Chapter 3
GAGE
Dark clouds billow overhead, threatening to release their haul on New Orleans, soak me, and slicken the pavement under the tires of my Harley, making what I had hoped to accomplish today far more difficult.
But it’s irrelevant at the moment.
I sit on my bike in the parking lot, tucked against the side of the building.
Concealed.
Where I can wait.
And watch.
I wouldn’t mind the rain, though. If it does begin to fall, it would almost come as a relief.
A gift from the sky that might melt away some of the tension and frustration building inside me.
It might bring some clarity, help break through the fog of uncertainty that has settled over me and that I can’t seem to escape from.
There’s something about it that always calms me.
The smell that permeates the air…
The sound of it hitting the glass of a window…
The feeling that God is washing away all the filth in the world…
That He’s giving us a chance to start anew.
To make better choices.
To live better lives.
To be who we’re supposed to be.
But I’m not sure I know who that is anymore.
I haven’t for a while now.
Everything went haywire so damn fast. The only option I had was to come to New Orleans. To start over here and see if it would open doors to me that had previously been closed.
It should have been relatively easy.
If it weren’t for one thing.
One person.
Bishop Clarke.
A complication I never saw getting in the way of my intended goal.
I don’t understand it. Can’t control it.
Don’t have the faintest fucking clue what to do about it.
All I do know is that no matter my intent to stay far away from one particular place when I climbed on my bike today, I found myself pulling up across the street from The Hawkeye Club and settling in the shadows here.
My booted foot bounces wildly as I watch the building with the logo of the giant hawk wing above it.
Patrons entering and leaving.
Security stepping out to scan the parking every once in a while even though they have a whole slew of cameras around the exterior and interior.
Time ticks by slowly.
Seconds.
Minutes.
Half an hour.
An hour.
Nothing changes save for the darkening color of the sky and the rumbles of thunder that roll through the air now.
The angels bowling…
That’s what Mom always told me when an incoming storm made me uneasy as a child, but now, those sounds bring different memories. Ones I try to push away to the back of my mind, but they always seem to come back at the most inopportune times.
I squeeze my eyes closed for a few seconds, breathing in the air that already smells like rain, and when I reopen them, it’s with renewed focus on the club and what I’m doing here today.
Something stupid.
What is it about her that makes you do stupid things?
I’ve been asking myself that question for days now. Each time I do, I come up with the same answer—everything.
It isn’t just that she’s beautiful.
She’s also intelligent.
Fierce.
Strong.
Loyal.
All the qualities I’ve always wanted in a woman and thought didn’t exist. Somehow, they all do in that one feisty package, and after what happened last night, I fear I’m a goner when it comes to Bishop Clarke. That I’ll continue to make stupid decisions where she’s concerned.
It’s the only explanation for why I’ve been sitting here despite the incoming weather, ignoring the warning rumbles and occasional flashes of lightning that have started to streak the sky.
Each one charges the air.
Raises the hairs on my arms under the leather of my jacket.
Heightens the tension as I continue to wait.
I almost give up a dozen times. My hand has reached for the key to start it up, but each time, I let it fall away, unable to follow through with it. Because something drew me here today.
After what feels like an eternity, they start to arrive.
The Hawkes…
One after another, flashy cars and expensive SUVs pull up and park in the spaces reserved for the family. They climb out, disappearing into the club that also houses offices on the second floor.
Over the course of twenty minutes, half a dozen of them enter.
Clearly some sort of family meeting happening.
But the person I came here hoping to see hasn’t made an appearance yet.
I almost ride away.
Almost give up hope.
But then she pulls in and parks her black Escalade.
I hold my breath waiting for her to get out. By the time she climbs down from the high cab, my chest burns, and the rush of air I let out sounds so loud to me that I swear she will hear it all the way from over there, turn, and find me watching her.
It’s all in my head, though.
Nerves I shouldn’t have.
Not anymore. Not after all these years. Certainly not over a damn woman.
Her toned, muscular body moves fluidly—confidently—as she stalks toward the club, her long braids swinging behind her as tugs open the door. She pauses for a moment before she enters, her head tilting slightly, as if she can sense she’s being watched.
