Southern Alpha Book Three Page 4

  She laughed. “So if I’ve marked you, does this mean you’re mine now?”

  I cocked my head to the side and gave her a full-on smile, pulling my hair back. “What do you think, blondie? Am I yours now?”

  “I think you’re a tough horse to bridle, Patrick,” she said, kissing me tenderly. “But a fun one to ride. I think you don’t want to belong to anyone, because you’re afraid of the responsibility. And I think you’re afraid of letting people down.”

  “Wow. You don’t know how right you are. The really weird thing, though, is that for some reason, all of a sudden I like the idea of getting very close to you.” I slipped my fingers down between her breasts and let out a long, slow exhale. “Fuck everything, Sierra. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to get hooked on you. What are you doing to me?”

  “The same thing you’re doing to me,” she said in a strained, famished tone. She pushed herself up on her toes and whispered in my ear, “I want to see you tonight. I want you in my bed, Trick. When you’re done with whatever secret project you’re working on, come see me. You know where I live.” She pulled back and stared up at me with those big, innocent eyes that were anything but innocent, her fingers slipping over the front of my jeans to feel my newly-swollen erection. “I want more of this,” she said. “More of all of you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Good, so we’re in agreement.”

  With that, she spun around and headed for the door, her delicious ass a linen-coated torment to my mind. “See you later.”

  “Later, blondie.”

  Chapter 5

  Sierra

  When I’d climbed into the passenger’s seat of Louis’ rickety Chevy pickup, he started up the engine and hit the gas. By some miracle, he managed an insane three-point turn, reversing the truck just enough so that its back end came perilously close to tumbling into the swampy water behind us. Only when the rear wheels had dipped down so far that the vehicle’s nose was in the air did he hit the gas again to drive towards the distant road. It was no wonder the cab driver hadn’t wanted to navigate all the way down the lane. Any driver who was less than stellar would end up in the bayou as gator-bait.

  “Did you get what you wanted out of your visit?” Louis asked, his words filled with not-so-hidden meaning. I felt my cheeks heat up for about the hundredth time today. Damned Irish complexion, always betraying me.

  It was one thing to get saucy with Trick, but I wasn’t sure I wanted Louis knowing quite how naughty we’d been in his office. I had no idea if he used that desk on a regular basis.

  After reciting a quick apology under my breath, I said, “Yeah, actually. Trick showed me some very nice…uh, bald cypress trees.”

  “That’s good. I have it on good authority that Trick’s favorite cypress tree from the bayou tour is pretty…huge.”

  “Is that so?” I asked, swinging my head towards him. “Tell me, does he show this…cypress tree of his to a lot of women?”

  Louis shook his head. “God no. Very few ladies have ever seen his tree. Or his cattails. Or his wax myrtle berries, for that matter.”

  I let out a quick, slightly embarrassing snort-laugh.

  “Seriously,” Louis added, “Trick’s a bit of a recluse. It sort of comes with the territory.”

  I’d forgotten that Trick’s friend was just as good as he was at delivering cryptic, confusing messages. “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It’s just…when you’re the strongest guy in town, it can be pretty isolating,” Louis said in what I could only have described as an evasive tone. “Thing is, Trick has certain…responsibilities.”

  I let out another laugh. “God, you two are insufferable,” I said. “Impossible, even. You drop these weird hints that make zero sense. Like, what the hell am I supposed to make of what you just said? I get that Trick’s a big guy, but it’s not like he’s a mob boss or something.” I dropped my jaw open in an exaggerated way, pretending to have uncovered some long-hidden secret. “Or is he?”

  “Not quite,” Louis said with a chuckle.

  “Then tell me what you’re talking about.”

  Louis shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t do that without his blessing. I will, however, assure you that I speak nothing but the truth.”

