Fire Me Up

by Rachael Johns

  Pity he was such an ass. Not in the same way as her ex perhaps, but an ass just the same.

  She cleared her throat and forced her itchy hormones back in their box. Now was not the time for them to awake from hibernation.

  “This room is mine,” she said, folding her arms and glaring at him with more bravado than she felt as he turned to look at her with his dark, smoldering eyes. She shivered despite herself and almost forgot to add, “If you insist on staying, you’ll have to choose from one of the others.”

  He took his time replying, his gaze sliding downward, scalding her body as if he’d actually touched her. For a moment she thought he was going to object—tell her that not only would he share her house but also her bed—but eventually he shut her wardrobe and nodded. “I always preferred the one next to this anyway.”

  She swallowed. Of all the rooms in the house, he wanted to choose the one right next to hers? How would she sleep knowing he was mere yards away? Still, she was hardly in a position to argue, and if it would get him out of her personal space, well, that was a start.

  “Fine.” She stepped back and gestured for him to leave. The only good thing about having Travis right next door was that she could keep an eye on him. Or was that a bad thing? Argh.

  Surprisingly, he obeyed, stalking past her and smirking again as he did. She hated that she caught a waft of some raw, masculine cologne, which sent ripples of need through her body, rousing places she’d given little thought to over the last year. How ironic that the first sign of life down there had sparked because of a man who seemed intent on messing up her life. Why were the sexiest guys, the best-looking ones, always the biggest jerks?

  He didn’t head straight for his room, instead going into the kitchen, and she found herself following. Her hackles rose as he opened the refrigerator and leaned inside, giving her a perfect view of his perfect butt. Oh help me, God! Had any guy she’d ever known looked so damn fine in faded jeans? Her thighs involuntarily clenched.

  “No beer,” he said as he straightened.

  Despite the traitorous hormones rushing through her body, she shook her head. It went against the grain of every single cell in her body not to be hospitable, but then again she hadn’t invited him to stay here with her. “Nope. Sorry. But there’s a bar next door.”

  She wished he’d go back to it. He had to be one of the Deacons that had been hanging around The Priory the last few days. Sophie had given her a brief history of the motorcycle club—apparently it had disbanded around the time of Katrina—and informed her that it would be unlikely any of its members would hang around after her father’s funeral. But, dammit, it looked like she’d been wrong on that account. Billie needed to go see Sophie, make sure this guy was for real. For all she knew he could be anybody. He hadn’t shown her any proof that he owned the building, but something—maybe the way he’d leaned into her face when he told her no one tells him what the fuck to do—made her cautious. He was like a wild animal, and she didn’t want to make any sudden moves.

  He smiled wickedly and leaned back against the counter, looking her over again, making her feel aroused and insulted all at once. “I know it. The bar and this place used to be my home.”

  “Is that right?” She wondered about Travis Sinclair. He had the leather jacket, the swagger in his step and the don’t-mess-with-me attitude of a biker, but there was something about him that didn’t fit the image. He wore no patches like a couple of other guys she’d seen hanging around next door, but that wasn’t it. There was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “And where is your home now?”

  She waited for him to tell her it was none of her fucking business, but he shrugged off his jacket, hung it over one of the odd chairs that sat around her kitchen table and then pulled back the seat and straddled it. “Tallahassee,” he said as he leaned down and yanked a laptop out of his pack. It was a flashy MacBook Air—not at all the type of computer she’d expect of a biker. He didn’t even glance her way as he put it on the table in front of him, lifted the lid and tapped his boots against the tiled floor as he waited for the computer to spring to life.

  No idea where Tallahassee was—geography had never been her thing—she vowed to google it later. Leaning back against the kitchen counter, she wiped her palm across her brow, feeling hot and more than a little bothered. Being warm in itself wasn’t unusual in New Orleans or in Western Australia where she came from, but the weather had nothing to do with the rise in her body temperature. And that disturbed her.

  Her eyes zoned in on the bad-boy ink that traveled the length of his sculpted and tanned forearms, and the heat that had been simmering inside her boiled over.