I freeze, keeping my body pressed to the old brick, protected somewhat by the slight overhang that casts a shadow over me even under the dark sky.
She scans the street. Once. Twice. Her gaze lingers for a moment on the line of family cars. Then she disappears inside.
Thank fuck.
If she had seen me, I’m not sure what I would have done. How I would have been able to explain why I was lingering here, watching her like this. She would never believe that something deep in my chest drew me here today. That I hadn’t planned on coming this way at all when I left the shop.
Given how she reacted to me last night, chances are she would have me facedown on this rough concrete before I even had an opportunity to try to explain.
My feet itch to follow her, to see if I can get her to sit down with me again at the bar, but I force myself to pull away from my hiding place beside the building instead.
No good would come from going in after her today—or any day, really.
The fact of the matter is, Bishop is a distraction I can’t afford.
Now or ever.
I tear down the street, speeding away from The Hawkeye Club and whatever Bishop might be doing in there with the rest of them and heading toward the center of all the nightlife in town.
The sky finally unleashes its torrent, water cascading down in sheets that make the street slick yet somehow allow me to draw in breaths easier than I have in days.
It brings flashes of clarity.
Maybe coming here was a mistake…
I never imagined finding myself in a place like New Orleans, a city with so much history—good and bad—with so much liveliness, color, and sound.
It hits me from all sides as I weave through the streets.
The sounds of jazz bands floating out of propped-open bar doors.
Bright murals painted on ancient brick.
Revelers out enjoying everything despite getting soaked in the process.
Some dance in the rain—spinning around Jackson Square with grins on their faces and their bellies full of Cajun cooking and specialty drinks designed to lure the tourists in for a night of excess.
It’s easy to see why the Hawkes didn’t set up anywhere near Bourbon Street or the French Quarter. Their bars, their restaurants, their clubs, are all purposefully located in parts of the city where someone won’t just stumble in drunk.
They attract their clientele other ways—through their reputation alone. That’s what draws me away from the tourist traps and toward one of the most popular Hawke establishments.
The Grind bustles this evening, people moving in and out, sipping on their coffees and other drinks under umbrellas. Because of the rain, the tables on the sidewalk in front of it remain empty, but on a sunny day, they’re no doubt packed with customers enjoying the spot.
I pull over and pause outside it, watching everyone inside through the rain-fogged windows.
Despite it nearing dinnertime, the place is bustling, as is the bookstore and art gallery across the street. I scan the windows of Hawke’s Novel Idea where people move about, picking up books from shelves and reading the backs to determine their potential entertainment value.
Even though I shouldn’t, I turn off the engine, swing my leg over, and jog across the street to enter the shop.
Warm air hits me the moment I step through the doors, and the jingling bells above my head alert the tall blond man behind the counter to my arrival. He tips his head toward me in acknowledgement but doesn’t approach to make a pushy sales spiel.
I wander around the space, moving from the new popular fiction sections back to the far corner that houses the classic literature.
My gaze tracks over the familiar titles until it lands on a maroon cover with two simple words on the spine—Catch 22.
That’s what it feels like my life has become.
A series of decisions that, despite my best efforts to change the outcome, each lead to the same place—where I stand right now. Caught between duty, obligation, and convoluted feelings that aren’t becoming any clearer even when I force myself to consider them.
I pull the book from the shelf and stare at the cover for far too long, remembering the other times in my life that I’ve read it and never imagined finding myself wrapped in a situation that feels so similar to what Yossarian faced.
One massive clusterfuck with no way out.
All I can do now is try to survive it, or die trying.
I bring the book up to the counter, and the man behind it offers me a smile, his warm blue gaze tracking over my soaked head, wet jacket, and water-logged jeans.
“You look like you walked here.”
Grinning, I motion toward the front window. “Close. Rode my bike.”
He winces, eyeing the motorcycle parked across the street. “Maybe a bad call tonight.”
I chuckle, handing him a twenty for the book. “I don’t mind the rain. It cleanses everything.”