by Meghan March
Not even the man who sent me a pawn.
You sure about that, Mags? The voice in my head, who I call Ho-It-All instead of Know-It-All, taunts me. Thankfully, I don’t have time to think about the answer because Rocco replies.
“You know I will, Ms. Maison. You can count on me. You’ll be moving in on time. I give you my word.”
I offer him my hand, and when he shakes it, holding on a little longer than I’d like, I tug mine free from his grip. “Give my best to your wife, Rocco. I’ll see you in a few days.”
The reminder that he’s a married man produces a ruddy hue just above the collar of his white T-shirt. “Of course. Have a good evening, Ms. Maison.”
With that, I scoop up my handbag, toss the stupid pawn inside, and stride out of my new digs like I don’t have a care in the world.
But I do.
And I don’t make it a half block before my cell vibrates in my bag.
I swear to Christ, if it’s Moses, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. Thinking he can come back here and walk into my life like it hasn’t been fifteen fucking years of radio silence.
But I should know better. He never calls.
When I look down at the screen, it’s a number I recognize.
Why the hell am I thinking about him constantly? He’s in the past. Despite the fact he resurfaced today, he’s dead and gone to me, just like the feelings I thought I once had.
But why now?
I don’t answer that question either, choosing instead to answer the phone. “You got me.”
“Oh, Mags. Thank you so much for picking up,” Taylor, one of my top girls who still works for me, says in a rush as soon as I answer. “I . . . I’ve got a problem, and I don’t know what to do.”
I look both ways and then cross the street. “Lay it on me, girl.”
“My last client seemed to think his appointment should have come with other services that are no longer included in my repertoire.”
I release a long breath but keep marching. I swear to Christ, this is why we shouldn’t take male clients. Only women.
“Who was it?”
“Baxter Frye. He paid for an eighty-minute massage. I gave him an eighty-minute massage.” She’s out of breath and sounds shaken.
I don’t want to, but I know I have to ask. “And then what happened?”
“When I told him his treatment was over and that I’d wait in the other room until he dressed, he jumped off the massage table and started yelling that he didn’t get his happy ending, and he wasn’t going to let me leave until he did.” Her voice cracks as she tells the story.
I stop short, and a woman staring at her phone instead of where she’s walking nearly runs into me.
“Where are you? You still there?” I’m poised, practically trembling with the energy rolling off me, ready to start sprinting for Baxter Frye’s home to tear it down brick by brick with my bare hands if he’s keeping my girl there against her will.
“No. I’m home. Safe.”
My shoulders relax, but only slightly. This day has been one shit show after another. “Jesus fuck, girl. You could start with that next time.”
“Sorry, Mags. I held him off with my stun gun and ran. I’m not working on him again. Ever.”
I step around the corner and lean against the brick wall, staring up at the blue October sky. “You won’t have to. Baxter Frye is off the client list permanently, and maybe every other fucking man in this town too.” To myself, I add, Especially ex-clients who think my girls still provide the services they used to. But I’m out of that fucking business.
“Really?” Taylor sounds so young and hopeful, making me absolutely sure I’m making the right choice.
“Yeah, honey. Don’t you worry. Mags has your back. I’ll make sure Baxter knows what the fuck he’s done, and I’ll sort out what we’re gonna do next.” Nothing short of three or four vengeful ideas come to mind in short order.
“Thank you, Mags. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what it is about me, but it seems like men just—”
“Stop right there, girl.” I shift and clutch my purse to my side. “There ain’t nothing about you that’s wrong. It’s just a man trying to take what isn’t being freely given, and that’s a fucking crime. This ain’t about you, doll. This is about him. And I will take care of it.”
“What would we do without you, Mags?”
I’m proud my girls have always been and always will be able to rely on me. “You don’t have to wonder,” I say, my elbow scraping against the rough wall as I lean. “I’m not going anywhere.”
