Vapor (Underground Vengeance MC Romance, NOLA Chapter #1)

Chapter 1 Vapor

The night in New Orleans drapes itself around me like a velvet shroud, thick with humidity and secrets. The air’s a blend of the heady scent of magnolias and the briny tang of the Mississippi River, weaving a tapestry that’s both intoxicating and oppressive. Cobblestone streets glisten under the dim glow of gas lanterns, their flickering flames casting long, dancing shadows that seem to whisper warnings.

I’m not afraid, but I should be.

As I move through the French Quarter, my boots scrape across the stone. Iron balconies adorned with creeping vines loom overheard, vestiges of a bygone era, where elegance once masked the ever-present decay.

Jazz melodies, haunting and melancholic, float through the alleyways, drawing in both the living and the spirits of the dead. Each note carries the weight of sorrow, echoing the city’s tumultuous history.

Fog rolls in from the river, cloaking the city in an eerie mist, blurring the lines between reality and the supernatural. Here, in this city of shadows and light, where the past and present intertwine, darkness lingers at the edges, waiting to seep into the unwary soul.

I shiver, stopping just outside the Bourbon Street Blues Club. The old brick structure, painted a deep, sultry blue, stands out against the neighboring pastel-colored buildings. A wrought-iron balcony adorned with lush hanging ferns and twinkling fairy lights wraps around the second floor. The railings, detailed with fleur-de-lis patterns, add a touch of style to the rustic facade.

Flanking the heavy wooden doors, vintage gas lanterns cast a warm, inviting light onto the cobblestones below. Above the entrance, a neon sign in bold red and yellow letters spell out “Bourbon Street Blues Club” with a musical note flourish, its soft buzz a constant reminder of the vibrant life within. Large, arched windows on either side of the door offer glimpses of the interior, where the silhouettes of musicians and patrons move to the rhythm of the blues.

The soft glow from inside spills out, mingling with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and the unmistakable wail of a saxophone, making the exclusive club a destination for music lovers in the lively French Quarter. It’s also a beacon for the kingpins of the New Orleans underworld who use the club’s owner, Justin Broussard, to launder their money. He’s the man I’m here to meet.

Just inside the door, a towering bouncer blocks admission to anyone who doesn’t carry a membership card to the club. He looks like he eats an entire cow for breakfast every day before washing it down with two gallons of protein powder.

Fucking meathead.

I approach the man. “Vapor to see Mr. Broussard.”

Fortunately, he’s expecting me, otherwise I have no doubt this jackass would toss me out on my butt.

“You’re early.” The bouncer crosses his arms over his weathered leather jacket. The edge pulls enough to reveal the flash of chrome from a gun wedged into the waistband of his jeans.

“I like to make a good impression.” I smirk.

He grunts before stepping out of my way. “He’s in the booth in the center near the back.”

I brush past the guy, intentionally too close just to piss him off. A low, menacing growl rumbles behind me. I suppress a laugh. There’s no point in starting shit when I’m here for something far more important.

As far as I know, Broussard’s the key moneyman for several underworld organizations. Fang, the tech guru of my motorcycle club, spent months tracking electronic funds through offshore bank accounts. It wasn’t easy, but Fang’s an expert at all that nerd shit.

Based on what he found, all roads lead back to Broussard. If I can get in with Broussard and convince him to launder money for the club, I’ll be one step closer to taking down my club’s real enemies.

Los Serpientes de Cristal, my actual target, is a Mexican drug cartel who set up shop in my back yard. A few months ago, they shot up my clubhouse and killed a bunch of my men. I’m going to slaughter every last one of them and watch their blood flow through the streets. Only then will I be free of the guilt I have about the men I lost.

Stepping into the club is like walking into a living, breathing piece of New Orleans’ soul. The dim lighting creates an intimate atmosphere, while the soft glow of candlelit tables casts flickering shadows across the room.

The walls are adorned with vintage jazz posters and sepia-toned photographs of legendary musicians, their faces frozen in moments of pure passion. Rich mahogany wood dominates the decor, from the polished bar that stretches along one side to the plush, red leather booths that line the perimeter.

A curvy Black singer stands on a red velvet-draped stage near the front of the room. She croons a well-known blues song, captivating the audience with her smoldering notes.

The air’s thick with the scent of aged bourbon and the faint, smoky aroma of cigars. Tantalizing wafts of Cajun spices spill out from the kitchen. My stomach growls. I ignore it. Food can wait. This meeting can’t.

I spot Justin Broussard holding court in a booth. He’s in his early fifties, but still has the muscular build of a man dedicated to both physical and mental discipline. His hair is jet black, kept short and immaculately groomed, with a few strands of gray at the temples that add to his distinguished yet menacing look.

His face is chiseled and angular, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline, covered by a neatly trimmed goatee. His eyes are a piercing green, cold and calculating, always scanning his surroundings with a predatory alertness. A controlled, icy smile that never reaches his eyes plays across his face.

