blue had been living in exile.

  At the bar, the woman shifted on her feet and he found his gaze traveling down her slender thighs to the heavy black boots she wore. Not at all like the other women in the bar, with shoes so high it was a wonder they didn’t fall off them and break their necks.

  The boots drew attention to the long length of her legs, encased in black denim. Nice. Very nice indeed. He couldn’t see her face, but that didn’t matter when she had legs like that.

  Typical. Now his fucking dick was starting to get interested. Which wasn’t any great surprise considering how long it had been since it was anywhere near warm female flesh. Goddamn, were the others going to get here or what? Because if not, he had some ideas about what he could be doing to celebrate the end of ten years of exile. A couple of very good ideas, in fact. Like going over to the bar and introducing himself to the owner of that lovely ass, for example.

  He glanced down at the watch that sat on a heavy leather strap around his wrist—a gift from Priest when he turned twenty-one. Fuck this shit. It was ten p.m. already. He had other stuff to do.

  At that point a tall figure strode into the bar, the crowds near the doors instantly giving way. Blond hair, blue eyes. Ajax. The Deacon’s ex–VP and the one who’d called him out of his Louisiana swamp with the news of Priest’s death and the inheritance he, Ajax, Prince, and Cash were now heirs to. This Bourbon Street bar and the former Deacons clubhouse that was part of the property. A clubhouse that was now a fucking art gallery—of all things—and looked like it would stay that way.

  His jaw tightened. Another nail in the Deacons’ coffin. Good thing he’d come armed with a crowbar.

  As Ajax approached, Blue took his boots off the chair in front of him and gave it a small kick toward the other man.

  “So,” Ajax said as he grabbed the chair back and sat down. He didn’t apologize for being late—Ajax never apologized for anything. “Are you ready to solve this Ministry problem?”

  “Yeah, and if Prince and Cash don’t get here soon, I say we plan it without them.”

  The “Ministry problem” concerned the Graveyard Ministry, a rival MC, and the evidence that the Deacons had uncovered so far pointed to them being responsible for Priest’s murder.

  It hadn’t come as any great surprise to Blue. The Ministry had been trying to mus
cle in on Deacons territory for years before the hurricane had destroyed everything. And since the Deacons had dispersed, the rival club had spread their influence far and wide. Must have seemed like the perfect opportunity to obliterate the Deacons wholesale by taking down their president.

  Motherfuckers. They weren’t going to last long if he had anything to do with it.

  At that moment the phone in the pocket of his jeans buzzed. Pulling it out, he looked down at the screen. A curt text from Prince. Can’t make it tonight. Fill me in later.

  Blue’s lip curled. Christ, he knew the guy hadn’t wanted to come back to New Orleans, full of excuses about some fancy-ass job in San Francisco, but didn’t he realize how important this was? Priest had been murdered, and it was up to the brothers to find out who’d done it. And extract some justice for it.

  So much for brotherhood. Asshole. Well, Prince didn’t have to be part of it if he didn’t want to. Blue wasn’t enforcing shit these days—or at least, not now. All that was left was for Cash to show up—if he could bear to tear himself away from the sweet little gallery owner he’d hooked up with, that was.

  A peculiar feeling turned over in Blue’s gut at the thought. Kind of like…envy. Jesus, what the hell was that about? He didn’t want an old lady. Never had. Being alone was what he did best and since he’d been away, that’s how he preferred it. No one to tell you what to do. No one to bitch about something you did that she didn’t like. Yeah, being alone suited him down to the fucking ground.

  Better that than being led around by his dick like his old man, at least.

  “Don’t tell me,” Ajax said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “Prince isn’t coming.”

  “No.” Blue put his phone away. “His royal fucking majesty requests that we fill him in later.”

  “Cash?”

  “Yo.” The guy materialized out of the crowd at the sound of his name, approaching the table and pulling out a third chair before sitting down. “I’m here.” He ran a hand through his dark hair and scratched his beard like he’d just got out of bed. Maybe he had.

  And considering what he had waiting for him at home just through the courtyard out the back of the bar, Blue didn’t blame him.

  “Not keeping you up, are we?” Ajax asked, eyeing Cash.

  The other man lifted a shoulder and gave him a grin that could only be described as smug. “Five minutes, man. That’s all I can spare. Don’t want to keep a lady waiting, right?”

  Christ. The sappy look on the dude’s face was sickening. “All right, keep your dick in your pants,” Blue said. “This isn’t going to take long.”

  “No.” Ajax sat forward, elbows on his knees. “In fact it’s real simple. We know Priest was murdered and we have record of a payment made by Blade for a shitload of laundry the day after Priest died. Seems like an easy equation to me. We take Blade and the motherfucker who carried out the hit down.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Blue picked up the beer sitting on the table and took a sip. “Actually, I’d be happy to take on that responsibility.” Truth be told, he couldn’t wait. Blade was the Ministry’s president, a nasty fuck who’d been eyeing Deacon territory for a long time, and Cash had found evidence the guy had paid for a hit on Priest.

  With ten years of anger building in his gut, Blue was ready to unleash hell.

  Cash rubbed his chin. “Yeah, but exactly how are you going to do that when there’s a whole bunch of them and not many of us?”

  Cash had a point. The Deacons weren’t at full strength. Christ, they weren’t even at half strength. And as much as it galled, they had to be careful. There were only four of them and until they managed to call the rest home, treading lightly made logical sense.

