Make You Burn (8 page)

She crawled up onto her feet. She grabbed the tangle of her jeans and her tank top and bra, which were twisted into a knot, and then she walked as quietly and as quickly as possible across the floor of the living room. She let herself into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Gently. Very gently.

Inside her room she stood a moment, feeling unsteady on her feet, looking around as if someone had come in and rearranged the entire space while she’d been out and nothing fit quite right. Not the wide bed on its wrought iron frame. Not the antique cheval mirror in one corner she had no desire to look into just then. Not her desk or the wide armchair tucked beneath the windows. Nothing looked the way it should.

But she knew it was exactly as she’d left it. The gold hot pants she’d worn this morning were still in a crumpled, shiny heap on the floor beside her laundry basket where she’d tossed them, and she was the one who’d changed. She was the one who was shaken up inside, in complete disarray with no hope of restoring order. Her father was dead. Ajax had happened, and all over her. There was no going back to the Sophie she’d been two days ago. There was only going forward, whatever the hell that looked like.

It was too late tonight to wonder about that, and she was too raw to care.

She walked into her bathroom, avoiding yet another mirror, and turned her shower on. She waited a minute for the old pipes to catch up, running her hand back and forth beneath the spray until the heat kicked in. Then, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, she climbed into the embrace of the hot water and tried to wash the same man’s touch away.

And for the second time in twenty-four hours, it didn’t really work.

But at least this time, she didn’t cry.

Because if you start again,
that voice inside of her whispered,
you won’t stop.

She dunked her head beneath the water and let it hit her full in the face, and just to make sure, stood there until her lungs burned. And when she ducked out and slicked her hair back, Ajax was there.

She hadn’t pulled the shower curtain shut all the way and he filled that wedge of space with that body of his, like some modern-day gladiator, and there was no getting away from the fact that she really, truly was a junkie where this man was concerned. She clearly was, because there was no way she could possibly want him again, and yet her body didn’t care. She felt that jonesing
itch
for him, everywhere, as that same slick heat rolled over deep inside her and shuddered back to life.

His expression was hard. His blue eyes were grim. His tattoos climbed his arms, banners and vines, tributes to fallen brothers, skulls and flowers and artistic flourishes on an otherwise stark, steel man. His dark blond hair was haphazard, raked through, and his beard was still in that perfect triangle that she’d felt on almost every inch of her skin.

She felt his gaze move over her like another caress, moving from each place where she felt a little burn to the next, and Sophie knew she wasn’t the only one to remember what he’d said out in the bayou. That he’d be the one to leave marks. His gaze lingered on her shoulder and she reached up and touched herself there, where he’d bitten her. His hard mouth tightened.

He didn’t ask if she was okay.

Which meant it was a whole lot easier to pretend she was.

“I thought it was the biker way to fall off one fuck and onto another,” she said, and she almost succeeded. She almost sounded completely unbothered. Untouched. Almost.

“I know what you thought.”

His gaze was so hard she could feel it everywhere, like his teeth again, like that laugh, infecting her blood and making her his—whether she wanted it or not.

She told herself she didn’t want it. That she’d been fascinated by this man because she’d imprinted on him as a girl, that was all. Now she knew. She knew how to shoot a gun too, because her father had insisted she learn in the same way he’d insisted she know how to handle money and rowdy customers at the bar, but that didn’t mean she felt comfortable toting around something so sleek and dangerous and infinitely cruel all the time. Some things were better left alone.

“Sophie.”

She jerked her attention back to Ajax, the hot water running all over her and doing nothing to change that shattering way he looked at her. But maybe that was her, making everything hurt when really, this was nothing more than a Tuesday night to him. Nothing but a—

Ajax jerked his chin at her.

“Move over,” he said gruffly, and then he climbed inside her tiny shower, like it was just one more of the things that were his.

Ajax shifted from dead asleep to fully alert in an instant, that tickle on the back of his neck telling him something was wrong.

He didn’t question it.

