Norman found himself trying everything he could to distract himself from thinking of that damn woman. He was furious that she'd been right about his reaction to what had happened that morning. In just three hours of riding in the SUV he had gotten hard four different times. It didn't help that the guys were relentless in reliving what had gone down in the driveway this morning. Their favorite thing currently was describing the lewd act it had appeared she was doing to him from their viewpoint. None of them had ever even heard of something like that happening in real life. It even sounded far-fetched for a movie.

Despite being furious and, admittedly, embarrassed, he was incredibly curious about her and what her story might be. She had a sweet, innocent, young face, the body of a pin-up, and the smile of an angel. But underneath the smile there existed the sting of a scorpion. Stan, the videographer, had spotted the Navy SEAL Insignia amongst her arm sleeve tattoos while she was sunbathing the day before. It not only explained a lot, but also caused him to find her more interesting and sexy. Which led to another uncomfortable shift in his seat.

It was going to be a long ride for him today. Luckily they had planned a couple of detours to get footage of him and Greg riding the bikes on a county highway. Hopefully they'd prove to be distracting.

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Meg felt the old, familiar tingle when she crossed the city limits of New Orleans. She felt at home in the strange and wonderful city. She had found a Garden District mansion that was renting out the third floor and she had jumped on it, even though the price was pretty extravagant. Her rooms had their own balcony that faced Magazine Street, however, and would make watching the St. Patrick's day parade much more enjoyable. Totally worth it.

Making her way down Canal, she turned on Magazine Street and went several blocks until she saw the intersection with St. Joseph's. The house on the corner was even better than what it seemed in the pictures. White painted brick that glowed in the afternoon sunlight, shiny black shutters, hardwood decks that were stained a deep coffee brown, and gas lanterns at every door. Pulling around the side of the house, she saw a four stall carriage house and the gate to the courtyard next to it. She entered the code they had given her when she signed the rental contract and the wrought iron fence slid open. The courtyard was paved with ancient bricks. The back of the house was to her left and directly in front of her, on the other side of the long lap pool, was a greenhouse. That's where she drove her bike, in order to park it out of sight. Grabbing her saddle bags, she made her way up the stairs to the third floor and let herself in via the same code as the gate.

The space was clearly once the attic, with gabled ceilings and dormer windows on the west, east, and south sides. The balcony ran the entire north side, and was accessed through a sliding glass wall. The floors were original pine and, while stained and scuffed, had been polished to a high sheen. The walls were the original brick, but had been whitewashed rather than painted. There was a small, but very well appointed kitchen in the southeast corner of the enormous space. Everything was open with the only exception being the large bathroom in the southwest corner. In the center of the floor on the north side, facing the wall of windows was a queen sized wrought iron bed, covered in an ice blue chiffon and lace comforter. The whole thing was incredibly lovely, and Meg took back everything she had said in response to the very invasive application process she'd gone through to rent this place. The house was owned by some famous movie star couple for whom this was one of several domiciles. No matter, it appeared that at least one member of the couple had impeccable taste.

After putting away her meager belongings, Meg explored the kitchen to see what she might need to run down to the store for. To her delight, there was a bag of Community Coffee, a carton of eggs, some wheat bread, and best of all... a fully stocked wine cooler. Pulling out a bottle of Charles Krug Cabernet to open and let breathe, she decided to take a long, hot shower and then take some wine out on the balcony. She had a couple hours until she was planning to leave for dinner anyway.

Half an hour later, she was sitting in one of the loungers on the balcony wearing a kimono style robe she'd found in the bathroom, with her headphones in, a glass of wine in hand, and a book in her lap. The warm southern breeze was acting as a natural hairdryer, and Meg was as relaxed as a woman like her ever gets.         

Her plans for the night were to have dinner at her favorite restaurant in the Quarter, then find a new bar that she'd been told about by the agent that she'd rented this place from. When she'd told the man that she was going to be on a motorcycle, he'd told her about a place that had just opened that was ran by a gang of women bikers. It was in the Treme / Lafitte area of town and sounded intriguing enough to go check it out.

            ____________________________________________

Norman and the guys were relieved to finally arrive at their destination. Greg had arranged for them to stay at the house of a friend of his while they were in New Orleans to film a few segments for their show. They were especially excited for a piece they were going to do with a female bike gang. From the information that their show-runner had sent, the ladies were all super bad-ass riders.

After parking the SUV and trailer, Norman pulled a 'diva' move and left the guys to unload the equipment and bikes by themselves while he went into the house. After all the harassment he'd taken the past few hours he didn't feel the least bit bad about that, or about claiming the master bedroom, either. Setting his bags down, he used the restroom and went ahead and started the bath water running. It was only five o'clock and they had no real plans for the night, but knowing Jimmy and Stan, they would end up at one bar or another before the night was over.

