Deacons of Bourbon Street Make You Burn Read Free Online

  Make You Burn is a piece of work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the writer's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to bodily events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Loveswept eBook Original

Copyright © 2015 by Megan Crane

Excerpt from Fire Me Up by Rachael Johns copyright © 2015 past Rachael Johns

All rights reserved.

Published in the Usa by Loveswept, an banner of Random House, a sectionalisation of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Burn down Me Up by Rachael Johns. This excerpt has been prepare for this edition simply and may not reflect the last content of the forthcoming edition.

eBook ISBN 9781101884676

Cover pattern: Okay Creations

Encompass photograph: CURAphotography/Shutterstock

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Contents

Cover

Championship Page

Copyright

Affiliate one

Chapter two

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Affiliate 5

Chapter 6

Affiliate seven

Chapter 8

Chapter nine

Chapter 10

Chapter xi

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Affiliate xv

Dedication

About the Writer

The Editor'south Corner

Excerpt from Fire Me Up

Chapter one

She was an accident waiting to happen.

To him, if he had anything to say almost it. And he usually did.

Sean Harding—who answered simply to his biker road proper name, Ajax, and he could count the number of times he'd had to correct someone about that on one hand—figured she was his ain fucked-upwards "welcome back" card after ten years of exile from the just habitation he'd always known.

And as welcomes went, she'd practise.

She was a lick of sweet sugar on a sweaty Louisiana afternoon like this one, however hot every bit hell in early on Oct. She wore tight and sparkling gold hot pants that made her fine ass into a kind of bayou music, sexy and dark. She walked in loftier, high heels that showed off long legs made to wrap tight effectually a man's back while he fucked them both through the nearest wall. She had on a behemothic, golden feather headdress that moved when she did, a glittery mask across her eyes in case he'd forgotten he was back in the great and gritty pageant of New Orleans and all its masquerades, and most important, she wore nothing but tasseled aureate pasties on her perfect, mouthwatering tits.

None of which would have been worthy of discover or comment afterward night on Bourbon Street, in all its edgy mayhem and the enveloping, inviting sin from every side, but it was high noon on a goddamned Tuesday and she was moving gracefully in and out of groups of tourists in pastels and fanny packs who were still sober enough to keep their easily to themselves—if not their optics. Or their cameras.

Home sweet fucking abode, Ajax idea in a difficult kind of satisfaction, following the twitch of her ass as she sauntered straight downwards the middle of dirty, unsafe, sometimes magical Bourbon Street in the direction of the Priory, the bar that had once been the eye of his entire world. Nearly like she knew he was heading at that place now, and was leading him abode like the horny, not-likewise-brilliant but clearly exhibitionist stripper he sincerely hoped she was.

Well. It had been home until ten years ago, when Priest, the only version of a begetter Ajax had ever acknowledged, much less respected, had issued the order that inverse everything. And Ajax might have told his actual, biological father to become fuck himself—a message he'd backed up with his fists, a piece of rebar, and his starting time abort for assault when he'd been all of fourteen—merely Priest had been the president of the Deacons of Bourbon Street Motorbike Social club and Ajax didn't defy his MC'due south orders. He'd been the VP, a position he'd fucking earned. He'd obeyed and enforced his president'due south orders, even the ones he didn't like, because they'd been expert for the club and that was the only thing that had mattered to him.

It yet was.

Even if that kind of blood loyalty meant he'd had to leave his beloved lodge, his brothers, and his city backside in the wake of a bullshit deal gone bad, all role of Priest'south attempts to bring the once-outlaw MC over to the right side of the law. Less hassle, more than money, Priest had said, and Ajax had backed him.

Ajax had always backed Priest. He'd taken an adjuration to the Deacons when he was sixteen, the youngest full fellow member e'er to be patched into the social club, and he'd meant every word. He was a man whose oaths were inked into his skin, his promises visible art he had carved into his body, proudly. He didn't break his fucking promises.