Dressed in a dark gray suit with a red silk tie and matching pocket square, he projects an aura of understated elegance. His attire is impeccable, signaling his attention to detail and his desire to project an image of power and control. On his wrist, he wears a luxury watch, a subtle but clear indication of his wealth.

Several young women clad in slinky cocktail dresses lean toward him, giggling at something he said. When he spots me, his smile drops, and he whispers something that sends the women scattering.

“Mr. Vapor.” His voice is authoritative, with a hint of a deep Southern accent that adds to his aura of mystery and danger. Women love that shit. No wonder he’s drowning in pussy.

“Mr. Broussard.” I return his firm handshake with one of my own. “Forgive me for not wearing a suit.”

I chose to wear a Henley, my cut, and faded jeans on purpose. I wanted to see how he’d respond to my club attire.

“There’s no need,” he says dismissively. “Come, sit.”

I slide into the booth opposite him. A second later, a cocktail waitress appears.

“Have a drink with me. The usual, Cassie.” Broussard flashes his pearly whites at the waitress, who blushes.

“Of course, Mr. Broussard. And for your guest?”

“W.L. Weller, 12 year.”

“Excellent choice,” he says. “You have good taste.”

“Not bad for a biker, hmm?” I lean back in the booth and spread my arms across the top of it. I prefer beer, but I memorized his favorite drink. It was easy enough to figure it out after reading through the NOLA society pages online. He’d been photographed holding a glass with an accompanying caption about how much he loves top shelf bourbon.

“So, tell me why you’re here,” he says, getting right to the point.

“My sources tell me you’re very good at moving money around.” I pause to gauge his reaction. He doesn’t seem surprised at all. Makes sense. What other business would I have with him?

“Go on.”

Cassie returns with two heavy crystal rock tumblers of amber liquid. After setting them on the table, she fixes a flirty gaze on Broussard. “Anything else?”

“Not at the moment. Later, maybe.”

“You know where to find me.” She saunters off, giving us both a show. Not a bad ass, but not my type.

“My club needs assistance moving cash into the banking system. We have various accounts set up offshore, but the amount of currency flowing through our businesses is still too high.”

“Congratulations on your success.”

“Couldn’t do it without my men.”

“Loyalty. Something rarely seen these days.”

“I’ve heard you’re very good at what you do.”

“I am.” He takes a sip of his drink before swirling the glass. “Where did you hear that?”

“Around.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Of course, but discretion is important in our business. It’s not exactly a secret that you work with a variety of organizations. I’d like to add our club to your roster.”

“It’s unusual for a club to ask for outside assistance. Why do you feel the need?” He leans forward, steepling his fingers while keeping his elbows off the table.

“Like I said, we’re struggling to process all the cash. We can offer you a percentage, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re a businessman and so am I. Let’s come to an agreement that will benefit us both.” I toss back the tumbler of whiskey, enjoying the way it burns down my throat and into my belly.

“I’m a very wealthy man. Why would I take on additional risk? A club like yours has many enemies, some of whom are my clients.” He crosses his arms over his chest before leaning back.

“Can you ever have enough money?” I ask, hoping to appeal to his greed.

“Never.” The smile that stretches across his face is genuine. My guess is that he never feels like he’s too far away from his humble beginning.

According to the dossier Fang created, Broussard was born in New Orleans to a lower middle-class family. Through his savvy business dealings, he rose through the ranks of society until he reached the upper echelons. But I’ve encountered men like him before. The specter of their past is always lurking over their shoulders. I’m counting on that to help me make this deal.

“How much money do you need to move? I’m assuming it will only be the excess that you can’t handle within your businesses.”

“Correct. It’s still seven figures.”

“Low or high?”

The stage lights dim dramatically. The first notes of a song drift from behind the velvet curtain. The singer’s voice, a seductive, velvety contralto, weaves through the air.

“You had plenty money in 1922…”

“Let’s call it mid…dle…” My voice fails me as the singer steps onto the stage. “Holy shit.”

The sultry singer poses in the center of the stage, bathed in a soft spotlight. She exudes an aura of timeless elegance and allure, dressed in an iconic, glittering red gown reminiscent of Jessica Rabbit from the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit. The dress is form-fitting with a deep, plunging neckline and a high slit that reveals her leg, adding to her captivating presence.

Her hair is styled in long, wavy, coppery red locks that cascade over her shoulders. Her makeup includes classic red lipstick and smoky eyes, accentuating her striking features.

She holds a vintage microphone with one hand, her fingers adorned with delicate rings that catch the light. Her other hand rests gently on the microphone stand, her polished nails glinting.

Behind her, a jazz band plays softly, the saxophone’s mellow notes intertwining with the smooth rhythms of the double bass and the gentle brush of the snare drum.

“My fiancée,” Broussard says, puffing his chest.

“You let other women make a fool of you…” She practically moans the words, sending blood rushing straight to my dick.

I’m struck speechless, which is something that never happens to me.

“Why don’t you do right… like some other men do…” She draws out the last note until I’m so hard I’m afraid I’ll bust through my zipper.

“I think we can do business together,” Broussard says.

