Page 30 of Gator (Bourbon Kings MC #1)
“Wade, do you believe in psychic readings, like palm or tarot cards?” my woman asked as she laid curled lazily around me.
I hesitated for a moment, her question hanging in the air between us. “I don’t know,” I finally said, tracing absent patterns on her arm. “I’ve always thought they were more about the person hearing the reading than the person giving it. You know, confirming fears or hopes we don’t admit out loud.”
She tilted her head to study me, her expression unreadable. “But what if it’s more than that? Like... what if it’s a glimpse of something real?”
Her words pulled me back to Mademoiselle Moriarty’s shop. What the woman whispered to me that day still lingered in my mind. “Maybe,” I admitted, my voice quieter. “Or maybe it’s just easier to believe in fate than to admit we’re the ones steering the ship.”
She laughed softly, the sound warm against the stillness of the room. “Spoken like a man who doesn’t want to think too hard about it.”
“Guilty,” I said, drawing her closer. But even as I held her, the thought didn’t let up—that flicker of warning I thought I’d seen in the psychic’s eyes.
A choice, she had said.
And no easy answers.
The air outside the window was still and heavy with the promise of another humid New Orleans night. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of jazz drifted in, as if the city itself were trying to offer comfort. But deep down, I knew the cards had touched something I wasn’t ready to face.
Not yet.
“You wanna know what I believe in?”
“Tell me.”
“I believe in my family. My brothers, you. I believe someday soon we’re gonna be chasin’ three little ones around this bar and they are all gonna look just like you.”
Looking up at me, she smiled. “Wade Montague Crawley, are you a closeted romantic?”
I laughed heartily, moving quickly to pin her under me. Kissing her nose, I whispered, “Why don’ I show you how romantic I can be, Chèr .”
Planning on enjoying my sexy fun time with my woman, I groaned when someone knocked on my door.
“Go away!”
“Can’t do that, boss.”
Grumbling, I scooted off the bed and flung open the door. “Worm, I have a smokin’ hot sexy half nekkid woman in my bed. There is nuttin’ more important than a hot half nekkid woman. We talked about this.”
My brother blinked, then smirked. “Juju had two completely naked women in his bed, boss.”
Narrowing my eyes, I shouted, “Braveheart. Kill Worm!”
“YES!” everyone heard the big fucker shout and stumble around his room before he flung the door open, naked as the day he was born, holding his sword, smiling like a lunatic. “Come ’ere, Wormie.”
Worm screeched like a little bitch and bolted as Donut walked out of his room, scratching his stomach as three women hung off him. Red lips marred his torso and face as one of the women pouted before licking his neck.
“Jesus Christ, Donut,” I snapped. “How many women you got in there?”
Shrugging, he looked at the three women pawing him like a slab of meat, then turned to look back in his room before he smirked. “Jus’ got me one more, but I’m only feedin’ him.”
“Feeding who? What?” Devlyn asked, grinning as she looked over my shoulder. “Did Donut just say him ?”
Donut smiled, and I quickly pointed at the fucker, shouting, “Don’ ya dare answer that!” just as Thore’s bedroom door opened and the large Irish fucker stepped out.
“Holy Mother of GOD!” Devlyn gasped as I quickly covered her eyes, only to have her slap my hands away.
“Dude!” Donut groaned. “Put that thing away before my girls jump ship.”
Thore rubbed his eyes, clearly unbothered by the spectacle he was creating. “What’s all the fuss about?” he grumbled, scratching his beard before noticing the gawking crowd. “Oh, for feck’s sake. Were ye all born in barns? It’s a body, not a bloody sculpture.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Devlyn muttered under her breath, earning a stifled laugh from Donut, who quickly shielded his girls like a mother hen as one attempted to sneak a peek at Thore, just as the guy in Donut’s room stuck his head out to take a peek.
“Well, hello, handsome,” the hot guy said, licking his lips.
“Alright, enough!” I barked, running a hand down my face.
“This ain’t a goddamn circus. Braveheart, go find out what Worm wanted.
Donut, detach your entourage before I charge them admission.
And, Thore”—I hesitated, glaring at the mountain of unapologetic Irishman leaning lazily against the doorframe—“for the love of all that’s holy, cover that thing up before we all need therapy. ”
Thore smirked, completely unrepentant, as he sashayed back into his room. “Don’t blame me if I’m irresistible.”
As the door slammed shut, I groaned aloud, “Why do I even bother?”
Sitting quietly, drinking coffee in my favorite spot in the bar, I watched as my brothers milled around, getting the bar ready for a new day when Worm slapped his computer down on the table before taking a seat.
“Did some more digging, boss, and I think I found who Garland owes money to, but the guy is dead.”
“Dead men can’t collect money, Worm.”
“No, but if the debt was passed to a relative, they could.”
I leaned back in my chair, the creak of the old wood echoing softly in the bar, and looked at Worm’s eager face. “Alright,” I said slowly, “who’s the lucky heir?”
Worm’s fingers tapped rapidly on the keyboard as he brought up a file. “Name’s Elias ‘Eli’ Ross. Lives out in some small Podunk town about an hour north. He runs a small auto shop on the edge of town.”
