Travis frowned. “Trust me, I’m not nice at all.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Ever since we met you’ve been doing your damn best to aggravate me and now we’re suddenly playing a different game. It’s almost civilized.”
He looked at her so intently, she felt her cheeks flush. “Didn’t your mom ever tell you boys pick on girls they like?”
She swallowed. He liked her? She bit down on the grin that wanted to twist her lips. “I thought you were just an asshole.”
He laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that was perhaps the sexiest sound she’d ever heard. “Sweetheart, don’t be fooled by this pretense of civilization. I might like you, but it doesn’t mean I’m not an asshole and it doesn’t mean you should like me back.”
His words were a warning, but they did nothing to cool the fires burning within her. Until he’d waltzed into her gallery, she’d thought herself happy with her new life in New Orleans. Happy to be man- and commitment-free. But Travis’s attention had reignited long-buried needs, and she was finding it hard to concentrate on anything but the thought of satisfying them. Very soon, if her hormones had any say in the matter.
“Is anything in the gallery yours?” He leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands behind his head, seemingly unperturbed by touching her or admitting his attraction. Perhaps he was bored of her already? Perhaps the kiss that afternoon hadn’t done for him what it had done for her. Perhaps that’s why he was acting different all of a sudden. Surely if he were still interested, he’d have dragged her into bed rather than out of it to head down the road for a post-midnight snack. He didn’t seem like the type of man to waste time with formalities.
He looked at her quizzically as if he’d just asked a question and she realized she had no idea what it was. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He smirked knowingly. “I asked what artwork in the gallery belongs to you. Are you an oil paints kinda girl, watercolors, abstract?”
“Oh.” She shook her head and dragged her hot chocolate toward her, taking comfort from its warmth. “None of them. I used to draw with charcoal, but I haven’t done so in years.”
“What?” he scoffed. “You’re so passionate about everyone else’s stuff but you don’t make time for your own?”
“It’s not that…” She sighed, not wanting to admit the truth. That her family and Saxon had made her feel as though art wasn’t a worthwhile occupation. She’d been told so many times to get a real job that she eventually had. And while she’d enjoyed teaching, it had left little time for her own pursuits. And Saxon never liked her painting in the evenings or on weekends when he was home. Eventually it was the thing that had finally pushed her over the edge. If he couldn’t accept her art, then how could he really love her?
She’d packed her art supplies when she’d left Australia and had tried to draw again while she was traveling, and again when she’d settled in the French Quarter, but it was as though her family’s disapproval had paralyzed her.
“I’m not really very good.”
“Bull. Shit.” He looked right into her eyes as if he could see everything she wasn’t saying out loud. “I bet you’re far more talented than everyone else you showcase. Who told you otherwise? Your ex? Your family?”
“All of them,” she admitted, lifting her hot chocolate to her lips. She took a sip and it tasted sweetly delicious, but it didn’t eradicate the bitter memories of not being good enough.
“Fuck them,” Travis said, again reaching over and this time touching her cheek and turning her head to look at him. Her skin burned beneath his touch. “Life’s too short to live for anyone but yourself. If drawing makes you happy, then draw.”
He kept his fingers on her cheek and right now his touch was making her very happy. Other than his excessive use of the f-word, this man almost seemed liked someone totally different from the guy who’d waltzed into her gallery on Thursday afternoon. He was almost likable. In fact, she was beginning to forget what it was that annoyed her about him.
“You know,” she whispered, “for someone who says he doesn’t do conversation, you’re pretty good at it.”
—
Travis tried to ignore the funny feeling in his chest. Should he be pleased or appalled by her observation? This was so out of character for him, as close to a normal date as he’d ever had in his life, and he didn’t know what to think about that. As a member of the Deacons he’d slept around plenty and lived from one lay to the next, because he was young and that’s what you did until you found an “old lady.” Since leaving NOLA and the club, he’d had a string of one-night stands that occasionally turned into something that lasted a little longer, but he’d always ended it at the first sign of the woman wanting more. He’d never “dated,” that’s for sure. He was far better off on his own.
Billie she took another sip of hot chocolate. He forced himself to tear his hand from her face, despite wanting to slide it around the back of her neck into her hair and pull her lips to his again. She was right, at least in that he’d talked to her more than he’d spoken to any woman not related to his work in…forever. Why the fuck? He had no clue.
He’d never rated conversation very high before, preferring to get straight down to business whatever the situation, and talking to Billie had done nothing to douse his desire for her. If anything, it was the opposite. Only now that he liked her as a person, he wasn’t sure messing with her would sit right.
Everything about her screamed sweet and good, which was pretty much the opposite of everything he was. But it was the first time he’d actually given a damn about another person’s feelings since he’d rode out of the French Quarter and turned his back on everything he thought had mattered.
“Hey, are they members of your gang?”
Billie’s words jolted his thoughts and he followed the direction of her gaze to a row of bikes cruising down Decatur Street. Every muscle in his body tightened as five Ministry cocksuckers parked right in front of Café Du Monde. He kept his eyes on the men climbing off their bikes.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead with them,” he said under his breath.
Sure, the Deacons hadn’t been angels, but at least they’d had some scruples, something no one would ever accuse the Graveyard Ministry of having.
“And the Deacons are a club, not a gang,” he told her, sharply.
“There’s a difference?” Her tone said she found that amusing. She had no idea what kind of danger they might be in if he was recognized. Even without his Deacons colors, he was an enemy; perhaps even more so because he was no longer an active club member and they’d think that made him weak.
The men yanked off their helmets in perfect synchronization and Travis recognized the Ministry president, Blade, and also Steel and Gator, who used to be part of the Deacons. Men he once considered his brothers. The word traitors came into his head and a bitter taste filled his mouth. It was one thing to walk away from the brotherhood, but quite another to cross over to the dark side.
As they started toward the café, Travis suddenly realized there were five of them and only one of him. Even if numbers weren’t his thing, he’d have known they weren’t good odds. Much better to stay under the radar, and the only way to do that was…
He shifted his seat and leaned across to Billie, capturing her head in his hands and dragging her lips against his. Although hyperalert due to the situation, he couldn’t help but lose himself in her mouth. She tasted of everything sweet, and he had a sugar craving like he’d never had before.
This time, she didn’t pull away. He felt her hands on his chest as she leaned into him, her tongue sliding along the top of his mouth, torturing him in the best way possible. And he wanted more of Billie, so much more.