He rolled out of bed and onto his feet without waking the woman sprawled there beside him. Then he checked out the apartment, moving from room to room as silently as if he was back in the jungle on some job, taking only moments to make certain everything was secure.

Morning light streamed in the windows of all three bedrooms and the sprawling living room and kitchen, lighting up every corner, making it easy. The ceiling fans moved the soft air with a faint humming noise, and there were the distant sounds of late-waking Bourbon Street far below, but no telltale footsteps in the attic space above. No one lurking on the stairs or, he saw when he looked outside from the kitchen window, down in the courtyard. Priest had lived up here on purpose. There was a full and unobstructed view of the alley that led into the courtyard, the clubhouse’s entrance, and access to the Priory. There was nowhere to hide and a noisy-ass set of metal stairs to get up to this apartment, which was the entire fucking point.

No one was here. No intruders, no cause for alarm. Absolutely no reason he was standing there wide awake and bare assed instead of rolled up in bed with a sweet woman draped all over him like an invitation, hot and wet and willing.

But here he was. And that fucking tickle didn’t go away. Ajax had spent long years learning to respect it. That time he’d been some kingpin’s bodyguard and had felt that tickle one evening, which was the only reason that particular asshole had lived through an unpleasant family dinner. That time he and some of the men in his outfit had been told to wait for a signal in a certain deserted part of a foreign city that had rubbed him the wrong way from the moment he’d seen it—which was why all five of them had survived that ambush. That fucked-up bullshit in Mexico a few months back, when that tickle had kept Ajax from becoming one more cartel casualty. Ajax hadn’t survived ten years of pure hell in some of the most desperate places on this shithole of a planet—not to mention his entire previous life as a juvenile delinquent turned outlaw biker—ignoring that little tickle. It had saved his life more times than he could count, especially when he was out there living his grim, isolated life with no brothers at his back.

The last time he’d ignored it was ten years ago, when he and three of his brothers had run what was supposed to be the Deacons’ last job on the wrong side of the law. And sure enough, everything had gone straight to shit. A man had died and he; the club’s enforcer, Blue; that whiny little bitch Prince, who was more concerned with his money than his memories; and their other brother Cash had all been exiled on the back of it.

But this wasn’t a fucking job.

This was his first morning back home in New Orleans and he’d spent the better part of the night balls deep in one of the sweetest, tightest pussies he’d ever had. The only thing he should have been feeling was morning wood.

Ajax pulled on the jeans he’d left on the living room floor and rubbed his palm over the back of his neck, scowling. He could see Sophie on the bed through her open doorway, the light blanket kicked off. She’d slept restlessly, with a frown on her face and occasional muttering unless he’d hauled her up against him and held her there, and he didn’t know why the fuck he thought that was anything but annoying. At the moment she was stretched out on her belly with that fine ass of hers in the air, a hint of her pussy below, and those girly fucking angel wings on display that made his mouth water for no good reason. All her dark, wavy hair was spread around her and her arms were stretched up beneath the pillows, in total abandon, and there it was. Morning wood and the perfect solution to that issue, right there in front of him.

His cock was a problem solver, the predictable fucker.

And it was more than a little worrying that Ajax wanted to climb back into that bed with her and completely ignore everything else, that prickling sensation in his neck, the sorry state of his club, the things that fell to him as VP that had nothing to do with a hot piece of ass—

It hit him then. What was bothering him.

The lawyer, that same old crusty bastard who had handled the club’s business even way back when Ajax was new and unable to stay out of trouble, hadn’t given a lot of details when he’d called. Only that Priest was dead. That he’d laid his bike down on his favorite road. And that Ajax needed to come home.

Steadiest rider I ever knew,
the president of the Devil’s Keepers had said yesterday while they’d had a drink in Priest’s memory, one hand stroking down his beard.
Never saw him flinch.

That was it, Ajax realized. That was what was poking at him.

It would have been one thing if it had been a wet night, if there had been other vehicles involved, if it had been some kind of collision. Shit happened. But it had been about as dry as it could be down below sea level on a Monday evening in the bayou and it had been a single-vehicle crash. Priest had gone off the road on a curve Ajax knew damn well the old man could have made in his sleep, because he had. Ajax had seen Priest navigate that same stretch of road drunk, high, enraged. Murderous. He’d never blinked.