  “Good fucking question.” Ajax’s gaze settled on him. “We need to figure out how many of them there are, their arsenal, that kind of shit. You have contacts, Blue. What do you know about where the Ministry’s at these days?”

  Yeah, he had contacts. People who’d been sending him information about what was happening in the city since he and the others had shipped out. And none of that information had been good. “I know that there were some traitors who shifted allegiance after Katrina. Ministry took them in, no questions asked. Pricks. Ministry’s been wanting in on Deacon territory for years, so it’s not that big a surprise.”

  “Maybe they’ll be willing to tell us. Get some insider info. And if they’re not willing, we can apply some leverage if need be.” Ajax’s blue eyes narrowed. “You still remember how to do that, right?”

  Like he’d ever forgotten. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  “Then I say we do it,” Cash said, surprising Blue for a moment since the guy had been dead set against any kind of revenge a week or so ago. “We need to take them down.”

  Ajax gave only a short nod. “Okay, but we need to plan this right. I’m getting what brothers I can find together, plus I’ve got some merc buddies that owe me favors, but I want more Ministry intel.” He glanced at Blue. “Let me know when you find something.”

  The other two didn’t stick around for beers and small talk, both of them taking off pretty much straightaway, leaving Blue to his own devices. Which suited him just fine since the redhead by the bar was still there.

  The Ministry could wait for the night. He had a private welcome-home party to organize.

  Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet and stalked over to the bar. As he got closer, he heard her laugh, a husky sound that moved over his skin like the sensual heat of a Louisiana night. And he felt the reaction, a deep, visceral pull.

  You left it too long.

  Yeah, he had. But he’d make up for all those long, lonely years without her. She was his coming-home present to himself. And what a fucking gift she was.

  There was a guy standing next to her, but one look at Blue and he backed away quickly, leaving him some room at the bar beside her. Blue didn’t acknowledge the man—he was a Deacon, and this was his damn place. Instead he leaned his hip against the bar and folded his arms. The woman had her head turned away, not noticing him yet.

  Fuck, that hair. Russet red, like leaves in the fall. He wanted to touch it. “Hey beautiful,” he said, pitching his voice low to cut through the noise of the bar around them. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  —

  Alice hadn’t heard that voice in ten years, but she’d still know it anywhere. Deep, rough. Dark. Like the special black beer in her glass, the one that had an alcoholic kick to it like a mule.

  Leon.

  For a second that was all she could hear. Then shock coursed through her like a bucket of icy water dumped over her head and she whipped her head around.

  There was a man standing next to her, tall enough that she had to tilt her head back really far to look at him. His muscular arms were crossed over the hard wall of his chest, the tanned skin etched with ink. Familiar tattoos. Familiar broad shoulders.

  Oh God. It was him, wasn’t it?

  She made herself look up farther, to his face. And, yes, familiar face, too.

  It was fucking Leon.

  Straight dark brows. High cheekbones. The same wide mouth that she’d imagined kissing more than once back when she’d been sixteen and in the throes of her hopeless crush on him. Same nose, the one that looked like it had been broken several times and yet did nothing to detract from his beauty. Because however he might have scorned the description, Leon Delacroix had always been beautiful.

  His eyes were dark brown, and she’d used to find it fascinating how dark they were in comparison to his hair, a rich, heavy gold.

  Now, though, that hair was shaggy, brushing the collar of his shirt, and those eyes were widening in shock as recognition hit him too.

  “Alice?” he said in disbelief. “Fucking hell, is that you?”

  She blinked, taking him in, struggling to get ahold on the sudden, wild burst of anger that had followed hard on the heels of the shock.

  He’d left ten years ago without a g
oodbye, without even a backward glance. And she’d never heard from him since. Not an email, not a phone call, not a text. It was like he’d dropped off the face of the planet.

  She’d been so angry at the time, so hurt. No, she wasn’t his girlfriend, but she’d known him since she was fourteen years old and she’d thought that should have meant something to him. But then her father had died and things had gotten tough, and she’d had to put aside that anger and focus on what really mattered. The motorcycle shop that had once been her father’s. That was now hers.

  Getting a grip, she swallowed back the anger and the rush of words that threatened to spill out. Trying for cool and tough, her usual modus operandi when it came to massive, tattooed guys who wanted something from her. “Yeah, it’s me,” she said and gave him a slow once-over, keeping a sneer on her face. “Hey Leon, haven’t seen you for a long time. Years even.”

  He was still looking at her like he couldn’t believe his eyes. “It is you. Christ…What happened to you, kid? You look…” He stopped suddenly, his mouth hardening, dark brows arrowing down. “Should you be wearing jeans like that?”

  Oh for God’s sake. Even ten years ago he’d been like a protective older brother. She was so over that shit now. “Hmmm. Interesting. Not ‘Hi Alice, how are you?’ Or ‘I’m sorry for leaving without telling you.’ Even an ‘I meant to say goodbye’ would be nice. But no, all I get is a ‘Should you be wearing jeans like that’?” She picked up her beer and took a healthy swallow. “Such a fucking gentleman. But then why expect anything different? It’s only been ten years after all.”

  His expression darkened. And yet for all her anger she couldn’t stop looking at him. Staring at the changes in him, the lines around his eyes and mouth, the shadows that flickered through his gaze. He looked harder than he had. Meaner. As if time had tempered him like a blade, honing his edge.

  An old fascination stirred. She gave it a mental kick. Hard. No, not again. She wasn’t falling down that slope again. She’d cried all the tears she’d had in the world over two men: her father and Leon fucking Delacroix. She was done crying.