Strip You Bare Page 2

  “You still hoping for story time?”

  “Unless the option of you signing the property back over to me and vacating the premises is on the table.” For the first time, she flashed a bit of the true depth of her annoyance.

  “Sorry, not an option.”

  She moved closer to him, high heels clicking on the floor, dust moving around her, a little bit ethereal. A little bit dirty. A whole lot sexy. She took a seat in the armchair that sat slightly angled toward his, and crossed her legs at the ankles. “Story time it is, then.”

  Sarah Delacroix was not easily ruffled. She was a New Orleans debutante, onetime princess of the Mardi Gras parade, consummate hostess, and perfect daughter. The responsibility involved in being each one of those things was weighty, indeed, and she had never once bowed beneath it.

  She was, however, feeling a little bit ruffled now.

  The last thing she had expected this morning when she’d walked into her family’s old French Quarter mansion was to find a very large, very dangerous-looking man sitting in one of the wingback chairs as though he were master of the manor.

  It had crossed her mind upon entry that he might be a ghost. Considering the house had been left vacant since Hurricane Katrina had ravaged the city, it was entirely possible that her welcoming committee would be someone from the beyond.

  Sadly, it was becoming clear that he was flesh and blood, and it would take a lot more than a séance to get his behind out of her house.

  Yes, he had a deed saying it belonged to “The Deacons” or whatever, but that didn’t make it a legal document. It didn’t make it real.

  The Delacroix family had all but abandoned this portion of their empire after Katrina, leaving their old, beautiful family mansion here in the Quarter to rot. As though it had died in the storm with her father.

  But when she’d told her grandfather last week that she intended to revitalize it, to bring the family’s storied Christmas party back to life, he had said nothing that indicated there might be an issue of ownership.

  Over the past few months Sarah had felt like she’d lost everything all over again. Her mother’s death following a long illness, the end of her engagement, her grandfather’s failing health.

  This house had become her fixation. A way to bring something of her family back to life. To make it glitter again for what might be her grandfather’s last Christmas.

  When he died, what would she have? This house. This house that had her family’s blood in the woodwork.

  But now . . . this. A very serious wrench in her works. She wanted to scream at him. Wanted to yell and stamp and demand what the hell he was doing messing with her plans.

  She wouldn’t, of course. She wasn’t even sure she would know how to throw a fit like that if she tried. Sarah was too used to keeping it all in. It was what you were expected to do.

  She had been taught to rise above, while handing down insults that were barely detectable. It made them harder to deflect.

  The Deacons. Something about that was familiar. There were a lot of things like that when you were part of a family as old as hers, in a city with a history that was nothing short of macabre. Things you learned about that you were then immediately told to let slip back out of your mind.

  This was one of those things, she was almost completely certain.

  “Should I start with ‘once upon a time’?” he asked.

  “Only if it ends with ‘and you lived happily ever after.’ ”

  “I don’t really believe in happy endings,” he said, lifting his arms and putting his hands behind his head. “I figure the best any of us can hope for is making it out alive.” He straightened again. “But in the end, I guess no one does.”

  “Well, that’s a charming thought.”

  “I’m not known for my charm.”

  Not classic southern charm, certainly. There was nothing smooth or practiced about him. Yes, he was wearing a suit, but dark ink bled out from beneath the sleeves of his shirt, evidence of tattoos beneath the perfectly tailored façade. And more than that, there was something about him that simply seemed wild. You could put a collar on a tiger, but it was still a tiger.

  Suit or not, this man was a tiger.

  And much like a tiger, the sleek beauty he possessed almost enticed an observer to try to touch him. There was something about that kind of strength, that kind of leashed danger; it was terrifying and irresistible all at the same time.

  You know, to other people. Not so much to her.

  “Well, your charm isn’t that great a concern of mine. I just want some facts.”

  “If you don’t know who the Deacons are, I’m assuming we were from before your time, little girl.”

  “If so, you look very good for your age.” She dealt out the two-sided statement with ease.

