Fire Me Up

by Rachael Johns

  Even at school she’d always crushed on the good boys—the debate team leaders, the guys that topped the class in math or science—the kind of boys her parents approved of. But the days of pleasing others before thinking about her own needs were over. And boy was she into Travis Sinclair. So damn into him that she didn’t even mind if he had a criminal past. He’d reformed, and it wasn’t like they were going to get married or anything—she’d already been there, done that, and realized she wasn’t wife material. No, they were simply going to enjoy each other’s bodies while they had the chance.

  No harm in that, was there?

  Billie decided not to answer that question, instead forcing herself to down the dregs of her coffee, dump the empty mug in the kitchen sink and head out into the gallery to open up. Although she didn’t have official opening hours, she always tried to be available for the eager, early-morning tourists who strolled down Bourbon Street while the revelers of the night before were still sleeping it off. With a final, wistful glance toward her bedroom, she puffed out a breath and headed into the courtyard.

  Sunday mornings were always quiet, and today Billie was grateful for that. She sat back in her chair, keeping one eye on the entrance, half dozing, half daydreaming, with Baxter snoring gently at her feet. Eventually tired of waiting for a customer or, if she were honest, for Travis to surface from slumber, she picked up her sketch pad, which hadn’t been opened in months, and laid it on the desk in front of her. Her fingers shook a little as she chose a piece of charcoal and her heart rate kicked up a notch. Could she do this? She wanted to. She wanted to believe what Travis had said last night about doing what makes you happy, but the voices of Saxon and her family were still strong. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and tried to replace thoughts of the naysayers with thoughts of Travis. She started to smile as she remembered being in the shower with him, recalled tracing her fingers over his tattoos, and found they were as vivid in her mind as if he were standing before her like a naked life model.

  Still grinning, she opened her eyes and started sketching. As she swept the charcoal over the paper, she felt her fingers loosening and her whole body relaxing. Who cared if what she drew was an accurate portrayal of the ink on Travis’s skin? She wasn’t obliged to show it to him or anyone else for that matter, but as the almost-forgotten rush of having charcoal between her fingers raced through her body, she couldn’t believe she’d neglected this for so long.

  She didn’t mean to draw Travis, only meant to put her recollections of his tattoos down on paper, but she found herself sketching the curve of his shoulder, the taut, hard lines of his chest and lower to the arrow of dark hair that pointed down. She swallowed, heat flushing her cheeks, longing building up within her once again as she tried to recall exactly where each tattoo lived on his skin. So lost in her work, she didn’t notice one of her artists come into the gallery, didn’t even notice Baxter leap up to greet the older woman with the enthusiasm he showed almost everyone.

  “Baxter, you sweet stud muffin, you,” were the words that jolted her from her zone.

  Billie quickly covered over her sketching as she looked up and saw the woman walking toward her.

  “Hi, Lorna.” She stood and went over to hug the older woman. They didn’t know each other that well, but most artists were touchy-feely types and they’d shared a little of their backgrounds with each other. Lorna was a tall, willowy woman who looked as if she might break if Billie held her too tightly, and Billie wondered if her years as a drug user had anything to do with this. Lorna had admitted to a not-so-pretty past in which she’d been an addict and a prostitute to support her habit, but she’d worked hard to turn her life around, and Billie admired that almost as much as she admired her magical mermaid paintings. “I’m so glad you stopped by. Did you get my messages?”

  “Yes, sorry.” Lorna shook her head as if annoyed with herself, all the while rubbing her foot along Baxter’s back. The dog loved it. “I forgot to charge my phone again and the battery went dead, and then I couldn’t find it. So, you’ve sold some more of my paintings?”

  Billie nodded. “They’re selling like hotcakes. Tourists can’t get enough of them, so I hope you’ve got some more for me.”

  “Sure have. There’s another ten or so in the van. I’ll go get them.”

  “Fabulous. Can I help?”

  Lorna shook her head. “No. They’re small ones, so I can manage.”