  Until this moment she’d have said she wasn’t a fan of body art—personally, she preferred her art on walls or in gardens—but Travis’s tattoos changed her opinion. And that was bad, because with her divorce only recently official, the last thing she wanted in her life was another man who thought he could walk all over her.

  Chapter 2

  “Where in Australia are you from?” Travis’s question jolted Billie’s dangerous thoughts, and she startled slightly and stepped on Baxter’s paw.

  The dog yelped, so she reached down and scooped him up. Holding him against her chest was comforting and also helped to masquerade the fact that her treacherous nipples were pointing through her cotton T-shirt, literally begging him to gape at them. What was with that? He’d been nothing but unpleasant since he stepped into the gallery and yet she couldn’t stop staring at him.

  “Umm…” Where am I from again? Finally, after an embarrassing pause, she remembered. “Perth, in Western Australia.”

  Technically she’d lived most of her life in Claremont, a well-to-do suburb not far from the city, but she figured Perth was close enough and he might actually have heard of it.

  “Long way from home,” he drawled, and it kind of sounded like an insult.

  She hugged Baxter closely. “Home is New Orleans now.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You actually like this shit hole?”

  She nodded once slowly, growing increasingly annoyed. He might be hot, but his attitude sucked. “Uh, affirmative. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  “What do you find so appealing?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, hugging the seat as he stared at her.

  “You mean aside from the beignets?”

  She’d fallen in love with the vibrant city years ago when they’d watched a documentary about it in school. The art and music, the bohemian way of life had appealed to her, and visiting the French Quarter had been on her bucket list ever since. When she’d finally come here it had felt more like home than anywhere she ever had been before, and so she’d stayed, but she got the feeling Mr. Smug Leather Jacket wouldn’t understand any of that.

  Yet, when he didn’t reply, she couldn’t help herself. “Let’s see, there’s the history, the food, the cemeteries, the art, the people, the cultural diversity, the plantations, the funky shops, the Tabasco sauce, the Mardi Gras, the ghosts…”

  Baxter squirmed in her arms.

  Travis finally spoke, nodding toward her pup. “I think you’re even boring the mutt.”

  Heaving a breath in irritation, Billie plopped Baxter down on the ground and he trotted out into the courtyard, no doubt to slink off to his favorite afternoon nap spot under the piano. He’d obviously decided Travis wasn’t a threat. Personally she wasn’t so sure—she didn’t like the way her body seemed to be in direct opposition to her head where he was concerned.

  “So if you hate this place so much, why are you even here?” she asked.

  He half-chuckled and hit her with a look she couldn’t decipher. “Trust me, I don’t plan on staying for long.”

  “Good,” she snapped before she could think better of it.

  “For me, yes. But maybe not for you. Because when I sell this dump to the highest bidder, you won’t have a place to lay your pretty head at night or anywhere to hang your precious art, which, b
y the looks of it, makes me think I’m doing you a favor.”

  His words were like a dagger twisting in her heart; she had no reply, but she bit down on her lower lip to stop it quivering. Maybe she really did need to see a lawyer; surely the lease she’d had with Mr. Lombard meant something. And Sophie. Billie needed to check her facts before she started letting Travis Sinclair get under her skin.

  She shrugged, pretending his words didn’t affect her in the slightest, pretending this building, its contents and all it stood for didn’t mean the world to her. “I can sleep almost anywhere, and this isn’t my art, I merely sell it.”

  He raised that dark, sinister brow again and his lips twisted up at the edges. Man, they were hot. His whole damn face was a work of art. “You make much money?” he asked.

  Money! That thought extinguished the sexy one. She wanted to scream that money didn’t make the world go round, that there were more important things in life than wealth and how many zeroes were on your bank balance, but she summoned everything she had to shrug instead. “Enough. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get back out there.”

  “I don’t mind at all. Far be it from me to keep you from your important business.” And he unfolded his arms and glared down at his computer screen. What was he doing? She itched to ask him or to peer over his shoulder at the screen, but there were two problems with that.