  “Yeah, and you speak very little of it. Something tells me there’s a lot more to Trick and all the crazy shit that went down last night than either of you is letting on. If I were still a journalist, I’d be trying hard to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re not,” Louis said in a more serious tone, “and for the record, last night a violent, out-of-control jackass was being a violent, out-of-control jackass. Nothing more.”

  “Uh-huh. A likely story.”

  Louis shot me a sideways glance before saying, “Anyhow, let’s change the subject. What are you up to for the rest of the day?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Probably a long nap. Then I want to go hear some music. I’d like to go someplace interesting…somewhere that’s not filled with tourists. Any recommendations?”

  He contemplated the question for a second then said, “Yeah. The Cat’s Caboose. There’s a really good jazz band that plays there almost every night. It’s a little off the beaten path, just outside the French Quarter, so it’s mostly locals.”

  “Thanks, I’ll check it out.”

  For the rest of the drive, we talked about Louis’ job, which largely consisted of taking tourists out and showing them all the flora and fauna of the bayous. The best days, he said, were the ones where they spotted large gators. “But from a distance only,” he told me. “If a gator gets close to the boat, the tourists lose their shit in ways I can’t even describe.”

  He asked me about my time in Boston, about how I was adjusting to the heat of the south. With my mind still on Trick, I drifted into vague small-talk, answering Louis’ questions concisely as the scenery zipped past the car window.

  Before I knew it, we’d pulled up in front of my place.

  “It was good seeing you again, Sierra,” Louis said as the truck eased to a gentle stop at the curb in front of my building.

  “I hope it’s not the last time,” I said as I slipped out, turning to face him again. “Oh—speaking of which, I meant to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “The business card. Without it, I’d never have made my way to…your business.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Louis laughed. “The big man needs a good influence like you in his life.”

  My cheeks heated again. “I don’t know if I’m a good influence, but I’m sort of hung up on the guy, even though I’m not entirely sure I should be.” I chewed my lip for a second before adding, “Um, maybe you shouldn’t tell him I said that.”

  Louis let out a laugh. He had such a disarming way about him, such a gorgeous smile, that I was beginning to wonder why he didn’t seem to have a woman in his life. Or a man, for that matter. “A guy like Trick is addictive,” he said. “There are plenty of reasons to be hung up on him, believe me.”

  “Well, yeah, of course there are. He’s incredibly hot. He’s insanely emotionally closed off, which is a sure way to attract an idiotic woman like me. He’s pretty well my worst nightmare, which is exactly why I’m falling for him.”

  “Nah,” said Louis, “that’s not it.”

  “Oh, really?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Then explain my feelings to me, oh wise masculine sage.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he chuckled. “It’s just that you might be surprised to know the real reason you find yourself drawn to Trick, and him to you. Anyhow, don’t ever worry that you’re weak for wanting him.” His tone was oddly earnest all of a sudden, like he was giving me a life lesson. “Sometimes fate is just too strong to ignore.”

  “Strange, I feel like you’ve been reading my mind,” I said. “To be painfully honest, I have been beating myself up for being so weak. I don’t usually get attached to a guy so fast.”
>
  “Like I said, you’re not weak at all. You’re just having trouble processing it.”

  “Processing what?”

  “The fact that you’ve found your true mate. Anyhow, see you around, Sierra.”

  I let go of the passenger door as he hit the gas, accelerating down the street. The door slammed shut and I just stood there, frozen and confused. You’ve found your true mate? What sort of weird-ass southern turn of phrase was that? I could see him telling me I’d found someone compatible, or even my soul mate or something. But “true mate” made it sound like my life was ruled by some pre-ordained destiny. Like I’d been led to New Orleans for more reasons than just to write a book.

  “This town really is nuts,” I muttered as I pivoted and strode to my front door.

  At seven o’clock, after a four-hour nap, I headed to the bar that Louis had recommended to savor a margarita and listen to some live music.

