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United States. He hadn’t fully appreciated that until he left. There were things here that didn’t translate anywhere else. And within that, there were things in the MC lifestyle that were foreign outside of it. Micah’s whole life in New Orleans had been weird shit wrapped in more weird shit. Being back was a reminder of that.
    Sarah floated over the sidewalks, giving seemingly no thought to the cracks in the concrete or the fact that her shoes were perfect little ankle breakers. Of course, she was a Delacroix. She probably thought nothing in New Orleans dared slow her down, not even the sidewalks. It appeared she was right.
    “Don’t you have people to do this sort of thing for you?” he asked, knowing it would make her angry.
    “I’m not sure exactly what sort of lifestyle you think I have. I live in an apartment. I don’t have a single servant to my name.”
    “You grew up with them.”
    “Yes,” she said, her tone clipped. “I did.”
    “So I’m not that far off.”
    “Even if I had servants on hand right now, I would not send them shopping for me. I enjoy it far too much. It could be a long day.”
    He chuckled, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the view of her perfectly rounded backside. Yeah, he was itching to push her against a wall all night, but it wasn’t to get secrets. It was to get something else entirely.
    “Don’t think for one second I won’t throw you over my shoulder and carry you straight back to the house.”
    She stopped and turned. “We are in public.”
    He chuckled. “You think I care?”
    “There are people.” She waved her hand as if to indicate the workers, shopkeepers, and general foot traffic milling around them.
    “And that matters to me, why?”
    “Police,” she said, practically sputtering.
    “I don’t think you understand. When I said this was Deacons territory, I meant it.”
    “You’re telling me that a motorcycle gang runs the French Quarter?”
    “It’s not a gang. It’s a club. And yes, I am. I think you have a fundamental misunderstanding of what it means to be part of a motorcycle club. We have agreements with the law enforcement around here, Ms. Delacroix.”
    “That isn’t how things work,” she said, her expression comically blank.
    “I’d hazard a guess that you’ve never had to tangle with law enforcement in your life. You can rest easy in your comfortable apartment in the knowledge that everything runs the way you think it should. But you’ve never experienced the real world, have you? It isn’t like the movies. Or maybe, it’s
more
like the movies than you think.”
    “You’re overestimating your importance.”
    “And you’re looking at things through diamond-cut glasses, Ms. Delacroix.”
    She cocked her head to the side, her lips pursed. “Do you think? I suspect what we have here is a case of Napoleon complex.” Her eyes swept him up and down, took in his height. “Though, obviously in this case it’s in your pants.”
    She turned, clearly satisfied that she had landed a fatal blow.
    Unhappily for her, it wasn’t actually fatal. And he didn’t allow little rich bitches to get the parting shot. He took two long strides, catching up with her, reaching out and wrapping his hand around her wrist, drawing her close to him. “Is that what you think?” Her dark eyes were wide, rosy lips slack. He had succeeded in shocking her. More than. He guided her hand down below his belt, placing it over his cock. “I’m going to give you a chance to revise that position.”
    She was frozen for a few seconds, and he wasn’t unaffected by her touch. His stomach tightened, his blood rushing south. He was getting hard underneath her palm, and if he were standing on a street in San Francisco, he would have the decency to feel ashamed of himself. But New Orleans was all around him, all over his skin, and he couldn’t remember much about the man he’d become in the ten years since he’d left it behind.
    This city was under his skin. And