Page 16 of Gator (Bourbon Kings MC #1)

The sun was shining as I rolled over to find the other side of the bed empty and cold. Opening one eye, I groaned, then rolled back over when I saw the light on my phone blinking. Reaching for it, I flipped it over and swiped my thumb across the screen to see thirty-seven missed calls.

Rubbing my eyes, I sat up and yawned, just as my stomach gurgled and a wave of nausea washed over me. Covering my mouth, I shot out of bed and hightailed to the bathroom, where I proceeded to spend the next ten minutes on my knees, praying to the porcelain God.

After brushing my teeth and washing my hands and face, I groggily walked out of the bedroom, needing food.

Say what you want, but being pregnant with triplets wasn’t fun.

I was hungry all the damn time.

Hell, I’d even started dreaming of food!

Yawning again, I shuffled to the kitchen, my slippers scuffing along the hardwood floor.

The fridge hummed softly, its door offering no solace as I stared at its contents.

A half-eaten sandwich, some fruit, and a carton of milk greeted me blandly.

I grabbed an apple, though my heart longed for something more substantial.

As I took the first bite, I looked at my phone again, scrolling through the missed calls. Wade, Juju, Worm, Donut, Braveheart, Thore—they were relentless. I sighed, getting ready to call Wade back when my nausea kicked into high gear.

And once again, I ran to the nearest bathroom.

By the time I was done puking my guts out, I took my time in the shower, needing a quiet moment of peace, then got myself dressed for the day and left the bar in search of something that I could actually keep down, and that’s when I remembered the small café Wade showed me, not far from The Bourbon Bar.

The morning air hit my face like a gentle waking slap as I stepped outside.

The streets of New Orleans were already buzzing, the aroma of chicory coffee wafting from corner cafés and mingling with the faint tang of impending rain.

I shrugged my jacket tighter around my shoulders, my mind momentarily lingering on the calls I’d ignored, but the second I smelled food, I forgot about everything and followed my nose.

The café came into view—a quaint little hole-in-the-wall nestled between a florist and an antique shop. The sign above the door swung gently in the breeze, its faded letters reading “ Café Fleur .” Stepping inside, the warm scent of buttery croissants and strong coffee greeted me.

I’ve died and gone to carb heaven!

Sliding into a corner booth, I scanned the menu absently. My stomach still protested the thought of anything too rich, but a warm bowl of oatmeal and a side of toast sounded promising enough. As I waited for my order, I stared out the window at the city’s early hustle.

My phone buzzed again, its vibrations persistent against the wooden tabletop. This time, I answered.

“Wade,” I said, my voice flat.

“Finally!” he barked, his voice filling the receiver with a mix of relief and exasperation. “Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, sighing. “Morning sickness. Triplets, remember?”

There was a slight pause. “Fair enough. But I need you to shove a beignet in your mouth and get your ass to the police station.”

“And why would I do that? I just sat down for breakfast,” I said as the pretty waitress placed my food in front of me and my stomach grumbled.

God, I hoped it tasted as good as it smelled.

“Because we’ve spent the night in jail and when I called my woman to come bail me out, her phone went straight to voicemail!”

“Sounds like you should get a new woman,” I moaned as I scooped a big spoonful of the oatmeal into my mouth. “God, this is so good. Wade, you really need to try this oatmeal. Where are you?”

“Woman, are you even listening to me?” he snapped. “I’m in jail, so get down here before I end up on the news for strangling someone.”

“Charming,” I muttered, setting my spoon down and glancing longingly at the bowl of oatmeal. “What exactly did you do that landed you in jail?”

“Devlyn,” he growled. “Swing by the bar and pick up Juju’s hearse that’s parked out back. Keys are hanging on the back wall in the kitchen. Bring cash and come bail me out!”

“Oatmeal first,” I said, then disconnected the call as I took another spoonful of oatmeal, savoring the warmth that spread through me.

Oh, yeah... this was hitting the spot.

So good.

Sometime later, long after my morning breakfast and a stop at some place called Momma’s Vittles , where I proceeded to eat my weight in crawfish, I finally made it to the New Orleans Police Station.

Walking in, munching on a po’boy that was so damn good I wanted to cry, I approached the counter and mumbled through a full mouth of yummy goodness, “I’m here to bail out my baby daddy. ”

The officer behind the counter quirked an eyebrow and grinned. “Got a lot of those in the back, honey. Gonna need ya to be more specific?”