He believed in the life he'd chosen. Fifty-fifty if he'd been exiled from that life for the past 10 years.

But now Priest was expressionless. And that changed everything. It had brought Ajax home at last. He'd been on his bike and headed eastward from Houston within an hour of getting that call from the Deacons' quondam lawyer.

He hadn't particularly enjoyed the life he'd crafted for himself since he'd left New Orleans. Ajax had been an excellent mercenary, mostly because he hadn't given much of a shit if he survived an operation. And possibly because of that, he and the outfit he'd worked for were damned proficient at what they did. Sometimes they'd acted as security for shady motherfuckers who wanted the nuclear option at their fingertips should shit fall apart, which it often did. Sometimes they'd operated as their own form of Special Forces for assholes who could afford to purchase their ain personal armies. They sold their services to the highest bidder and they didn't enquire any questions. It was nothing Ajax hadn't done in one form or another for his club, but information technology wasn't his club.

Information technology was never his club.

Mercenary work was a collection of dangerous men who happened to ring together and might at any moment shoot one another in the back if shit went down that way, never a brotherhood. Never whatever kind of family unit.

Never a cause Ajax would consider wearing on his ain skin.

Ajax had always intended to return to his home and his guild one solar day. Preferably by riding his shit-kick Dyna, black as sin and a hundred times louder, straight into the centre of the French Quarter with his cut on his dorsum and his middle finger held loftier. Only x years of working every bit a hired gun in some of the world'southward to the lowest degree hospitable places—worse, even, than the shithole shack out in the bayou where he'd been born and beaten on past his drunk asshole of a male parent for his kickoff fourteen years—had taught him the value of reconnaissance and restraint. Or anyway, how to fake information technology when it suited him.

Thinking about ancient history and all the grief that went along with it pissed him off.

And when Ajax got pissed off, he fought or he fucked until he felt right again, and not always in that order.

Then when Miss Golden Hot Pants pushed her way past a pack of drooling engineer-types, all chinos and narrow shoulders, to enter the Priory, Ajax decided it was a sign. He could continue his grief and his fury to himself. And he wouldn't mind a quick, hot, satisfying blindside in the Priory toilets to take the edge off the but version of mourning he'd let himself, before he got down to business. It wouldn't be the first time.

He stared downwardly the engineers until they dispersed like a deject of tiny piddling flies—when he'd hoped they'd be wasted enough to oral fissure off to him so he could indulge in the great joy of shoving his boot up an ass or 2—and and then he followed her within and just like that, he was home.

There were a lot fewer Deacons in the dim interior than there had been ten years ago. None, in fact. No Pr

iest behind the bar, scowling ferociously around a Marlboro Scarlet and refusing to serve the dumbass tourists who staggered in, drunk off their asses and too stupid to notice that they weren't in a safe identify. Something that was also true of the Big Easy herself, the faithless bitch, just that didn't seem to stop folks from swarming downward to the urban center anyway, like they wanted to make themselves another criminal offence statistic or sad story the ghost tour operators would embellish for tips.

Ajax could virtually see the ghost of the former man down at that place at the far accomplish of the bar, could nearly smell his cigarette smoke as the ceiling fans moved it around and made it a part of the humid Louisiana air. Fuck you lot, Priest, he idea ferociously. Y'all weren't supposed to die solitary.

"I did it," the girl with the perfect tits announced grandly to the mostly empty bar, considering it was still early in the calendar week and in the day, and simply Oct besides. "I said I would practice it and I did."

She still had that sculpted dorsum turned to him, a lush, supple thing with intricate angel wings tattooed on each of her shoulder blades. Girly ink, certain, simply with a trunk similar that, who was Ajax to question whether or not she was one of New Orleans's resident saints? He could call up of several means he'd like to pray with a gritty trivial street angel like this 1, and that was just his erect talking. His caput had always been far more creative, even after zero sleep and a long, hot ride, to say nothing of the significantly less fun bulldoze in from exterior Billy Rouge. There wasn't much left on this earth that Ajax feared, simply only a dumbass rolled upwards into a city after a x-twelvemonth absence without his brothers at his back.