  “Okay. I’ll go get your money.” As Lorna walked back out of the gallery, Billie shoved her sketchbook in the bottom drawer of her desk and turned to head inside, only to see Travis emerging into the courtyard.

  Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him in jeans and a black T-shirt, his hair all ruffled as if he’d just rolled out of bed. As he closed the distance between them, she forgot why she was going inside as anticipation thrummed within her. He had that determined look in his eyes, and after what they’d done last night, she thought she had an idea of what was on his mind.

  Sure enough, the moment he stopped in front of her, he swept her into his arms and covered her mouth with his, then kissed her as if he hadn’t just spent most of the night ravishing her body. As if his desire for her was as strong as ever. Wanton heat flooded her body, happiness bursting within her at the confirmation that maybe last night hadn’t been a one-off.

  “Good morning,” he said, finally pulling back, his hands still firmly holding her hips, the pressure igniting a yearning need within her.

  “Yep.” She smiled up at him, fighting the urge to close up shop and lure him back into her bedroom. Probably there wouldn’t be much luring needed. “Sleep well?”

  He nodded. “I have some things I’ve gotta go do, but how about we have that dinner later?”

  She was about to reply that she liked that idea a whole lot, when Travis looked past her and his expression turned dark. He dropped his hands to his sides as if her skin were suddenly boiling and then all but pushed past her.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he roared as Lorna came back into the gallery.

  —

  This was not happening. No fucking way. A ghost had just walked into Billie’s gallery, because the woman carrying an armload of canvases was as good as dead to him. She had been for almost fifteen years, and he’d hoped never to lay eyes on her again.

  Forgetting Billie, he stormed toward his mother, his fists clenched tightly at his side. “Get the fuck out of my building!” He pointed toward the gate, fighting the urge to physically throw her out. Although he normally wouldn’t hurt a woman, he didn’t rate this one any higher than the algae that lived in the swamps and if she didn’t get the message, he’d not be responsible for his actions.

  “Travis.” He heard Billie rushing at him from behind. “What the hell are you doing? Leave Lorna alone.”

  Lorna? So Billie knew her. It wasn’t simply a fucked-up coincidence that she’d chosen today to stroll into the gallery.

  “Stay out of this!” he ordered, holding his hand up to keep Billie back, all the while his eyes never leaving the woman who’d given him life—hah, what a joke! “I said get the fuck out. You’re not welcome here and if you don’t fuck off, I swear I’ll make you.”

  His mom—not that she had any right to that title—simply stood on the spot, her mouth wide open, as if she were frozen. It looked like she was just as surprised to see him as he was to see her, which figured. For one split second he’d wondered if she’d come looking for him, but of course that idea was ludicrous. She’d never bothered about him before, so why the hell would he imagine she might now?

  “Travis. You’re alive.” She almost breathed the words as she hugged the paintings to her chest.

  “Do I have to count to fucking three?”

  “Travis, please,” Billie pleaded from behind, her voice shaky. “What’s gotten into you?”

  He didn’t respond. This had nothing to do with her.

  Lorna slowly raised her chin. “I’m not here to cause troub
le; I simply came to give Billie my paintings.” She took a step toward him as if he were a wild beast and she was treading carefully, then she laid the bundle in her arms on the cobbled courtyard floor and took a step back. “I’ll come collect my money later, Billie. Thanks.”

  But as Lorna started toward the door, Travis glanced down at the top painting. She was the mermaid artist? Fuck! That’s why the painting had seemed familiar when he’d looked at it the other day, why something inside him had squeezed at the memory. It suddenly sprang to life, every little bit coming back in full. When he was little, before he realized what his mom was, before she’d gotten bored with being a mom, she’d drawn him mermaids every day. Sometimes with paper, sometimes with pen on his skin—his first tattoos. He’d loved them.

  Something inside him snapped. He didn’t want this memory. Didn’t want Lorna or anything to do with her to be anywhere near him ever again. He bent over and grabbed the canvases off the ground and then hurled them after her, not caring as they collided with one of Rolley’s sculptures and scattered on the floor.