Priest wasn’t the kind of man who’d ever blinked.

Why the fuck had he gone down?

Ajax scowled at Sophie in her pretty little bed, pissed at himself. He’d spent all day yesterday dealing with her shit and acting like a pussy hound when he should have been trying to figure out what the fuck had happened here. It didn’t take much to reignite his natural paranoia. Do enough bad shit in a single lifetime and paranoia was pretty much the secret to survival.

But it seemed that once Ajax asked that one question, a hundred more followed. Fast.

Why had Priest sent four of his most loyal and trusted brothers away ten years ago? Sure, shit had gone down wrong and blood called for blood, but why four exiled lives for one death? That math had never worked. And why had Priest let the club slide so far in the years since? It was one thing to step back from the outlaw bullshit, particularly when he’d had far fewer men he could trust to watch his back. That was just smart business. But the Devil’s Keepers had mentioned some sheer insanity yesterday, like brothers switching allegiance from the Deacons to the Graveyard Ministry, which Ajax knew deep in his bones—deep in his fucking soul, as tattered as it was—could not be true. Because Ajax knew that if any brother of his was walking around with Deacons colors tattooed on his back and a Ministry patch on his cut, that brother was a dead man.

Why had Priest allowed it?

Ajax needed to peel himself away from Sophie Lombard’s too-tempting ass and start living up to his goddamned responsibilities.

The fact that it was hard for him to move, that he actually considered waking her up for another round before he got going—that shit was unacceptable. He’d punch another man in the face for that kind of thing, to get his fucking priorities in order. He cracked his knuckles and considered it.

Ajax was disgusted with himself.

Bad enough that he was disrespecting his longtime president by spending all this time chasing pussy around his hometown when he should have been taking care of his shit. Worse, that of all the pussy in the world, so much of it free and easy and clamoring for a taste of him, it was Sophie. The one female that should have been off-limits to Ajax, out of sheer respect alone.

He couldn’t beat himself up too much for that one. Priest might have kicked his ass for it, but at the end of the day, Sophie was a grown woman and Ajax wasn’t exactly the model of respectful behavior when it came to taking the things he wanted. Priest hadn’t been, either. There was a reason they weren’t fucking bankers.

But to ignore all the actual shit that was going on in favor of busting a nut?

Unacceptable.

His club came first. Everything else came a distant second, and pussy—which ran hot and cold like water out of the faucet, always had and always would—didn’t even make the list.

Ajax grabbed his T-shirt and stalked toward the kitchen, pulling it on as he went, and then shrugging into his cut.

It was time he got to work.

A few hours later, the sun was beating down hot for an October day, and Ajax had thoroughly cased his hometown. He’d always been good at recon, wherever he happened to find himself, and this was no different. He’d taken advantage of the general lazy approach to mornings down here in the Big Easy, where the nights went on forever, knowing he had hours before anyone would start paying attention to shit like some random guy in the street. He traced the old club boundaries on foot, getting the lay of the land after so many years away, Katrina, and whatever the fuck Priest had been doing here all this time.

He’d dropped into Daddy’s first, the strip joint a few doors down on Bourbon Street that the club had taken over some fifteen years back, pleased to find one of the older Deacons manning the office. One thing the way it should be, anyway. Rigger was old school, a contemporary of Priest’s who’d ended up in a wheelchair after one of the Deacons’ last turf wars with those Ministry assholes. The older man had been full of theories about what had been happening these last ten years and, even better, a whole lot of the information Ajax wanted about what their enemies were up to these days.

Ajax had felt another piece fall into place after that. New Orleans was his hometown. The Priory and the club were his home. All that was left were his brothers. His real family. And he didn’t count the traitors who’d switched sides in that number, no matter how much he was looking forward to expressing his feelings on their choices.