Ajax was a lot of things, including a footling besides hot for a stripper in a Vegas-style headdress at the moment, but he was no dumbass. Dumbasses tended to dice ugly deaths in the places he'd been, this one included.

He moved to the bar, instinctively situating himself at the shortest part of its Fifty, where he could keep his back to the mirrored wall and his eyes on the residual of the Priory, with those rolling doors pulled broad open to bring the hectic mess of Bourbon Street inside.

"I don't go why you had to do it," the current bartender said.

She looked cute and perky, like she'd gotten lost on her way to a sorority house at Tulane, which left Ajax completely cold. He missed the foul-mouthed, big-titted biker bitches and hot little sweet butts who'd worked hither back in the mean solar day, all dressed in leather and attitude problems and visible ink. It caused him physical pain to think of the Priory—his Priory—as cipher more than than a French Quarter tourist trap like that joke Pat O'Brien'south around the mode, dispensing watered-down Hurricanes and bullshit to every imported frat boy in a fifty-mile radius.

"But," Tulane continued with a blinding cheerleader's smile that was completely out of place hither to Ajax's way of thinking, "I back up your correct to get topless in the middle of the Quarter if you feel similar you accept to, Sophie. You know that."

Ajax went nevertheless. Very nevertheless. The manner he'd learned to practice in far-off jungles where the faintest twitch of a single muscle meant a blown-off head, at best.

No fucking way, he thought. And then again.

Merely he'd seen too much to believe in coincidences. What were the chances that another daughter with the same name as Priest'due south sugariness fiddling daughter—an actual Catholic schoolgirl ten years ago and in Ajax'south memory a fucking baby barely old plenty to merit a preparation bra—would wander into the Priory and also happen to have a close relationship with the bartender? He stared at the golden hot pants and the affections wings. That ass. He ignored the roaring matter in him that urged him to clear the bar and put his hands on this daughter he'd followed halfway across the city without e'er seeing more of her confront than a hint of jaw, a palpitate of simulated eyelashes—

Keep your easily to yourself, asshole, he told himself harshly, though in his head he sounded a lot like the ghost he still one-half-saw looming there in the shadows at the other terminate of the bar.

She turned so, displaying those perfect fucking tits, which should have been illegal on the daughter of the man Ajax respected above all others, and he took his instant, unmanageable hard-on equally a personal affront to every adjuration he'd ever made in this sacred space.

"My daddy told me I could apparel upward like a drag queen and wander the streets of the French Quarter over his dead torso," Sophie Lombard said equally she tugged off the glittery mask—and there was no doubt virtually it, goddamn it, it was her. "And then it was now or never, actually."

Ajax knew that face, though he took the stripper cosmetics and the hooker lashes equally another insult, when the face he remembered had been scrubbed clean and sweet and pure. And when she peeled the acrobatic headdress from her head and sent information technology skidding a few feet downward the ho-hum sheen of the bar, her long, dark, wavy hair tumbled downwardly past her shoulders, a thick and shining rope of it he wanted to wrap around his hands while he took her—

Jesus Christ.

He stared at her, willing this to exist some kind of homecoming-inspired hallucination, simply no. He was sober at the moment, he hadn't touched the funky stuff in years, and this was Sophie Lombard all grown up. She was a lush little package, all taut curves and a belly ring, only like a couple of his preferred wet dreams. She had the most perfect ready of plump, round tits he'd ever seen, even with the stupid tassels jutting from them, and they definitely should not have been on display for the entire fucking urban center like that. Or ever. What the hell was the affair with her? More to the point, he admittedly could non fuck her in the Priory toilets, no matter what bad decisions his erect was agitating for even now.