As I consider the words, a rush of disappointment floods me that I shouldn’t be feeling. What the hell? I love it here. NOLA is my home. Not somewhere I’m sad to be staying.
“Thanks, Mags.”
“I’m glad you’re okay. We’ll talk later, darlin’.”
I hang up the phone and shake my head. I’m all out of sorts today. I should have known this would happen after Celeste pulled the fucking Devil card on me.
Scanning the intersection, I search for any sign of the Creole ghost who blew back into my life today, but there’s nothing.
What the fuck do you want, Moses? Why now?
With a shake of my head, I push him out of my mind the best I can. Next stop, my condo. Then I’ll give ol’ Baxter Frye a call and let him know exactly how badly he fucked up.
No one crosses me or my girls. Not without paying a hefty price.
When I walk into my soon-to-be former home, the sight of the stacks of boxes puts a smile on my face.
“Only another week, and I’m out of here,” I tell the room. It doesn’t answer, and thank God for that.
If these walls could talk . . . well, I don’t even want to think about what they’d say. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but they got me where I am, so I find it hard to regret most of them.
Some of them, though . . . some of them I regret a lot.
I set my purse on the sideboard and flip it open. The white pawn mocks me from where it’s tucked inside. I reach for the whiskey and splash some into a glass before pulling the chess piece out to study it.
The liquor slides down my throat, just as smooth as the piece, but the whiskey is a hell of a lot more welcome. With the pawn in one hand and my glass in the other, I kick off my heels and pad across the tile floor to my sofa.
I haven’t had a minute to myself since that street kid shoved the stupid thing at me, but now that I do . . . I don’t know what to think.
Why now, Moses?
It makes no goddamned sense, and it certainly has nothing to do with me.
A man doesn’t walk away from a woman for that long and come back thinking he’s still got a shot with her. Then again, Moses wasn’t just any man. Hell, I’m still not sure he’s mortal, because he was nothing like anyone I’ve ever met—before or since.
And I need to stop thinking about him. No good can come of it. I’m not interested in anything he has to say.
Liar, liar. Pants on fire. Ho-It-All chimes in, and the mocking thought makes me think of the card Madame Celeste flipped over on the table before my meeting with Mount.
Okay then, fine. Maybe I want to know what he has to say, if only so I can shove those damn words right back down his sexy-ass throat.
My head jerks up, and I shake it as though the motion will clear out the thoughts of Moses. It doesn’t work.
Remembering Baxter Frye does, though.
I set the pawn on my end table and cross the room to retrieve my phone before heading into my office. On the front wall, directly facing my desk, is a framed abstract painting of a woman rising out of the sea. I stop in front of it and give the frame a tug. It swings on a hinge connected to the left-hand side, revealing a safe behind it.
Spinning the knob, I put in the combination I know by heart—08, 29, 05—but refuse to acknowledge that my choosing the date Katrina made landfall in my city has anything to do with Moses. When the safe unlocks, I find what I need inside.<
br />
A fat black book. It would be cliché if it weren’t so amusing.
I collect it and return to my mirrored silver desk.
Before I open to the F section of the book, I pull open my desk drawer and flip the lid on a black lacquered box. From inside, I liberate a lighter and a joint. Once it’s burning, I take a long hit, letting the smoke fill my lungs. A few more puffs, and a nice mellow buzz takes hold of me.
I reach for the whiskey and sip as I flip to Baxter’s number. It’s written in red ink, which I should have taken as a sign, but I thought the owner of a chain of well-known appliance stores would realize he had too much to lose to cause trouble.
Clearly, I misjudged him.
It doesn’t happen all that often, but even I’m fallible when it comes to men, despite knowing them better than I know myself most days.
From another drawer, I pull out a disposable cell phone and punch in the number. As soon as it rings, I lean back in my white high-backed chair and prop my bare feet on my desk.
“Hello?” he says, answering on the third ring with a note of confusion.
“Oh, Baxter,” I sing across the line.
“Who is this?”