  “You think I look good?” He smiled at her, and it felt very much like the predator showing his teeth. A little shiver worked its way down through her body, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Which was concerning.

  She cleared her throat. “I think you look like a stranger in my house.”

  “Then let’s get to know each other a little bit better, shall we?” His accent had taken on a slightly more upper-crust drawl, a mockery of her own, she had a feeling. “I suppose I’m not really that surprised you don’t know about the Deacons. Nice girls like you should not associate with men like us.”

  “I would be more impressed if I had any idea what sort of man you are.”

  He said nothing for a moment, a half smile curling his lips, as he unbuttoned the cuffs on his shirt and rolled one sleeve up to his elbow. He then focused his attention on the other cuff, unbuttoning it with a maddening slowness that made her stomach turn over. Then he rolled that sleeve up to his elbow.

  Exposing his forearms revealed the ink he’d been hiding. Dark, twisting shapes ran from his wrists up past the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. And beneath the ink, there were some very well-defined muscles that were worthy of note.

  “My brothers and I are the Deacons of Bourbon Street, just your friendly local motorcycle club. We’re the ones who own your former property. The ones who used to own the whole fucking Quarter.” He leaned forward, hands planted on his thighs, dark eyes burning into hers. “And we’re home now.”

  Chapter 2

  “You into frightening sweet little girls now, Ajax?”

  Micah walked into the Priory, kicking a wooden chair to the side as he crossed the sticky tile floor. The evidence of last night’s Bourbon Street revelry was still thick on the sidewalks, and it wasn’t much better in here. Drinks that had seemed like a good idea until they’d resurfaced again twenty minutes later splattered across the cracked concrete. Confetti, vomit, and Mardi Gras beads everywhere you looked. Typical Thursday morning in NOLA.

  The air smelled like day-old booze and cigarette smoke, and he hated that part of himself that still craved a drink and a cigarette when that smell hit his face.

  His taste ran to more expensive alcohol these days. Quality over quantity. And he didn’t smoke at all. There was no point in San Francisco. No smoking allowed in restaurants, not in bars, not in office buildings. A man could barely smoke in his own car.

  No point in going on a cigarette break to bond with potential investors. You were better off training for marathons and bringing in kale from your garden if you wanted to do that.

  Micah did neither, thank you. But he’d also quit smoking.

  Not picking up a cigarette again had become a personal challenge. New Orleans made him crave them. And New Orleans didn’t own him. Neither did Ajax.

  But you would never know it by the way the prick acted.

  Leon and Travis, more commonly known as Blue and Cash, were standing next to Ajax, who was never known as anything else. Though Micah had heard Ajax’s old lady call him by his legal name. But no one else could get away with that.

  A smartass smile was fixed on Ajax’s lips. The kind that Micah always wanted to fuck up with his knuckl
es. But he wasn’t in the mood to die. So he’d give it a pass today. “What’s the problem now, Prince?” Ajax shifted his weight, gripped the back of the bar, and arched his brow. “Your bathwater too cold? Someone forget to leave a mint on your pillow?”

  “I just had an encounter with Sarah Delacroix. I didn’t realize she was . . .”

  “A woman? Because her name kind of gives it away.”

  “Such a young woman.”

  “That’s a problem?” Ajax asked.

  “I’m not interested in intimidating people like her.”

  “Prince, if you act any more like a little bitch I’m going to bend you over the bar and fuck your ass.”

  From anyone else, that might have been shocking and offensive. But this was Ajax. It barely registered on Micah’s radar. “Not sure if Sophie would appreciate that.”

  Sophie, Ajax’s old lady, who was behind the bar, looked up. “Hell, I’d watch.”

  “Do you even have plans for this place?” Micah asked. “Or are you just being a dick for the sake of it?”

  “Can’t it be both?”

  Travis, who had been silent until now, shifted his stance. “It’s usually both.”

  True to his character, Blue said nothing.