While the water ran, he skipped down the stairs into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of beers out of the fridge, making it back up and in the water before the tub was completely filled. Sinking down, he groaned as the tension he'd gathered through the day started to let loose. But then, just as he was finishing his first beer, she popped into his mind's eye. This time, it was of her on her haunches with her back ramrod straight and her face pointed directly forward to his groin, and her eyes looking up locked onto his... The next groan was of an entirely different kind.

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It was just after six in the evening when Meg walked her bike to the wrought iron fence to let herself out. She had noticed lights on in the downstairs portion of the house and didn't want the loud Milwaukee-Eight 107 Engine to startle the homeowners, so she waited until she was on the street to start it up. While she was dressed simply in her black denim jeans, a simple white V-neck tee, and her motorcycle boots and jacket - she'd put a little eye makeup on, and while she'd had grand illusions of what the natural drying of her hair would do, it was still a mass of untidy curls. The only difference was that the curls were a little tighter and her hair smelled vaguely of the Magnolia flowers that were blooming on the trees lining the streets. She left it down, though, as a reminder that her days of disguising her appearance were behind her, even if she felt exposed.

Her first stop was Mr. B's Bistro on Royal in the French Quarter. She found a space for her motorcycle and put the wheel lock on before going in the elegant revolving doors. There was a large crowd waiting for a table, and many of them were congregated near the bar. Looking from one end to the other, Meg spotted an open seat in the very center of the enormous, u-shaped bar and moved in to claim it. As she sat, the bartender, whose name was Roosevelt — but who would always be Rooster to her — held a finger up to let her know he'd be right with her. When he finally looked down and made eye contact he did a double take.

"MACK?" He asked loudly with his eyebrows raised into his hairline. "Oh my God!"

She smiled at him and nodded her head. She had spent almost eight months in New Orleans, close to three years ago, on an assignment. During that time, this bar had been her hangout and Rooster had become a very close friend. He was a very tall black man with the most beautiful ebony skin she'd ever seen. He looked like an honest to god movie star, and she'd had a little bit of a crush on him back then.

"Am I seeing a ghost, or what the hell is going on?" he asked, and Meg felt the guilt come washing over her. The operation that she had been here for had ended in a public shootout after her cover was blown by a leak. While she had been shot, it had been minor, but regardless her cover name had been released amongst the casualties and footage of her being zipped into a body bag was played on the news.

"Hey Roose. Sorry, but it would appear that the rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated. As they say," she said with a sheepish smile on her face.

Without asking, Rooster turned and got the bottle of Jameson Special Reserve off the shelf and poured her four fingers over a single cube of ice. She was flattered that he remembered.

"So, are you here to tell me I'm right - finally?" he smirked. Rooster had always tried to get Meg to admit to being FBI or CIA, rather than the low-level Coast Guard ensign that she was operating as. "Mackenzie Smith... FBI Agent?"

Mackenzie Smith was one of a dozen alias's she'd had in her twelve year career has a CIA operative. Every one of them had either a first or last name that could be shortened to Mack, so that she could keep up and react appropriately.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I'm retired from all that."

"Well, retirement looks good on you. I like the red hair and green eyes. Are these the real deal?" When he knew Meg before she'd had a platinum blonde pixie cut and wore blue contacts. But, the face is more or less the same, and Rooster knew her face like very few others.

"Thanks, and yes. This is the real me." She smiled before asking, "How are you, Rooster?"

Before he could answer, he was called down to the other end of the bar to cash out a tab. While he was gone, Meg scanned the other patrons and used the mirror behind the bar to check out the rest of the restaurant. While sweeping her eyes through, they landed on a photograph stuck to the mirror in the lower left hand corner. It was of a smiling Rooster and a petite white woman with short curly blonde hair. It was a wedding photo.

"Sorry about that. Where were we?" he asked when he returned.

Meg nodded towards the photo. "Congratulations, man."

He turned and followed her eyes and then slowly looked back at her. "Thanks, Mack. You gotta know that you wrecked me back then. I mean I was completely destroyed when I thought you died. Ever since that night... well, I couldn't think of anything but you." He looked down for a second then met her gaze head on. "Trisha picked up the pieces. At first I let her because I couldn't stand to be alone and thought that she might be able to help me recover from you. But then one morning I woke up and realized that she hadn't just done that, she had replaced you."

"I'm happy for you. And that's the truth, Roosevelt Lincoln Jefferson." Meg squeezed his hand as she thought of the night that she had taken his hand as they walked towards her flat. She had drank too many whiskey's and because she was frustrated with Doug and their on again, off again relationship, she'd flirted too much. Meg had known that Rooster was infatuated with her, but instead of avoiding him she led him on. She would've slept with him that night if fate hadn't intervened and they had been mugged by three street punks a couple of blocks from her house. That's when Rooster had seen her use the skills that caused him to believe 'Mack' was much more than what she let on. She had sent him home that night while she dealt with the police, and didn't see him again before the shooting that led him to believe she was dead.

Regret or not, she wasn't here to get involved in his life again, just wanted to make sure he had moved on. Oh, and she was hungry. "So, what's a girl gotta do to get some shrimp-n-grits around here?"