  But to my surprise and dismay, the only act featured was a live cover band playing old 80s tunes, and not even the good ones. The musicians were loud and utterly devoid of talent. Definitely not what I wanted to hear in New Orleans, especially given that I could have just as easily winced through sets by similar bands in any corner bar back home.

  Still, I wasn’t about to give up prematurely on a delicious margarita. The bartender had been generous with the tequila, and I was grateful for it when my insides started getting all warm and fuzzy.

  Reminding myself that I was in the Big Easy to work and not to get loopy on girl-cocktails, I yanked a notebook and pen out of my purse and jotted down some musings about the place—about the murals that lined the walls, of old-timey jazz sax players, pianists, and drummers. The beautiful carved wooden bar with the marble top. Then there were the clients, who ranged from the occasional Bermuda-shorts-wearing tourist to people who looked like they must be funky locals, talking loudly over the off-pitch, too-loud melodies.

  As I scrawled my thoughts onto the page, an eerie chill began to overtake me, sending goose bumps rising along my flesh. I wondered for a moment if I’d taken too big a swig of the cold drink. Or maybe they’d cranked up the air conditioning, in which case I had only myself to blame for choosing to wear a sleeveless dress and leave my jacket at home.

  But a few seconds later, when my gaze locked on the familiar face of a man with dark, greasy-looking hair and skin like old leather, I knew immediately what had driven ice into my veins. It wasn’t the air conditioning.

  It was a face I’d never forget to my dying day, the face of the man they called the Marquis. Our tormentor from the cemetery last night who’d led the charge against Trick and the other partygoers. It was his hand that had hurled the Molotov cocktail that burned me so cruelly.

  Now the Marquis was staring at me, his dark eyes flashing bright aqua for an instant before changing back to deep brown.

  “Shit,” I muttered, taking a sip of the last of my margarita even as my eyes veered towards the exit. My apartment was only a few blocks away, and at this hour the French Quarter would still be bustling with tourists. If I could just make it out of here without the creepy bastard following me, I could probably get home safely.

  I reminded myself that the Marquis didn’t have a bone to pick with me. Trick had insisted more than once that the guy had only shown up last night for the sole purpose of driving him nuts, and not to hurt the rest of us.

  I pulled a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet and laid it on the table before pushing myself to my feet and heading for the door. Without another look in the Marquis’ direction, I tugged the door open, stepped outside, and accelerated until I was all but jogging back towards my place.

  I might have been running for five minutes by the time I got to my block, or it could have been half an hour. By the time I turned onto Decatur Street, I was disoriented, soaked with sweat, and breathing hard, my heart pounding like an aggressive drum-line in my chest. I didn’t dare turn around until I’d reached my front door and slipped the key into the lock.

  Confident that I could make it, I took a chance and turned my head to look back down the street, but thankfully, all I saw were slow-moving tourists making their way from one drinking hole to the next.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I pushed the door open, leapt inside, and slammed it shut behind me, listening for the reassuring click of the lock.

  As I dashed up the stairs, I thought about calling Trick to see if I could get him to come over and calm me down. But he’d said he had something important going on. Besides, it wasn’t like I was his girlfriend, regardless of what Louis had said about us being mates…or whatever he’d said.

  When I’d made my way into my apartment I locked the door behind me, taking care to fasten the chain as well as the deadbolt. With my heart beating at something approaching its normal rate once again, I made my way over to the kitchen, opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of white wine, and grabbed a glass from a cupboard. This was definitely shaping up to be a two-drink night, at the very minimum.

  A few seconds later I was sitting on my couch, head leaning back, chest heaving, my glass of wine on the coffee table in front of me. I shut my eyes.

  With all the day’s excitement, I’d hardly allowed myself to absorb just how insane the last twenty-four hours had been. I’d been fire-bombed, burned, almost had sex twice with the most gorgeous creature I’d ever met, then actually had sex with him.

  Then, in that bar just down the street, I’d looked into…the…face…

  of…the devil.

  With that thought swirling through my mind, I drifted off.