  “My offer still stands, Prince,” Ajax said, steadfastly refusing to use the name that Micah had requested he use. Because, whatever his reasoning was, Ajax was a dick. “I’ll cut the tattoo right off your back if you want to go home. Otherwise, remember whose colors you wear, and do what you’re told.”

  It wasn’t so much the fact that he knew Ajax was telling the truth that kept him standing there in the Priory. It was the fact that no matter how much he might resent it, he knew that he owed the Deacons. He knew he owed Priest. There was a reason he hadn’t gotten the tattoo removed, and it had more to do with the connection he still felt to the MC than it did to getting tail.

  “As much as I know you hate to hear it, I’m not just going to bend over the bar for you. I want to know what you’re thinking here.”

  “It’s simple. We own the property. The Delacroix think they own it. If nothing else, I want to know why that is. I want to know what the connection is. I want to know how New Orleans’s oldest, richest family ended up signing a piece of their estate to an outlaw motorcycle club.”

  “Can’t pin Priest’s death on the Ministry so you’re looking a little higher? And stupider? And in the wrong tree?”

  The expression on Blue’s face shifted slightly, his posture straightening. “Alice says the Ministry is good. So they’re good.”

  “Says the guy who’s fucking their mechanic,” Micah said. “We know Gator took money from someone, and while he might not rep the Ministry at large, he also might. Blade would throw his brother under the bus to save his own ass, we all know that.”

  “I hate to agree with Prince. But bias has to be looked at,” Travis said.

  “He can call me that,” Micah said, gesturing to Ajax. “You can’t.”

  “Why can’t I call you that?” Travis asked.

  “Because,” Micah answered, “I could put your head through a wall.”

  “You won’t, though,” Travis said. “It isn’t you. It isn’t who you are. As you’ve made very clear the past couple of months. You don’t want to be here. You don’t belong. You aren’t part of the club anymore.”

  “You know as well as I do that you don’t leave,” Micah said. “At least not permanently. Unless it’s in a body bag. I’ll go on enjoying the extended vacation you allow me to take in San Francisco,” he continued dryly, “after we finish here. But I’m not acting blindly. I’m not putting myself in the same position we were in with Priest ten years ago. We did what we were told. And when shit went down we didn’t even know what we’d done. Hell, we still don’t. I’m not playing that game, Ajax. Not again. So whatever you know I want to know.”

  “I don’t know anything you don’t. We know someone was paid to off Priest, and the Graveyard Ministry claims no knowledge of it, beyond the actions of some rogue members. That makes the Delacroix property suspicious.”

  “I’d be fine with you playing Nancy Drew on your own time, but I have an issue with it cutting into mine,” Micah said. “But I’m not a recreational badass like the rest of you. I’m not here for fun. I’m here to figure out what happened to Priest so that I can get back to my real life. This isn’t me. Not going to be like Travis over here and change my mind just because I got a piece of southern-transplant ass I decided to keep.”

  He knew he was pushing the line talking about Billie like that. Cash’s Australian artist girl had been enough to convince him to leave behind the new life he’d created for himself and come back to New Orleans permanently. But that wasn’t a decision Micah would be making.

  Blue rubbed his knuckles, looking up at Micah with sharp, dark eyes. “You think this is recreational? It isn’t for me. Unlike you I haven’t forgotten who made me. Priest made me. He’s dead. Six feet under because of someone who’s walking around aboveground. I’m going to make sure he ends up in a swamp somewhere, without even the benefit of a burial. That matters to me. If it doesn’t matter to you, you might as well fucking leave.”

  Micah looked at Ajax.

  Ajax shrugged. “We could scalp your back right now. I have time.”

  Blue arched a brow. “I wouldn’t even bother. Let him keep it. So he can remember that he’s a traitor.”

  Ajax flicked Leon a glance. “Yeah, but you see, Blue, you’re an idealist. You have principles and shit. I just like to fuck people up.”

  “Rich coming from you, Blue,” Micah said. “It’s your fucking family name on this deed.”