“Do you have any idea in that tiny little brain of yours how many ways I could ruin your sorry life without so much as chipping my fingernail polish?”
The man on the other end of the line goes quiet.
“Oh, don’t be shy now, Baxter. Where’s your sense of adventure? Tell me about how much you like happy endings.” It may be wrong, but I enjoy taunting him. It’s easy to put weak men on their knees.
Then again, a good strong man wouldn’t be in the position he’s in now. They wouldn’t need to force a woman to do anything.
“W-what do you want?”
A tendril of his fear curls through the phone, and I grin.
“I just want to tell you a fairy tale. I can’t recall all of it, but that’s okay. I think you’ll still get the gist. It goes something like this. Blah, blah, blah . . . and blah, blah, blah . . . and poof, Baxter ends up locked in a cage for days, and he’s wondering if someone’s going to let him out before he starves to death.”
I take another hit while he breathes heavily over the line, at a loss for words.
“Now, the real question here, Baxter, is whether or not that fairy tale has a happy ending. Because I hear that you think you’re entitled to one, and I just don’t know if that’s how this story ends. You wanna roll the dice with me and we can find out? Because I’m more than willing to put it to the test so we can know for sure.”
There’s a scraping noise from his end of the call, and several beats of silence before he speaks. “I . . . I made a mistake. I . . . It won’t happen again.”
“You’re right. It won’t happen again because you’ve been blackballed, Baxter.”
“But—”
“Shut your goddamned mouth and listen.” When he doesn’t reply, I smile. “That’s a good Baxter. Damn, it sounds like I’m talking to a dog. Which makes perfect sense, considering that’s all you are. A fucking mutt who will be put down if you ever threaten another woman for the rest of your godforsaken life. You understand me, Baxter?”
He chokes and then answers, “Yes. I understand.”
“Good boy, Baxter,” I say, crooning to him like he is the mutt I just called him. Then I change my tone to steel. “Now, you have a lovely fucking evening, and just remember, I’m watching you. If you take one wrong step, we’ll find out exactly how that story ends. And I’m pretty fucking sure you aren’t going to like it.”
I hang up the phone. Entitled piece of shit. I could fucking kill him. I take another drag, letting the weed soothe the anger bubbling inside me.
You handled it. Don’t let emotion take over.
But the thought of Taylor’s fear, even if it only lasted a few minutes, can’t be so easily cowed. My fingers curl around the phone, and rage burns through my system.
I’m done with this life. Done with men who think they can take whatever they want. Done with putting girls in situations where they end up calling me, terrified out of their minds. I’m fucking done.
I let loose, flinging the phone as hard as I can against the opposite wall, but the shattering plastic does nothing to calm my temper.
“I have to get out of here.” I shove out of my chair, joint in hand, as I stalk toward my bedroom to change.
Fuck men. Fuck Moses. Fuck everything.
I’m going to the club to see Desiree and handle shit myself. Just like I always do.
Eight
Magnolia
When the car drops me off in front of the sprawling plantation house, I barely notice the massive trees with moss dangling from their limbs over the banks of the bayou. I’m not here to be filled with wonder and amazement like the new members who have been added to the roster since I bowed out of managing the club.
Then again, no one was surprised when I stepped aside a few years ago when my well-ordered life went through a proverbial wood chipper. Nothing is the same as it used to be, especially not me.
The sense of disquiet that’s been haunting me all day chases me up the grand steps of the antebellum mansion. The doorman smiles beneath his mask when he sees me.
“Ms. Maison. It’s a pleasure to see you this evening.”
“Thank you, Gerard.”
“Do you need a mask?” he asks, his gaze lingering on my face.
One of my eyebrows shoots up. “Do you think it’s going to help me fly under the radar or something?” The question is more rhetorical than anything, because it doesn’t seem to matter what I do. Everyone knows who I am wherever I go.
“Club rules,” he says evenly, a reminder that I’m not part of the management anymore.
