Ajax looked up. “Blue said you saw some of them?”
Travis ignored the fact that Blue had obviously been too amused by the situation to keep his trap shut. “Yep, they were mouthing off in Café Du Monde about Priest. Blade was acting real cocky.”
Anger darkened both Ajax and Blue’s already hard expressions.
“I could fucking skin him,” Ajax snarled.
“But with half our guys gone and the other traitors now wrapped up in the Ministry, we can’t take them on our own,” Blue pointed out, his whole stance tense and angry. He wasn’t one who liked to admit defeat. Travis knew his brothers weren’t scared; they just weren’t stupid, either. They were all good fighters, but you didn’t need to be a mathematician to know the three of them couldn’t win up against the whole fucking Ministry. They needed to be smarter than that, use their brains and gather their forces again.
“We need evidence to take to the cops,” Travis said.
“The cops? And what the fuck are they going to do?” Ajax threw his hands in the air. “They’re too damn scared of the Ministry—just like they were of the Deacons—to do anything but turn a blind eye.”
“Let’s worry about that when we have the evidence.”
“Right. And how the fuck are we gonna get that? Walk into their clubhouse and ask for a confession, start throwing around accusations?”
“No.” Travis shook his head. “I’m going to do some more digging. Sophie gave me that list of Priest’s business affiliates. I’m gonna hack into their computers, their bank records, but I’m also going to do the same to every last Ministry motherfucker. You’d be amazed what the old paper trail can uncover.”
“Let’s hope so,” Ajax growled, “because I’m sick of sitting on our fucking hands. I want revenge for Priest, closure for Sophie, for all of us.”
The three men nodded in agreement and Travis felt something shift inside him. For the time being, he was no longer alone. He wasn’t back, not for good, but while he was in NOLA he was fucking going to be a biker again. And he was going to get to the bottom of Priest’s death even if it killed him; because, for all his faults, Priest had also done a hell of a lot of good and Travis had never wished him dead.
Chapter 9
Leaving Rolley in charge of the gallery, Billie hopped on her bicycle and rode the short distance to Lorna’s house, Baxter trotting alongside her. Her fingers gripped the handlebars harder than they ever had before—not because she was scared of falling off, but because her whole body was tense with fury. And perhaps a smidgen of fear.
She still couldn’t believe the way Travis had turned from an easygoing, bloody good kisser into a near psychopath in a matter of minutes. She’d easily have believed that of the man she’d met three days ago, but not of the man who’d been almost sweet in Café Du Monde and then made her scream in ecstasy half the night. A traitorous shiver of pleasure zapped through her at the thought.
She had the worst taste in men, from the control freak of her ex to the bloodthirsty, vengeful reaction Travis had just displayed. What had she been thinking? Or rather what had her hormones been thinking? The wanton hussies had no scruples.
For a moment back there, she’d actually thought Travis was going to hit his mother. Of course at that stage she hadn’t known the familial connection—Lorna had never mentioned a son—but, whatever his reasons, his aggression had scared her. It had been so unexpected after the night they’d shared and the sweetness he’d shown her when he’d let down his guard.
She honestly didn’t know which side of Travis Sinclair was the true one. Was he a mean, emotionally messed-up loose cannon? Or was the Travis she’d slept with—the one he hid from the world—the real him? There was the distinct possibility he’d put on that sweet act simply to get inside her pants.
Argh. Her head ached from the confusion and she wanted to scream.
Part of her wanted to go after him and make him talk, demand he tell her why he’d lost it in her gallery, but another part of her didn’t think she should push him too far. He wasn’t the chatty type and after all, he did own her building. She needed to think about her business. No matter how she felt inside, she couldn’t afford to risk everything she’d built up here.
Hoping time and space would give Travis a chance to cool down, she’d chosen the safer option, a visit to Lorna instead. The woman had left without her money; Billie wanted to give it to her and also make sure that Lorna would continue exhibiting with her in spite of what had happened with Travis.
She propped her bike up against Lorna’s front fence and paused a moment to admire the elaborate designs and motifs that made the ironwork fence a thing of beauty. Honestly, until she’d come to New Orleans, she’d thought the fanciest fences were white picket, but they had nothing on the designs of the French Quarter. And it wasn’t just fences. The local architecture fascinated her. Lorna’s Creole cottage with its bright blue doors, orange window shutters and the jungle of mismatched flower baskets hanging from the roof awnings might not be as magnificent as some of the Quarter’s finer houses, but it made her heart glow just looking at it.
You could tell two artists lived here, and Billie had felt right at home the two times she’d visited before.
But admiring the aesthetics was not why she’d come here. Baxter joyfully went ahead of her up the short path and pushed open the screen door with his snout, not bothering to wait for Billie to knock, but she hung back, something akin to guilt making her a little queasy. What would Travis think if he knew she was with his mother right now? Her heart felt heavy at the thought, but then…
“Lorna, are you in there?” Billie hurried after the dog and called into the house. No man was going to control her anymore and if Travis had a problem with her doing business with one of her artists, well, that was his problem. He shouldn’t have stormed off.
Within a few seconds the older woman appeared. Her eyes were red and her cheeks blotchy; she’d obviously been crying. In fact as she came closer, Billie could still see dampness on her eyelashes. No matter that she’d been an addict, no matter what kind of mother she’d been to her son, her pain and remorse right now was obvious.
“Billie.” Lorna attempted a smile as she held the door open. “I’m so sorry for what happened in the gallery.”
Billie frowned. “Don’t be silly. You’re not the one who needs to apologize. I just came to check you’re okay.”
Lorna cocked her head to one side. “Do you know my son well?”
Heat flared within at just how well she knew Travis, but that wasn’t what Lorna meant. “No. I’ve known him all of three days. He told me he didn’t have any family and I never knew you had children, so…”
“You’d better come inside. I’ll make us some coffee.” Lorna smiled down at Baxter. “Come on, little guy.”
Billie wavered a moment. She’d only come to give Lorna her money, but she couldn’t leave the woman in such obvious distress. Together, Baxter and Billie followed Lorna down the hallway into a very homey kitchen. The last time Billie had been here, she’d admired the eclectic collection of art and other odds and ends that lined Lorna and her partner’s walls and every available surface. The house could have been an art gallery. It was a rainbow of color, and although none of the furniture matched, it worked so well and suited its owners down to a T. At the same time it felt like home, so much more so than her family’s posh, immaculately kept house in Claremont had ever felt.
“Take a seat.” Lorna gestured to the table as she started making the drinks.