Fuck, the more things changed, the more things stayed the same. Ten years since he’d set foot in The Priory, the bar his old motorcycle club, the Deacons of Bourbon Street, used to frequent, and it was like he’d never left. Still the same shitty cracked black-and-white-tiled linoleum floor. The same layer of grime that coated said floor and the worn and peeling wallpaper on the walls—a combination of sweat, spilled alcohol, and years-old cigarette smoke. Same fans on the ceiling, turning lazily, moving the muggy air exactly nowhere.
And same kind of crowd. Tourists looking for the authentic New Orleans experience, a few locals looking for escape, and the usual down-and-outs looking for oblivion.
Except it wasn’t entirely the same.
The Deacons who used to call this bar home were conspicuous by their absence. Since a hurricane nearly destroyed their town and the death of the old man, Priest, their president, had nearly destroyed the MC, the club was in ruins, its members dispersed.
It broke his heart if he thought about it too much. Just like it had broken his heart when Priest had exiled him from New Orleans to a nowhere town on the Louisiana bayou ten years earlier. A heart that had stayed broken throughout the long years he’d spent there, marking time, keeping the vows he’d made to himself. Until the day came to return.
Blue grinned savagely to himself. Well, fuck, now that day was here. Ajax had given him the call a couple of weeks earlier, giving him the news Priest had died and he was needed back home. And he hadn’t been able to get back fast enough.
It was just a pity that the club that had once been more a family to him than his own blood relatives was a now a mere shadow of its former self. Hell, not even a shadow. More like a ghost.
But, shit, but he wasn’t going to think of it in those terms. He had his last vow still to fulfill. There were four Deacons left and if it was the last thing he did, he was going to restore the MC back to its former glory. And get a little payback for Priest’s death while he was at it.
Murder and revenge. Fuck, he missed this place.
He folded his arms and narrowed his gaze, focusing on the bar with its pitted wood and ancient bottles stacked behind it on glass shelves. Fancy liquors that no one ever drank. Beer or bourbon, that was the deal here.
A woman was leaning against the bar. She had her back to him, tight jeans showcasing generous hips and a nicely rounded ass.
He let his gaze move over her, allowing himself to enjoy the sight. It had been a long time since he’d had anything decent of the female persuasion to look at—not many chicks out where he’d been living. Hell, a long time since he’d touched a woman at all. The brothers would probably call him crazy if they found out he’d been celibate all this time, but that had all been part of his vows.
He wouldn’t wear his cut. Wouldn’t ride his Harley. Wouldn’t touch a woman until the day he rode back up Bourbon Street, a Deacon again.
The woman shook her hair back, long and straight, gleaming copper in the dim lighting of the bar. A memory turned in his head of another copper-haired girl. Serious sky-blue eyes in a passionate, willful face. Younger than him, but not enough that he didn’t listen to what she had to say. A friendship that had grown after he’d left the Delacroix ancestral mansion for the streets of New Orleans and the Deacons.
A friendship he’d broken when he’d had to leave.
Alice Day. What had happened to her in the ten years he’d been gone? He should look her up, see what the deal was. Her father had been the Deacons’ mechanic, another one who’d passed away while Blue had been living in exile.
At the bar, the woman shifted on her feet and he found his gaze traveling down her slender thighs to the heavy black boots she wore. Not at all like the other women in the bar, with shoes so high it was a wonder they didn’t fall off them and break their necks.
The boots drew attention to the long length of her legs, encased in black denim. Nice. Very nice indeed. He couldn’t see her face, but that didn’t matter when she had legs like that.
Typical. Now his fucking dick was starting to get interested. Which wasn’t any great surprise considering how long it had been since it was anywhere near warm female flesh. Goddamn, were the others going to get here or what? Because if not, he had some ideas about what he could be doing to celebrate the end of ten years of exile. A couple of very good ideas, in fact. Like going over to the bar and introducing himself to the owner of that lovely ass, for example.
He glanced down at the watch that sat on a heavy leather strap around his wrist—a gift from Priest when he turned twenty-one. Fuck this shit. It was ten p.m. already. He had other stuff to do.
At that point a tall figure strode into the bar, the crowds near the doors instantly giving way. Blond hair, blue eyes. Ajax. The Deacon’s ex–VP and the one who’d called him out of his Louisiana swamp with the news of Priest’s death and the inheritance he, Ajax, Prince, and Cash were now heirs to. This Bourbon Street bar and the former Deacons clubhouse that was part of the property. A clubhouse that was now a fucking art gallery—of all things—and looked like it would stay that way.
His jaw tightened. Another nail in the Deacons’ coffin. Good thing he’d come armed with a crowbar.
As Ajax approached, Blue took his boots off the chair in front of him and gave it a small kick toward the other man.
“So,” Ajax said as he grabbed the chair back and sat down. He didn’t apologize for being late—Ajax never apologized for anything. “Are you ready to solve this Ministry problem?”
“Yeah, and if Prince and Cash don’t get here soon, I say we plan it without them.”
The “Ministry problem” concerned the Graveyard Ministry, a rival MC, and the evidence that the Deacons had uncovered so far pointed to them being responsible for Priest’s murder.
It hadn’t come as any great surprise to Blue. The Ministry had been trying to muscle in on Deacons territory for years before the hurricane had destroyed everything. And since the Deacons had dispersed, the rival club had spread their influence far and wide. Must have seemed like the perfect opportunity to obliterate the Deacons wholesale by taking down their president.
Motherfuckers. They weren’t going to last long if he had anything to do with it.
At that moment the phone in the pocket of his jeans buzzed. Pulling it out, he looked down at the screen. A curt text from Prince. Can’t make it tonight. Fill me in later.
Blue’s lip curled. Christ, he knew the guy hadn’t wanted to come back to New Orleans, full of excuses about some fancy-ass job in San Francisco, but didn’t he realize how important this was? Priest had been murdered, and it was up to the brothers to find out who’d done it. And extract some justice for it.
So much for brotherhood. Asshole. Well, Prince didn’t have to be part of it if he didn’t want to. Blue wasn’t enforcing shit these days—or at least, not now. All that was left was for Cash to show up—if he could bear to tear himself away from the sweet little gallery owner he’d hooked up with, that was.
A peculiar feeling turned over in Blue’s gut at the thought. Kind of like…envy. Jesus, what the hell was that about? He didn’t want an old lady. Never had. Being alone was what he did best and since he’d been away, that’s how he preferred it. No one to tell you what to do. No one to bitch about something you did that she didn’t like. Yeah, being alone suited him down to the fucking ground.
Better that than being led around by his dick like his old man, at least.
“Don’t tell me,” Ajax said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “Prince isn’t coming.”
“No.” Blue put his phone away. “His royal fucking majesty requests that we fill him in later.”