  “You could have hit her.” Billie glared at him as she shot past him and over to Lorna at the entrance. “Are you okay?” she asked, placing a caring arm around his mother.

  “I’m fine,” he heard Lorna reply, her voice sounding as feeble as she looked. Granted she hadn’t seemed high, but looks could be deceiving, and what the fuck did he care anyway? Even if she had cleaned up her act, it was too damn late. Some things were un-fucking-forgivable. Some people should never be parents. Some women should have their tubes tied at birth.

  She looked back at him again and although there was a good distance between them, he saw her blink as if fighting tears. “I’m sorry, Travis. I know nothing I could ever say will make up for the past, but please know that there’s not a day that goes by when I don’t think of you and wish things had been different. Wish I’d been different. I hope—”

  Travis held up a hand. He’d heard enough. “I don’t fucking care what you hope. All I want is to never see you again. Now get the fuck out before I throw you out.”

  “Travis!” Billie glared at him again. “Lorna is one of my exhibitors and therefore she’s always welcome here. You have no right to come in here and—”

  He’d had enough. His fists still clenched, he stormed toward the women. “I have every fucking right!” he shouted, getting up in Billie’s face. Just because they’d fucked didn’t give her the right to butt into his business. “I own this building, remember. And you don’t know shit about this situation, about me or about what this woman really is. So back the fuck off and let me deal with her.”

  Billie stepped in front of Lorna and crossed her arms over her pretty chest. “No. I’m not going to stand by while you abuse one of my artists. You might own this building, but I’m legally still renting it and I won’t have you acting like this and making a scene. You’ll scare off my customers.”

  “It’s okay,” Lorna said softly from behind them. “Billie, Travis is right. This situation is more complicated than you can imagine. But it’s okay, I’m going. And Travis…” She looked up and met his gaze and despite himself, he couldn’t look away. She did look different, more put together, less feral. She even sounded different—as if someone half-decent now inhabited his mother’s body. “I won’t come back. But if you ever want to find me, my door is open.”

  Lorna turned and started out of the gallery, turning right down Bourbon Street, and when she was no longer in his line of sight, he finally loosened his fists.

  “What the hell was that about?” Billie asked, her eyes sparking with fury. “Lorna is—”

  “Lorna was my mother,” he told her, glaring right back. “But most of the time she barely even knew she had a son, too caught up in being a whore and a drug addict.”

  “Your mother? Oh, I see.” Billie was quiet a moment, her hard, angry expression softening slightly. “She’s told me all about that, but she’s changed, I promise you. Being a single mother is hard, but I’m sure she loved you deep down.”

  What did she know about being a single mother? Travis shook his head. “No! Lorna is incapable of loving anyone but herself. It’d be one thing if she’d sold her body to sleazy pricks to provide for her child, for me, but that was never the case. She was a whore to feed her drug and alcohol habit. She never gave a damn about anyone else, especially not her son.”

  Billie frowned. “I’m sure that’s not true. All mothers love their kids. Her addiction obviously prevented her from showing that; she was sick.”

  He laughed bitterly. She was so naïve, so desperate to see the good, but life had taught him that most people had more bad than good in them. His mother was a classic example. “Because of her I saw and heard shit no little kid is supposed to know about. Because of her, I ended up in jail. If I hadn’t found the Deacons, if Priest hadn’t taken me under his wing, who knows what would have become of me. She’s dead to me and always will be.”

  And with that he stormed past Billie and out onto the street. He couldn’t be around her right now. Not in this mood. He was too close to losing it. The shock of seeing Lorna again had reignited the rage that he’d only just contained for years. And he needed to do something to deal with it. Sex might work, but he didn’t want to fuck all his anger out inside of Billie and he doubted she’d consent to that anyway. Not after what had just happened in the gallery.

  Not after she’d all but sided with his mother.