  A hard thud on the small balcony just off my living room jolted me awake. The landlady, who lived two doors down, owned a large tabby cat who liked to spring from one balcony to the next, so I could only assume that he was out on one of his nightly adventures.

  Glancing towards the curtains that covered the French doors, I noticed that they were shifting slightly with the warm breeze that was making its way in. Shit. I must not have properly shut the doors when I’d headed out earlier.

  I pushed myself to my feet, picked up my now-warm glass of wine, and made my way over to the balcony doors in the hopes of stopping the cat before he infiltrated my apartment. “You’d better not come in here looking for tuna, Prowler,” I called out. “This isn’t a restaurant for felines.”

  But when I was only a few feet from the doors, the curtains split apart to reveal the silhouette of a tall man, framed against the light pouring off the street lamp beyond.

  “Jesus!” I yelled as I dropped my glass to the floor. It shattered into a thousand shards, spraying wine everywhere. But a mess was the last thing I was worried about.

  “No,” the man said in the eerie, growling voice I’d first heard the previous night. “Not quite. They call me the Marquis.”

  “How did you…” I began to ask, like it mattered how he’d somehow climbed up to my second-story balcony without the help of a fire escape or ladder. The most terrifying, threatening man I’d ever seen was only a few feet away from me, staring with menace in his eyes like he wanted to squeeze the life out of me.

  A slow, awful smile spread across his lips. His dark eyes went light again, sending a now familiar sense of terror shooting through my insides.

  For a moment, the thought actually crossed my mind that maybe, just maybe, demons walked the earth.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying like hell to maintain my composure despite the uncontrollable trembling in my legs and the dizzying feeling that I might pass out and collapse in a helpless heap the floor.

  “It’s nothing personal,” the man said, stepping towards me, glass crunching under the soles of his black leather shoes. “I just want to hurt him, you see.” His voice didn’t even sound human. It was like he was consumed by a wild creature. A vindictive snake.

  Or worse.

  “Hurt who?” I asked, my own voice paper-thin. But there was no need to ask. I knew the answer perfectly well.

  Without
replying, the Marquis flew at me at lightning speed, both hands wrapping around my neck and squeezing hard. I wrenched my fingers around his forearms, trying desperately to pull them away. But he was too strong. I thrashed and kicked as hard as I could, but it was like hitting a marble statue. As he slammed me up against the wall, his fingers clutched even harder under my jaw. My eyes glazed over, and my lungs burned as I tried desperately to draw a breath.

  I tried to call out, to scream Trick’s name…but I couldn’t. No sound emerged from my mouth. The world was losing focus, and the only thing I knew in that moment was how it felt to be abandoned by one’s own life.

  Chapter 6

  Trick

  After an hour at the shooting range, I drove to Decatur Street, hoping that Sierra’s offer of a continuation of our one-night stand was still on the table.

  Swinging my truck into the only parking spot on her block, I climbed out, my eyes veering to the balcony that jutted out from the front of her building. I’d determined the previous night that it was her apartment; the sweet aroma wafting down had tormented me even as I’d sped off in my pickup.

  A set of French doors was drawn open inwards, the light curtains inside billowing in the breeze. I sniffed the air, trying to pick up Sierra’s scent in the hopes that I’d find her at home. But instead, I was greeted with a horrific revelation.

  “Fuck!” I shouted, kicking my feet into an immediate sprint. The Marquis’s pungent aroma was thick on the air, which could only mean one thing.

  Sierra’s life was in danger.

  I tore down the street as fast as I could. I didn’t care if people spun around to watch me. As soon as I was close enough to Sierra’s building, I leapt up to a height no human should have been able to reach. Grabbing hold of the wrought iron railings that lined the small balcony, I yanked myself up.

  Before I’d even pushed my way through the curtains, I knew that he had his hands on her. I was all too familiar with the smell of fear. I knew the bastard was hurting her.