Page 4 of Gator

Chapter Two

New Orleans, Louisiana,days before the wedding...

Walking down the steps of The Bourbon Bar, I yawned and scratched my stomach, the bright New Orleans sunlight doing little to wake me up after a long night of, well, being the king of this here kingdom.

I, Wade Crawley, aka Gator, president of the Bourbon Kings Motorcycle Club, was feeling a little worse for wear, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit that to anyone.

The night before was a blur of jazz, bourbon, and beautiful ladies.

Okay, maybe not a blur. I remembered it all clearly, but my head was still buzzing a little. Or maybe that was the sound of the bar itself, always humming with life and energy. This place was my baby, and I ruled it with a relaxed, whiskey-soaked fist. The only rules here were my rules, and they were damn simple: drink, have fun, and don’t cause no trouble.

Stepping over a passed-out patron, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself.

Hell, I’ve been there, done that, and probably will again.

My town had a way of getting to you, and by ‘getting to you,’ I meant making you want to party like there was no tomorrow.

New Orleans, my beautiful lady, sure knew how to show a guy a good time.

Stretching my arms above my head, I took a moment to appreciate the town I called home. The sun shone brightly, but it didn’t bother me. I was too busy soaking in the sights and sounds of my city. The colorful buildings, the street musicians, the smell of beignets wafting through the air—damn, I was hungry. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I needed to fuel up for whatever the day had in store for me, and knowing my city, it was going to be memorable.

Standing on the sidewalk, my thoughts turned to the night before. Jazz, bourbon, and beautiful ladies—the recipe for a perfect New Orleans evening. And of course, my bar, The Bourbon Bar, was the perfect place for it all to come together.

I sure knew how to throw a party. But now, in the cold light of day, I couldn’t help but feel a little... fuzzy. Not the warm, fuzzy feeling of a job well done, but the fuzzy feeling, like a tingle of something coming. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I knew something big was coming.

I could feel it in the air.

Oh well, no point in dwelling on it now. Time would tell and until then, I needed to find me some breakfast and maybe take a little nap.

Yeah, that sounded like a plan, Gator-style.

“Mornin’, boss!” Donut’s voice cut through my fuzzy thoughts like a knife through warm butter.

My club’s sergeant at arms and self-proclaimed nudist stood across the street, looking like a half-dressed beacon of cheerfulness. Thank the good Lord above that he at least had his underwear and flip-flops on. Though, seeing him like that, I couldn’t help but wonder if the sight of him in broad daylight was any better than the alternative.

“You know,” I called back, a grin spreading across my face, “if Officer LaMonte spots you strollin’ around in your skivvies, he’s liable to toss your ass back in the slammer.”

I shook my head, wondering if the man had any sense of self-preservation.

Donut just shrugged, his mouth full of beignet. “Don’ care,” he mumbled through the sugary treat.

I chuckled. “Your mama will care when she has to visit you there. She’ll tan your hide for sure.”

A thoughtful look crossed his face as he chewed. “Ain’t thought about that.”

Shaking my head, I snagged the bag of beignets from him and helped myself to a few.

The sweet, doughy goodness of the French Quarter treats was just what I needed.

As I bit into one, a little cloud of powdered sugar puffed out, and I sighed contentedly. “Damn, these are like a little piece of heaven.”

Donut nodded vigorously, his eyes shining with agreement. “Best thing ‘bout this city, ‘side from the partyin’ and the ladies.”

I had to laugh at that.

Donut might not have a lick of sense when it came to his attire, but the man knew what was important in life: good food, good times, and good company.

And in New Orleans, we had all three in spades.

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