Or a piece of ass, no matter how fucking hot, that he couldn’t seem to banish from his head, not even when he was doing crazy shit like walking into a well-known and clearly marked Ministry hangout at 11:00 a.m. on a Wednesday, just for fun.

“You can’t be serious,” the prospect at the door had said at the sight of Ajax in his cut, coming straight at him.

He’d reached for his piece. Ajax had only grinned, dropped the fucker with a very satisfying left hook, and sauntered inside.

Hell yeah, this was fun.
Home sweet fucking home.

He hadn’t expected anyone interesting to be around in this shitty little hole-in-the-wall bar that called itself a jazz club, trying to lure in the drunk dumbasses too stupid to realize they’d wandered off Frenchmen Street and into a world of hurt. And sure enough, there had only been a collection of Ministry hangarounds and a few exhausted whores strewn about the grim interior like the garbage they were. There was one bitch delivering the world’s saddest blow job to some douche in the corner, so boring that Ajax’s dick didn’t even twitch.

But he only needed to send a message. A little welcome-home gift from him to Blade, because that’s the kind of thoughtful guy he was. These losers would have to do.

“Tell Blade I said hello,” he told them, grinning even wider when they all stared from his cut to his face in shock.

“Who the fuck are you?” the least pansy of the hangarounds demanded.

“An old friend,” Ajax had replied. “Real close. We used to braid each other’s hair and talk about boyfriends.”

The other man had looked ill, which suggested any ambitions he had toward the Ministry brotherhood were doomed. “Blade doesn’t have any friends in a Deacons cut, man.”

Ajax had laughed. “No? Are you sure? I thought he and I must be tight, he’s been so busy picking up traitors and territory that ride with a skull instead of a tombstone. My mistake. Well then.
Laissez les bon temps rouler,
motherfuckers.”

Then he’d gone on his merry way, his mood significantly improved.

Back on Bourbon Street, he headed for the Priory from the other direction. Not to find Sophie, he assured himself, no matter how hard he was instantly at the thought of her. Fuck that. He needed to take a look around Priest’s office, do a little digging, chase up some of the things Rigger had told him and see if he could verify any of it. He’d wasted enough time already, and he needed to—

Ajax stopped dead in front of what had once been the Deacons’ clubhouse. Right there on the sidewalk, making a cluster of sorority girls giggle as they squeaked in surprise and then moved around him. He ignored them.

He blinked, but the hideous apparition didn’t go away. From this part of the street, the clubhouse was accessible through an iron gate and an alley cut beneath the building above it. They’d kept bikes there sometimes, or prospects. They’d used it like a gauntlet on occasion.

What they had not done was pollute the space with…whatever the hell all this crap was. Shitty paintings. Portraits of rabbit heads where they didn’t belong and that fucking blue dog that was all over the French Quarter like an infection. Cluttering up the long entry like it was some kind of suburban garage sale.

He sensed someone stop behind him and pivoted, instantly on alert—

But Ajax knew that face. Stark and tough, on one of the few men he knew who was as big as he was. Dark, closed-off eyes, blank expression, and all that shaggy fucking hair like the man had never heard of a pair of scissors. He stood a few feet away from Ajax, because he wasn’t an idiot, sneaking up on a man when his back was turned, with his arms crossed over his cut the way they always had been back when he’d been the Deacons’ enforcer.

Leonidas St. John Delacroix III, the Deacons’ sergeant at arms who was sometimes known as Leon, but who Ajax had never called anything but Blue. And who he hadn’t laid eyes on in ten long years.

Blue lifted his chin. Ajax did the same.

It was practically fucking poetic.

Then they both turned back to what was left of their clubhouse. They hadn’t just hung out here, like a lot of the brothers who’d then gone back to their homes in other parts of the city—Ajax and Blue had
lived
here, in the clubhouse rooms or the handful of apartments in different sections of the buildings. They’d both had different degrees of shitty families and nowhere else to go, and then, nowhere else they’d wanted to go. Ajax would take a bullet for any one of his brothers, no question. But he’d do a hell of lot more than that for Blue. Over the course of their years together as Priest’s numbers one and two, he had.