“Mine’s inside.” I have a locked cupboard in the ladies’ dressing room, which contains all sorts of interesting things.
“Enjoy your evening, ma’am,” Gerard says with a nod of approval.
The door sweeps open, and he gestures for me to enter. I step inside, barely noticing the shimmering crystal of the new chandelier or the throbbing bass beat of the music coming from upstairs. I don’t turn and stare at the gold gilt covering the sconces on the walls or the art hanging between them.
That’s not what I’m here for.
I head straight to the manager’s office, turning three corners and clipping down a hallway. The door is closed, so I knock twice and wait.
The knob turns, and the door swings open a foot.
“Can I help— Oh, Magnolia. It’s so good to see you. I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” Paige, the club’s manager, says to me.
“Unscheduled visit. Business, not pleasure, darling,” I tell her with a smile. “Is Desiree around?”
Paige nods. “Yes. I saw her on the monitors in the bar. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s always okay in my world,” I say, lying to her with a smile that hides everything I’m thinking and feeling.
“Good to hear. Also, good to see you. Enjoy your night.”
I turn up the wattage of my smile. “You too, Paige. You too.”
Thankful that I don’t have to scour the entire club to track down Desiree, I pop into the ladies’ dressing room, put on my mask, and take the back stairs up to the second floor. The large and stately room that houses the bar is the hub of all activity in the club. This is where most members’ nights start and end.
It doesn’t take me long to find Desiree. A small crowd of men surround her, no doubt dying to get the madam into bed. Like me after I took the reins of the house, Desiree doesn’t take clients unless she feels so inclined. And it hasn’t hurt business in the least. Exclusivity means big dollars in this world.
Rather than burst into her circle and have to talk to any of the men drooling over her, I belly up to the bar and lay my small clutch on the long expanse of wood.
“What can I get for you, Ms. Maison?”
“Three fingers of Seven Sinners. Neat.” I shake
my head at Paul and chuckle, vindicated. “I told Gerard it didn’t matter if I wore a mask, and you just proved me right.”
Paul’s smile beams behind his half mask as he reaches for the bottle of whiskey. “He should know you’re unforgettable.”
The compliment is sweet, but the last thing I want to do is encourage Paul in any way. He’s nearly thirty, but still way too innocent for a woman like me.
Oh, and what kind of man is right for you? Ho-It-All is back and hitting me with a question I’d do better not to contemplate.
As Paul pours the whiskey, I think about the answer.
A man who has some miles on him. Jaded. Scarred with battle wounds. Someone who is ready to ride off into the sunset and live a different life. Clean and brand new.
I stop short on that thought.
Ride off into the sunset? Really, Mags? Now you sound like a girl who believes in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters, and we know that’s a waste of time.
“Here you go, Ms. Maison,” Paul says as he slides the whiskey toward me.
As my hand curls around the glass, I open my mouth to thank him, but Desiree slips onto the bar stool next to me.
“Hey, boo.”
I glance to my side. “Desi. You look good.”
“Thanks. You too.” She leans back on the stool, pushing her tits damn near out of her bustier as she arches her back.
Paul nearly swallows his tongue, even though he sees plenty of skin in this place. Desiree is just that gorgeous with her blond mane and tip-tilted cat eyes. Poor kid doesn’t stand a chance.
She orders a vodka rocks, and he nearly drops the bottle and the glass while making it. She shoots him a wink and then shifts her gaze to me. “What’s happening, lady?”
She’s making small talk, but what I have to say isn’t small or fit to be discussed in this room.
“We need privacy.”
Some of the languid grace of her posture dies. “What’s wrong?”
“Privacy,” I repeat. “You have a room for tonight?”
Worry lines her normally porcelain-smooth brow. “Of course.”
“We’ll talk there. Lead the way.” I slide off the bar stool, and when Paul stares after Desiree as she struts away from the bar, I turn back to him for a beat. “Close your mouth, Paul. You’ll drool in the drinks, bud.”