Page 18 of Tick Tock, Boom!

She wasn’t just temptation, she was trouble. The kind of trouble that followed you home and didn’t ask permission before tearing your world apart.

I didn’t want to care what she was doing, who she was doing it for, or how many men stared at her with their dicks in their hands. But I did. I cared too fucking much.

That leash, that bell, the way she looked up at me like I could ruin her and she fucking thanked me for it. It was taking a toll on both my mind and my dick.

"Mr. Barrero?" the realtor’s voice cut through my thoughts.

I turned to look at her. She was too polished and way too eager. She was holding a clipboard, some god awful beige brochure in her hand.

"It’s got great bones," she said, forcing a bright smile.

I gave her a long look. “I’m looking for something better. And you better have something worth my time lined up soon.”

Her face twitched, but she nodded and turned to lead me out. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t explain. My patience was thin, and my mind was a million miles away... withher.

I stepped out onto the porch, the wood creaking beneath my boots. The late afternoon heat clung to my skin like sweat-soaked leather, the Louisiana humidity refusing to let up. The sky had that hazy golden hue, sun sinking low with a promise of another sticky night ahead. I pulled on my shades, letting the tinted lenses take the edge off the light as I surveyed the quiet street.

Didn’t matter how peaceful it looked. I knew better.

I walked down the steps, slow and deliberate, each movement buying me time from the storm still raging in my head. My bike waited like a loyal beast at the curb, and with one last look at the house I wouldn’t be buying, I swung my leg over and rode off.

Toward the city. Toward the noise. Toward the damn thing I couldn’t forget.

The streets of New Orleans were alive with that strange mix of life and decay. The heat stuck to everything like sweat and honey, and the sound of jazz curled through alleyways thick with smoke and sin. Voodoo shops sat next to corner bodegas. The smell of fried shrimp and cigarette ash soaked into the old bricks. This place was like a woman in her own right... dark, sultry, and laced with danger.

I made my way toward Cherry Smoke, a biker bar tucked behind a crumbling brick wall a few blocks from the Quarter. Owned by Ajax, our club’s Secretary. He was one mean bastard with a mind like a steel trap. The place was more than a bar. It was a fortress. A place for patched members to drink, talk business, and breathe without eyes on their backs. It was a safe spot to sit and breathe without watching my back.

Barrel was already inside, sitting at a corner booth with a plate of blackened gator bites and a half-drunk beer in front of him. The place was loud, filled with leather and smoke and laughter that always carried a hint of something violent.

I slid into the booth across from him.

“You look like shit,” he said.

“Thanks, brother. You got a way with words.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even glance up. Just took another bite of his food, chewing like the weight of the world was sitting on his shoulders.

I flagged down the waitress, ordered a burger, and cracked open a cold bottle of beer. We sat in silence for a while. Comfortable. Until I noticed the way Barrel kept fidgeting.

“You gonna spit it out or keep twitchin’ like you got fleas?” I asked.

Barrel sighed. Set his fork down. “I’ve got a daughter.”

I blinked. That wasn’t something I expected from a man like Barrel. He was hard as stone and twice as cold. I figured his heart had been carved out years ago by club life or by something darker.

“Didn’t know that,” I said carefully.

“Not many do. I kept her out of the life. She’s smart. Got her head on straight. At least she used to.”

“You worried?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “She’s hidin’ something. Been actin’ off lately. Real jumpy. Missed work. I stopped by her old job, and they said she never worked there. I ask her and she lies sayin' she got fired. Now she’s telling me she’s got classes, but I ain’t buyin’ it.”

“Could be nothin’.”

“Could be,” he agreed. “But New Orleans ain’t soft. You know that. I’ve seen girls end up in ditches for less.”

“So what are thinking of doing?”

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