“Great,” I murmur, my gaze still firmly fixed on his woman. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I should look away, but I can’t. I’m literally mesmerized.

“Get out of here…” Her eyes meet mine. Blood throbs through the artery in my neck. “Give me some money… too…”

“Would you like to meet her?” he asks.

“Sure,” my voice cracks. I clear my throat. “Yeah.”

Broussard signals for her to come over. She’s still singing. Other than her voice, it’s so silent in the club I swear I can hear the ubiquitous NOLA cockroaches skittering across the floor in the kitchen.

“She’s going to make a great wife,” Broussard says, as if he’s simply adding her to his collection of possessions.

“You’re a lucky man,” I say, trying to get control of myself. I pride myself on never showing emotion during negotiations, but this woman. Those legs. Jesus, the way she moves should be illegal.

Her performance is mesmerizing, each note dripping with emotion and sensuality, painting a vivid picture of love and longing. I wonder what she yearns for and what she sees in Broussard. It’s obvious why he wants her, but what’s his appeal. Money?

She whispers the last note of the song, letting it linger long enough to send shivers down the spine of every man in the room. Or maybe it’s just mine. Somehow, I doubt that.

As she saunters toward us, her voluptuous breasts sway, straining against the dress. I’d give my left nut to peel it off her and bend her over the nearest table.

“Blue, darling, I’d like to you to meet Mr. Vapor. He’s the president of a local motorcycle club.”

“How do you do?” she asks in a soft, melodic tone.

“Pleasure’s mine.”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Sit,” Broussard commands, patting the seat beside him. My hackles raise at his tone. She’s not a fucking dog, but he’s talking to her like she’s one.

She slides into the booth but keeps a respectable distance between her and her fiancé. Maybe it’s my imagination, or wishful thinking, but she seems to lean away from him, not into him. Interesting.

“I read about your engagement. Congratulations.” I struggle to keep my eyes from drifting toward her cleavage. The last thing I need to do is piss Broussard off immediately after he agreed to launder money for the club.

“Thank you,” she says, but her smile looks plastered on. It doesn’t reach her emerald-green eyes.

“Three more months and she’ll be mine forever,” Broussard says with the satisfied look of a man who’s hunted and captured a wild animal.

A flash of trepidation glints in her eyes before it’s gone. It happens so fast, I’m not sure what I saw. My gut tells me something’s off, and it’s never wrong.

“Do you own a suit?” Broussard asks me.

“I could scrounge one up.”

“We’re hosting a charity gala at my home this weekend. We would love it if you were our guest. And bring a lady friend, assuming you have one.”

“I’m single,” I say, firmly fixing my gaze on Broussard while watching Blue out of the corner of my eye. She doesn’t react, but why would she? Still, I’m disappointed. I don’t know what I was expecting… Actually, yeah, I do. I wanted to see a glimmer of interest in her eyes. Instead, I got nothing but boredom.

“Will you excuse me?” Blue asks, as if she needs permission to leave.

“Where are you headed?” Broussard’s tone is casual but carries a hint of annoyance.

“The ladies room.”

“Go on then.” He watches her ass as she moves through the crowd. “I can’t wait to fuck her.”

Taken aback, I frown. Fortunately, he’s still drooling over her and isn’t paying any attention to me.

As soon as she disappears into the restroom, he turns back to me. “Bring your books with you to the gala. I’d like to see them.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“How can I help you if I don’t know where the money’s coming from?”

“You don’t need to know. Do you ask the Los Serpientes cartel where they get their money?” I intentionally name drop the Mexican drug cartel. Fang already showed me plenty of evidence that the cartel’s in league with Broussard, but I want to confirm it.

“Touché.” He laughs. While it’s not an admission, it’s not a denial either.

“When can I send my men over with the first delivery of cash?”

“I have a very busy week ahead of me. Next week?”

“Perfect.”

“Good.”

When Blue steps back into the room, all eyes, even the women’s, turn her way. I can’t help but drink her in as she slinks toward us. That slit all the way up to the top of her hip reveals flawless, creamy skin. My mouth tingles with the need to lick a trail from the inside of her thigh straight up to the apex of that slit and beyond.

Does she taste as good as she looks? I’d love to know for sure.

“We’re heading out,” Broussard says as he stands.

Blue goes to his side, but again, doesn’t touch him.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vapor.” Blue’s half-smile sends a mild shock through my chest.

“We’ll see you Saturday evening,” Broussard says, turning to leave.

Blue’s eyes lock with mine. In an instant, she closes the distance between us and slips something soft, but slightly scratchy, into my hand. I glance down before shoving the cocktail napkin into my pocket, hiding it. A moment later, she’s walking with her arm around Broussard’s waist. He doesn’t even pause, so I know he didn’t see a thing.

The napkin burns against my thigh as I quickly make my way through the crowd toward the door. The bouncer doesn’t stop me, so my guess is he wasn’t watching either. As far as I can tell, no one saw what happened.

I’m dying to know what she gave me and why, but I’ll have to wait until I get away from the club. Trying to take a peek now is far too risky.