A man did not fuck the daughter of his beloved father effigy when said father effigy's body was barely common cold. Fifty-fifty if the daughter in question was dressed for a long night on the pole and had basically just advertised that she was for auction to the better role of New Orleans.

Not in the toilets, anyway.

When she but slipped onto a barstool, making no endeavour to embrace herself or change what passed for her clothes, Ajax decided he'd had plenty. Information technology was loftier time he took command of this shit.

Before he lost what was left of his.

"Hey, Sophie," he said. He didn't have to enhance his voice to command the attention of the entire bar. He saw her stiffen similar she recognized his voice and he couldn't deny that he liked that. He was never meant to get unnoticed, not here. Not in the simply identify he'd ever belonged. "Is that what yous're wearing to the funeral?"

She turned toward him slowly. And then slowly he had a lifetime or 2 to remember her as a trivial girl. Sophie of the big, wide eyes and sparkly little laugh. Sophie in thick dark braids and skinned knees. Sophie, who Priest would accept died to protect, which meant any of the brothers would take done the aforementioned. Sophie, who had never been meant for a gluey swoop bar and a pair of pasties, no matter how hot she looked in both.

Sophie, who glared at him down the length of the bar with a notable lack of the respect Ajax was used to receiving, especially from soft, breakable females who usually purred and got silly when they took a skillful expect at him.

"Oh, hey there, Sean," she replied after a long moment, her green eyes cool and haughty, like she was a goddamned queen instead of a one-half-naked girl with a death wish, throwing effectually a name she knew improve than to use. "Long fourth dimension no see."

"Call me that once again," he suggested, in what he considered a friendly manner given the insult she'd merely thrown at him, though he wasn't entirely surprised when Tulane backed away from him in a broad-eyed rush, "and I might be the terminal thing you lot ever see."

"Let me approximate," she replied, "you spent all this time in charm school?" Was it his imagination that she sat taller on her stool, then arched her back just enough to brand those tits stick out a little further? Like she was trying to fuck with him? "Betwixt you and me, you might think about asking for your money back. I don't think it took."

He forgot who she was for a moment, forgot the respect she was owed considering of her father. He grinned at her instead, the way he would any other bitch who got in his face like that, flinging downwardly challenges from across

a public bar like he was some dickless frat boy. Ajax had e'er had a pretty confront. No one tended to detect information technology much after the first fourth dimension he grinned at them like that, though.

"No need to resort to all this flirting, infant," he told her softly. "If you desire to hop on and ride my dick, just inquire."

Sophie smiled at him, and information technology was not a dainty smile. It was all the proof he needed that she wasn't that sweet little girl he remembered—and that he was a ill fuck, considering it fascinated him to see she had her father's fangs when she felt like showing them. He wanted them sunk in his cervix. He wanted her to draw claret.

He wanted her, bad.

"Noted," she said in that snooty drawl of hers that, thanks to battalions of nuns over the years, sounded more like loftier-class Georgia than the Louisiana swamps that had made them both. Sophie Lombard, the pampered lilliputian princess of the Deacons MC, all grown up and bitchy besides. He couldn't believe it. Much less the way she waved a hand at him, dismissively, which pissed him off—but in no way lessened his desire to become a gustation of her. Soon. "Now become the fuck out of my bar."

—

The demon incarnate laughed.

He lounged there at her bar like it was his, far too beautiful and much also dangerous, similar he was nonetheless her begetter's favorite weapon and information technology was however x years ago, when that might take mattered.

And he laughed.

Like Sophie was still a trivial girl, appreciative to the lawless whims and one-half-assed schemes of men like him, battered and rough and wild straight through, unfit for society and unwilling to alter even a goddamned inch. No matter who information technology injure.

He was just like her male parent. Just her father was dead and Ajax didn't belong here. Not anymore.

Her male parent. Grief and loss and that familiar, hopeless fury lashed at her like the business border of a Louisiana rainstorm, only she beat information technology back. Not hither. Non now.

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