I raised a brow, letting the name roll around in my head. “Elias Ross. You sure about this?”
Worm nodded emphatically. “Positive. I cross-referenced the records, boss. It all checks out. Garland’s debt got handed down to him, whether he knows it or not.”
I exhaled sharply, glancing toward the bar where the others were still setting up. “Alright, Worm. Good work. Get me everythin’ you can on this Ross guy. I want to know what he eats for breakfast and the color of his damn shoelaces.”
Worm grinned, saluting me with a mock seriousness. “You got it, boss.”
As he scurried off, I swirled the bitter dregs of my coffee in the bottom of the mug, feeling the weight of this new revelation settle in.
If this Elias Ross had any clue about his inheritance—monetary or otherwise—it was bound to stir trouble.
And trouble, as I knew all too well, had a way of following me like a shadow.
Sliding my chair back, I stood, stretching out the tension knotting my shoulders. “Gator!” Juju’s voice boomed across the space, breaking my train of thought.
I turned to see my vice president sauntering in, his ever-present swagger in full force. “What’s up?” I asked, hiding a smirk as Juju tossed a set of dice onto the bar.
“The bones are talkin’, my friend,” Juju said with a cryptic grin, his Creole accent thick. “And they’re sayin’ our journey’s about to get real interestin’.”
I shook my head, chuckling softly. “When isn’t it, Juju?”
It didn’t take Worm long to learn everything he could about this Elias Ross fella and, with an address in hand, Braveheart, Donut and I headed out to meet this Ross fella and introduce ourselves.
An hour later, we rode up on some run-down auto body shop.
The place looked older than dirt and when we cut our engines, I would never admit it, but something felt off.
Standing, I swung my leg over my bike and watched as a fat brawny redneck that definitely had one too many beers strolled out of the only bay, wiping his bruised and swollen hands on a dirty rag.
Narrowing my eyes, I whispered, “Watch your backs. Somethin’ ain’t right here.”
“Wha’ ya want? I don’ work on bikes.”
Stepping toward the fat fucker, I said, “Lookin’ for an Elias Ross.”
“Whacha’ lookin’ fer my dead brother for?”
“Dead?” I questioned. I could have sworn Worm told me the heir was Elias Ross. Looking at Donut, I said, “Call Worm and tell him to double check his information,” when I distinctly heard someone moan.
Turning back to the fat fucker, I asked, “You got someone in that bay?”
“That ain’t none of yer business. Get lost, biker trash. Don’ wan’ yer kind around here.”
Standing my ground, I quirked an eyebrow at the fucker. “My kind?”
He took a step closer, his bulk blocking the faint light spilling out from the shop. “Yeah, yer kind. Yer nuttin’ but a bunch of butt-fuckin’ pussies. Now get lost!”
Braveheart growled as a loud clank came from the garage bay, and I grinned. “Well, now you see. You just insulted me and all my brothers.”
“He sure did, boss,” Braveheart said, slowly getting off his bike.
The fat fucker took a step back. “Don’ want no trouble. Just leave.”
“Wade?” I vaguely heard my name before I saw him stumble out of the bay, beaten black and blue, holding his ribs.
The second I laid eyes on him, I roared and tackled the fat fucker to the ground, punching the living shit out of him.
As I rained down blow after blow, the fat fucker cowered and tried to shield himself.
His bulk didn’t help him now as my punches connected with his face, turning it into a bloody mess.
I could feel my brothers standing tall behind me, ready to back me up if needed.
But this piece of trash was all mine. “Go help the kid!” I shouted as I continued to show this piece of shit what a real man was capable of.
The fat fucker was sobbing now, and I could see the fear in his eyes, but I didn’t give a flying fuck. Grabbing the fucker by his dirty shirt, I seethed, “Why?”
“Ain’t gonna have no son of mine be a butt-fucker!” the bastard mumbled.
The fat fucker’s words hit me like a punch to the gut. I could feel my blood boiling, and I wanted to tear this man limb from limb. But something in me held back. I wanted answers. I wanted to know how a father could do this to his own flesh and blood.
“You beat your own son half to death because of who he loves?” I spat, my voice dripping with contempt.
“He ain’t no son a mine if he’s a fag!” the man snarled, his face twisted with hatred.
I reared back my hand and delivered one final blow, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone beneath my knuckles. The man howled in pain, his face a mask of blood and tears.
“Boss, we gotta get outta here,” Donut said, tugging at my sleeve.
I knew he was right. But as I looked at the crumpled form of the fat fucker, I knew this wasn’t over. “We’ll be seein’ you again, asshole,” I said, spitting on the ground. “And next time, it won’t just be my fist that does the talkin’.”
With one last glare, I turned and walked away, my brothers falling in line behind me as I walked over to Eliot. Carefully cupping his face in my hands, I asked, “Can you ride?”
Eliot slowly nodded as I grabbed him and hugged him. After a few seconds, I let him go and mounted my bike. “Climb on, Eliot.”
The second he was secure behind me, my brothers and I roared off, knowing I did the right thing.
Eliot was one of us now, and no one would hurt him again.