  Blue leveled his ice-cold gaze at him. “I have a tattoo on my back that means this is my family. I haven’t forgotten what it means, motherfucker.”

  Sophie, who was wiping a glass behind the bar, turned her attention back to the men, her brown eyes glittering with rage. “There’s no point. If Prince doesn’t want to be here, he can go. Priest was my dad. And whatever our relationship was doesn’t matter. He was blood. If it’s not blood for Prince, then he can take his ass back to San Francisco and return to spending his days in gridlock on the freeway in his Prius.”

  Travis laughed. “He could do that. Or he could stay here and ride a bike like a real man. If he hasn’t forgotten how.”

  Micah was beyond the point of caring about digs at his manhood. Blue and Ajax didn’t know life beyond this sad, swampy sinkhole. Beyond being on the other side of society. Travis should know better. Travis, like him, had gone out and made a normal life for himself. As normal as either of them could have. But Micah hadn’t just achieved normal. He had achieved success. They could market all they wanted, but he had a nice apartment in SoMa. A real job. He had some actual respect, not this bullshit brotherhood.

  “I’m not leaving. Sorry, Ajax, I know that disappoints you. You were really looking for a chance to write me off, I know.”

  “I don’t need a chance, Prince. I’ll write you off the minute you prove you’re as much of a pussy as I think you are.”

  “I’m in this.” He looked at Sophie. “Your father is the only reason. Because he did save my life.” Or more accurately he had given Micah a stay of execution. Micah had gone on to save his own life. But there was no question in his mind that he would have died down here in this godforsaken swamp if not for Priest. If not at the hand of his drunk of a father, then at the hand of the person that he’d crossed.

  Doing petty errands. Running drugs. Handling money for back-alley massage parlors. It had all been a good way for a skinny teenage boy to make some money. Also, pretty dangerous when you didn’t have any muscle to back you up. That’s what the Deacons had given him. Muscle. Brotherhood. A place to belong. Something he’d never had growing up.

  “You’re a little late to save his,” Sophie responded.

  “Which is why we’re avenging his death,” Micah said.

  “What is Sarah Delacroix planning on d
oing with the property?” Ajax asked, moving on to business quickly. “That shithole has been boarded up for years. So what’s she doing now?”

  “Oh, I get the impression she’s up to something pretty sinister,” Micah answered.

  Travis shifted his weight. “Really? What? Some uptight House of the Rising Sun?”

  “She’s planning on having a Christmas party,” Micah said, his tone dry.

  “Why? Why there?”

  “I don’t know,” Micah said. “Fish swim. Birds fly. Debutantes fill their time with stupid projects. Because they have nothing better to do with their manicured hands.” He could think of several things Sarah Delacroix could do with her manicured hands.

  “Stick close to her. Tell her you’re offering her protection. She’s in Deacon’s territory, on our land, so to speak. And we don’t know who our enemies are,” Ajax said.

  “I’m supposed to go in there and pretend to be some benevolent protector?”

  “Better you than anyone else.”

  Ajax had a point there.

  “And while you’re busy protecting her from imaginary enemies,” Blue said, “you can keep your ears open for anything of use. We pounded the hell out of the backwater scum in the Quarter. Gator is meat either way, so he hasn’t been forthcoming. Or, he doesn’t know who paid him to end Priest. Which almost makes me feel bad for the beatdown he got. Almost. But we haven’t had access to people like her. And clearly we need it.”

  “I agree,” Ajax said. “The Delacroix name is in this now. I want to know why. More than that, we need to know why.”

  “We could make this quick. I could point a gun at her and demand answers.” It wasn’t his preferred method of communicating with people anymore. But if it got the job done, he was willing. When in New Orleans and all that shit.

  “I’ll fucking kick your ass,” Blue said.

  “I didn’t think Sarah was your family anymore, Blue,” Micah said. “I thought the Deacons were your family, and Ajax was your daddy.”

  “My father, my grandfather, are and were a sack of useless pricks. But if you point a gun at my cousin, I will strip your skin off and make you feed it to the gators yourself.”