I swallowed the last bite of my po’boy and gave the officer my best unimpressed stare. “Wade Montague Crawley. Goes by Gator. President of the Bourbon Kings MC. Ringing any bells?”

The officer chuckled, shaking his head as he began typing on the keyboard. “Ah, Gator,” he said with a smirk. “Yeah, we’ve got him. Caused quite the scene last night, didn’t he?”

“Well, that’s what he does best,” I replied dryly. “How much is it going to cost me?”

“Let’s see here... public intoxication, disturbing the peace, and an impressive display of creative profanity directed at one of my colleagues. You’re looking at $1,500.”

I winced. “He better be worth it,” I muttered under my breath, fishing out my wallet.

“Is he?” the officer asked with a knowing grin, printing out some paperwork.

“Depends on the day,” I said, handing over the cash. “Today? He owes me big time.”

The officer chuckled again, sliding the receipt across the counter and motioning for me to follow. “He’s in holding cell three. Try not to let him sweet-talk you into covering more of his messes.”

“Oh, he doesn’t sweet-talk me,” I said with a laugh. “He whines. And it works. Unfortunately.”

As the officer opened the door to the holding area, I caught sight of Wade leaning casually against the bars, looking far too relaxed for someone who’d spent the night locked up.

“Took you long enough,” he drawled, flashing me a grin that could probably melt steel.

“What took you so—Oh, wait, let me guess. Food?”

I tossed the receipt at him, rolling my eyes. “You’re lucky I like you, Wade. Now, let’s get out of here before you find a new way to annoy me.”

He stepped out of the cell, clapping the officer on the back in what I could only describe as an overly familiar way, and turned to me with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “You know, I was actually startin’ to miss you while I was in here.”

“Flattery won’t save you this time,” I said sharply, crossing my arms. “You owe me a meal. And not just any meal—one that doesn’t involve me having to bail you out first.”

“Deal,” he said with a wink, throwing an arm around my shoulders as we made our way out of the station. “But next time, bring the oatmeal with you. I heard it’s life changing.”

“Hey, boss!” Donut shouted from another cell. “What about us?”

Turning, I stared at the rest of the Bourbon Kings and sneered at the man next to me. “I don’t have that kind of bail money, Wade.”

Wade looked at the officer and smiled. “What do you say, Beau? For old time’s sake?”

The officer groaned and unlocked the cell, letting Donut, Juju, Worm, Braveheart and Thore out. “Next time, Gator, tell your woman to bring more cash.”

“Next time, I’m calling my m?man . She answers her phone,” Gator shouted as we stepped out into the sunlight, his arm still slung lazily around my shoulders. “So, you gonna lecture me all the way to the bar, or do I get to enjoy a little peace before the sermon starts?”

I shrugged off his arm, shaking my head. “Oh, don’t worry, Wade. You’ll get your sermon. Right after you figure out how to keep your little entourage out of jail for more than twenty-four hours.”

Donut jogged up to us, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had been. “Hey, Dev, I didn’t mean to cause no trouble last night. I swear it was Braveheart’s idea to—”

“Don’t even start,” I interrupted, holding up my hand. “I don’t want to hear whatever excuse you’ve cooked up. Just get in the car. I’m tired, hungry and in desperate need of a nap.”

Braveheart, with his perpetually sheepish grin, raised a hand defensively. “In Donut’s defense, it was Worm’s lighter.”

Wade chuckled, slapping Braveheart on the back as if this were all part of some grand, amusing adventure. “Relax, boys. We’re all out now, and that’s what matters. Let’s get back to The Bourbon Bar and figure out how to stay outta Beau’s hair for at least a week.”

I shot him a skeptical look. “A week? That’s optimistic.”

He winked, his grin never faltering. “Gotta aim high, Chèr . Now, why don’t you drive? I’ll navigate.”

“Navigate?” I snorted. “You couldn’t navigate your way out of a paper bag.”

Donut, Juju, and the rest of the crew piled into the black hearse amid a chorus of groans and laughter. As I slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, Wade leaned back, propping his boots on the dashboard like he owned the vehicle.

“Alright, gang,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar tone of mischief. “First stop, the bar. Second stop, wherever the night takes us.”

I sighed, glancing at him. “You do realize it’s barely noon, right?”

He shrugged. “No better time to get started. Besides, you’re the one who said I owe you a meal. I intend to deliver.”