She gulped, her body temperature rocketing again at the memory. Inside the house, she poured herself an ice-cold glass of water and downed it in a few gulps. As much as she wanted the problem of Travis to disappear, another crazy part of her wanted him to come back and undress her properly. To touch her with his hands and his mouth and talk dirty to her in the way she knew he could.

How she’d ever manage to sleep feeling like this she didn’t know.

—

Billie the Aussie had made him hard, and as Travis stalked down Bourbon Street, he decided he needed to get himself laid before he went back to her quaint little gallery. Fully charged and on the prowl, he passed a number of tourist shops selling plastic junk—the usual Mardi Gras beads and signs proclaiming BEWARE—LOOSE WOMEN AND PICKPOCKETS.

Wasn’t that the truth. The French Quarter was alive with debauchery and women more than willing to spread their legs for cash, a few drinks or a bit of biker ink. It wouldn’t take much to get himself some hot pussy for a few hours, but he was a little more picky than he had been back in the day. And tonight, none of the women lingering in front of seedy bars or on street corners with their skimpy outfits, high-heeled boots and cheap red lipstick made him want to stick his dick in them.

Because all he could think about was sticking it in Billie.

Fuck, she was hot. All blond and tanned and sunny natured, classy even. The epitome of everything he was not. Everything he didn’t usually go for in a woman. But suddenly his usual tastes seemed cheap and bland. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but from the moment she hit him with her fresh smile, he’d wanted to bend her over the piano and to hell with introductions.

Maybe it had simply been his mood, meeting her so close after his altercation with Ajax and Leon, which had made him feel as if his life hadn’t actually moved on at all. He hated feeling like Ajax’s bitch, but knew all too well what Ajax or Leon did to traitors. What they would do to him if he didn’t at least try to help them dig around the details of Priest’s death.

But damn, did he look like a fucking homicide detective?

Shaking his head at the thought he continued down Bourbon Street, scowling as hundreds of losers on bicycles streamed past him shouting “Happy Thursday” as they tried to fill the French Quarter with love, peace and laughter. If he were still wearing his Deacons cut, those cyclists would have hurried past him, not daring to try and meet his gaze. Although he didn’t often ponder his past life, he couldn’t help remembering what it felt like to ride through this town feeling like fucking royalty. For a boy who’d never had much of anything in life except a mother who cared more about voodoo and getting laid than her own son, the Deacons had given him a perverted kind of self-worth. In Tallahassee he was just another businessman, in New Orleans he’d been a part of something—people looked at him and his brothers with awe and a kind of fearful respect.

He’d liked it, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Priest had been responsible for that. He’d been the one who’d seen Travis’s potential and welcomed him into the fold. Made him feel part of a family for the first time in his life. A sick and twisted family, but a family nonetheless. From the moment he’d patched into the Deacons, Travis had known his brothers would always have his back.

But Priest was dead—accident, murder, even suicide, who the fuck could tell? And revenge and all the things he used to stand for wouldn’t bring him back. And it would risk the comfortable and close-to-normal existence that Travis had finally achieved this last decade. Depending on what they uncovered, it could get him thrown in jail or even killed.

Once the horde of bicycles finally passed, Travis continued on until he saw a group of women, obviously enjoying a bachelorette party, walk into a bar. He looked up at the sign—it was a tacky tourist joint with cheap cocktails on tap, the kind of place he wouldn’t have been seen dead in when he was a fully fledged Deacon, but it seemed as good a place as any right now to find what he needed. He walked inside and up to the bar and assessed the group of bachelorettes. Yep, he’d find something suitable here.

“Hey,” said a woman with Dolly Parton breasts trying to pop out of her tiny pink top. The word “Bride” was scrawled in silver writing across her breasts. Excellent. Some babe about to get hitched wouldn’t be looking for more than he could offer, but hell, she deserved a good time before she was shackled for life in eternal matrimony and he was just the guy to give it to her.

He got out his wallet, slapped a note on the bar and ordered cocktails for the bride and her entourage. Once upon a time he didn’t buy drinks for women, but he’d moved up in the world and he liked to uphold a charade of good manners, even if he abandoned them the moment he got anyone naked. It was more fun this way. When he flashed his cash around, women got a certain idea of him; when he fucked them up against a wall, they forgot all about his money.

“Ooh, generous—I like that in a man.” The bride leaned into him so he could see right down her cleavage.

He whispered, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” And reached around to cup her ass.

The blushing bride squeaked and her eyes widened. He saw a mixture of shock and curiosity.

“Where are you from?” he asked, making an attempt at conversation.

“California.” She giggled as if this were the funniest thing in the world.

“What brought you to New Orleans?”

“I’ve always wanted to visit. Heard it was a lot of fun and I wanted a little fun.” She batted her eyelids up at him. “Do you know where I might find some fun, big guy?”

“Come with me and I’ll show you.” He caught her hand in his and started walking toward the back of the bar, which he guessed like most places around here opened up into some kind of courtyard. Sure enough, off to one side were a couple of shabby doors leading to the bathrooms. He kicked one open and pulled the bride inside.

“I don’t even know your name,” she whispered as the door banged shut behind them.

He pushed her up against the wall, put his hands on either side of her head and glared into her eyes. “You don’t need to. Not for what I have in mind. Consider this your last hurrah.”

She licked her lips. “Do you have a condom?”

“Is the pope a motherfucking Catholic?” He pulled one out of his back pocket and dropped it between her tits.

She giggled as she grabbed it and then whipped her T-shirt off over her head. As he put his hands on her tits, she ripped the plastic packet open with her teeth and tugged at his belt buckle. She yanked him free and then dropped to her knees, rolled the condom over him and then sucked him into her mouth. The phrase “gagging for it” came into his head and he didn’t mean himself. Maybe it was the latex, but it was the worst fucking BJ he’d ever had in his life. You shouldn’t be able to think while being sucked off, and you definitely shouldn’t be thinking of another woman.

But hell, all he could think about was Billie on her knees at his feet. Her head at his groin and her mouth covering his cock. He grabbed the woman’s hair and yanked her off of him—

“What’s wrong?” the bride asked, looking up at him as he shoved himself back in his jeans and buckled up his belt.

He offered her no answer and gave no apology. “Enjoy your party.” Then, he opened the door and stalked out before she had a chance to dress herself. He left the trashy bar, aware of the eyes of the bachelorette girls boring into his back but not even glancing their way, instead heading straight for a joint where he knew he could find hard liquor, the best burger in town and a dingy corner where no one would bother him. He didn’t want to go back to Billie in his current mood or he was liable to do something the old Travis would do.