  One, she didn’t want him to think she was interested. And two, she couldn’t risk getting up close and personal with him again. When he’d leaned into her earlier, they’d been so close she could smell the coffee on his breath and count the stubble on his jaw. Not that she’d had the wherewithal to do the latter, because being that close to him had hindered her ability to think straight.

  Yep, distance was definitely required. She forced herself to take a step toward the door and then paused. “I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but if you’re going to sell the place, there’s no point.”

  And with that she flounced out into the courtyard and took a deep breath the moment she was far enough away that he couldn’t hear. Although he’d unsettled her, she didn’t want to give him any indication of this fact. As wild animals can smell your fear, she guessed Travis Sinclair would only get worse if he knew the effect he had on her. Trying to forget that he was making himself at home in her kitchen, Billie trekked across the courtyard and down the little alley to open the gallery again.

  She pushed back the iron gate, secured it against the wall and looked out onto Bourbon Street. It was late afternoon on Thursday and the tourists were already filling the streets, their happy laughter drifting toward her as they chugged down bright-colored cocktails in plastic tumblers. Baxter awoke and tottered out after her, collapsing on a spot on the pavement just outside the gallery. She smiled, soaking in the ambience that generally relaxed her. There was no place on earth like the French Quarter, where folks from all walks of life came together and drank alcohol on the pavement (or sidewalk, as the locals called it). She loved that there were strip clubs and tattoo parlors right next to a swanky restaurant or jazz bar, and then farther along, a shop selling voodoo. Bands play music right in the middle of the street, and fortune-tellers and artists alike set up alongside each other in Jackson Square. Her favorite thing in the world was strolling through the streets, and it never ceased to amaze her what she’d find. No matter how many times she walked along Royal Street or down Chartres, she always found a new boutique or another café to try. There was something magical about the place, and sometimes she swore that the shops changed on a daily basis.

  An elderly couple walking past—the woman wearing Mardi Gras beads—stopped, both of them stooping down to scratch Baxter behind the ears. He rolled over onto his back and stuck his legs up in the air, demanding a belly rub.

  Billie smiled at the couple. “He’s such a tart.” She hoped she and Baxter could lure them into the gallery; she hoped maybe other wanderers would see them enter and follow. Travis would see the crowds and realize her gallery wasn’t something to snicker at.

  “He’s adorable,” replied the woman. She had some kind of European accent, but before Billie could ask them where they were from, the couple waved and walked past, on up the cracked pavement

  The Priory next door. Billie’s gaze lingered on the bar—the onetime bikers’ hangout was a dimly lit, no-frills kind of place that had given her the heebie-jeebies on the few occasions she’d stepped inside, but if she wanted to ask Sophie about Travis, well, there was no time like the present.

  Knowing she could see the entrance of the gallery from inside the bar, she sucked in another breath, ordered Baxter to “stay” and then headed next door.

  Classic rock music blared from the stereo when she stepped inside and a stench you’d never smell in Australia anymore assaulted her. Strong liquor mixed with cigarette smoke. She tried not to breathe in too much of it as she ventured farther inside, pausing while her eyes acclimatized to the darkness. A couple of women—actually they looked more like teenage girls dressed in tight black clothing—sat at the old wooden bar, drinking and giggling alongside a man who looked like a cross between a criminal and Tarzan. He wasn’t blatantly good-looking in the way Travis was, but still, there was something strangely alluring about him and she wondered if he was also one of the infamous Deacons.

  One of the girls looked at Billie disdainfully. “Can we help you? You want a drink or something?”

  “I’m looking for Sophie.”

  “She’s out back, stocktaking or something,” the other girl said, nodding toward a door behind the bar.

  “Thanks.” Billie didn’t reckon the girls heard her as she made her way around the bar, trying not to grimace at the stains on the black-and-white tiled linoleum floor. This bar could be amazing—something really cute and funky like her gallery—if only Sophie spruced it up a little. She walked past the rows of glasses and bottles that adorned the wall and shelving, and pushed open the door at the end.