  Fifteen years on and Lorna was still ruining his fucking life. Billie had looked at him like he was the monster and Lorna some misunderstood, slightly frail, middle-aged woman. She’d looked at him in the same way she’d looked at Blade and the Ministry guys last night—with disgust and contempt. And that hurt. He didn’t want to be an animal anymore, but he’d been lying to himself and those around him for years. He was an animal, not much better than the scum who’d tried to rape his mother. Billie was too good to ever understand where he came from and she’d be better off if he stayed the fuck away.

  He could retreat into some sleazy club and lose himself inside some faceless stranger, but he got the feeling that wouldn’t work anymore. It wouldn’t be enough. Not after last night. So alcohol would have to do. He’d numb his feelings, numb the shock, the anger and the pain.

  The door to The Priory was perpetually open—rain, hail or shine—so he stepped inside the familiar building and glanced around, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dimly lit interior. He marched up to the bar, brushing past a couple of obvious tourists nursing Hurricanes and giggling as if they were already half drunk after a few sips.

  “Well, if it isn’t the sly dog, Cash,” Sophie said from behind the bar as he parked himself on a stool. “I heard you had a late one last night. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Double shot of bourbon.” He reached for a cardboard coaster that had a fleur-de-lis cross on it (The Priory’s logo) and ripped it in half, but the action did nothing to cool his mood.

  “Didn’t they teach you any manners in business school?” Sophie raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Please,” he growled, ignoring her reference to his MBA. They might find it amusing that he’d gone back to school, but he’d worked damn hard to afford to and he was proud of what he’d achieved. On his own. Without anyone’s help.

  She grinned. “That’s better.” And turned to get his drink. Her chirpiness grated on his nerves—he guessed it was a result of being Ajax’s new property, and he wondered whether Priest would have been happy or furious about that situation.

  As she placed the glass down in front of him, he felt a presence behind him and then two bodies landed on the stools on either side of him. Ajax and Blue. He didn’t bother acknowledging them, instead downing his drink in one long gulp. “Please, can I have another?” he asked Sophie.

  To her credit she didn’t say a word, but filled his glass again and handed it back.

  “Isn’t it a bit early to be tossing those back?” asked Ajax by way of a g
reeting.

  Travis turned his head just enough to glare at his old friend. “Since when did you care?”

  Ajax shrugged. “True. Any progress on the Priest issue?”

  “Fuck off.” He lifted his glass to his mouth, in no mood to talk business with his so-called brothers. He should have chosen another bar. What the hell had he been thinking? Truth was, he hadn’t been. For years, The Priory and the Deacons had been his safe haven, the place he went when he needed to let off steam, and it was hard to kick a habit so deeply ingrained in you.

  “That’s not very nice,” Ajax said, and both he and Blue chuckled.

  Travis’s grip tightened around his glass.

  “Maybe the little pussy next door is refusing to put out.” Blue glanced past Travis and smirked at Ajax.

  Travis slammed his glass down on the bar, his rage uncoiling even more at the way Blue spoke about Billie. After how she’d just sided with his mother, she wasn’t exactly his favorite person, but that was his grudge and it didn’t mean anyone else had a right to degrade her.

  “Shut your fucking face.” He narrowed his eyes as he leaned into Blue, his fist clenching, ready to swing. “Leave her out of this.”

  Ajax caught his arm as he lifted it to throw a punch. “Whatever the fuck has riled you, how about you use that anger to help us find Priest’s murderer rather than waste it on a brother.”

  Blue was now on his feet, his eyebrows raised and his chin jutted out. Travis knew that stance well. If he wanted to fight, Blue would happily oblige, and likely one of them would leave The Priory on a stretcher or in a box. He sighed, shook his arm free of Ajax’s grip and pushed the heel of his hand against his forehead.

  “Lorna just showed up at the gallery.”

  “Jesus.” Ajax sat back on his stool and Leon relaxed, then leaned against the bar. Sophie stopped wiping the bar and stared at him. These people knew his past; they understood him more than anyone did.

  “I thought she’d be six feet under by now,” Ajax added.