  “Ajax. Stop.”

  At Sophie’s words, Billie blinked and then gasped, her hand rushing to cover her mouth as she realized what she’d stumbled upon. Sophie was propped on a bench, her denim skirt up around her waist, a man’s head at her crotch and her hands in his hair tugging him upward. While something in Billie’s brain told her to turn and run, she found herself frozen to the spot, mesmerized, and if she were honest, a little turned on by the blatant sexuality in front of her.

  “Stop, Ajax.” Sophie shoved the guy and although he barely moved, he chuckled, stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then turned around to grin wickedly at Billie.

  Now, this dude looked like a biker! She couldn’t help but stare at his dark blond hair, slicked back as if the only comb he ever used was his fingers, and his piercing blue eyes. They were far too alluring for someone with so many menacing tattoos littering his skin. And his close-cropped beard did nothing to hide his arrogant expression.

  “You joining us?” he asked, and she couldn’t quite tell whether or not he was serious.

  Billie gulped, her cheeks flaring. Why oh why was she still standing here? “Um…I…” She started to back away. Hell, she’d never be able to look Sophie in the eye again. Could this day get any worse?

  “Leave her alone.” Sophie was pulling down her skirt and straightening as she spoke. She looked at Billie and shrugged. “He makes me a little wild.”

  Ajax’s grin widened. “Is that what you call it?” And Sophie shot him a glare but her eyes showed adoration, not annoyance.

  “Billie’s from next door,” Sophie told him. “She runs the gallery in the old clubhouse.”

  “Art in the old clubhouse?” Ajax folded his arms across his chest and stared at Billie unnervingly. So bikers weren’t the shaking-hands type, then? “That’s fucking tragic.”

  “I’m guessing you’ve met Cash?” Sophie said to Billie.

  “Who?”

  Sophie smirked. “Oh, sorry, I mean Travis. He’s going by his legal name now, but he�
��ll always be Cash to the club.”

  Ajax snorted. “He’ll always be a dick.”

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “You’re all dicks. Always have been.” She looked back to Billie. “He and Cash don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

  Ajax’s smile was practically lethal. “In the sense that I’m gonna cut off his balls and feed them to the alligators if he doesn’t shape the fuck up.”

  “Is it true he owns the gallery?” Billie asked, hoping to distract Ajax from his thoughts of mutilation.

  The big biker eyed her. “Why? What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing much. Just that the building is his, and he plans to sell it to the highest bidder and toss me out on the street.” Billie felt tears she didn’t want prickling to break free.

  “That’s terrible.” Ajax looked at Sophie, his gaze unreadable but a hint of laughter in his voice. “What kind of jackass treats a woman like that?”

  Was he being sarcastic? The tone of Ajax’s voice made Billie think he was yanking her chain. An uneasy quiver scuttled down her spine.

  “Don’t worry,” Sophie said to Billie. “It’s true, Travis does own the gallery, but so do Ajax and two of the other Deacons. He can’t sell it without their consent.”

  “Which he’s not getting,” Ajax growled. “He might be my brother, but I’m definitely not his bitch.”

  Billie couldn’t help but puff out a breath of relief. Ajax might not be the kind of guy she wanted to meet in a dark alley, but his words were music to her ears. “Thanks. I guess I’ll be going now. Sorry about…” Billie swallowed and gestured toward them, then wished she could just evaporate.

  “No problem.” Sophie turned back to Ajax, grabbing hold of the leather vest he wore, yanking him against her and leaving no doubt in Billie’s mind that they were going to finish what’d she’d walked in on. “Just shut that door on your way out.”

  Ajax laughed as Billie fled. She felt like a total idiot, an innocent little girl who’d walked in on a grown-up party, but at least she had Ajax’s word—whatever that was worth—that Travis wouldn’t be selling her gallery anytime soon. Travis was an arrogant ass, and although he’d attempted to intimidate her, although he, too, was a tough biker, he didn’t scare her quite the way Ajax did. She had no doubt that if Travis tried any funny business with the building, Ajax would put a stop to it fast.