by Meghan March
She sure as hell does. Of that I have no doubt.
I hold my hands up in surrender as I back out of the doorway. “All right, all right. I’m going. I just had to see for myself if you were okay. I wasn’t about to let you bleed out somewhere all alone. Not on my watch.”
Her glare strengthens to the power of a nuclear weapon. “I’m not under your watch. So, why the hell are you following me? Why the fuck are you even here?”
I curl my fingers around either side of the doorway and squeeze. I’ve got nothing to lose by giving her the truth, and after all these years, she deserves it. So that’s what I do.
“I’m here for you, Mags. That’s the only reason I’m back.”
Her lower lip drops a half inch and the blunt nearly falls. Magnolia catches it and uses it to point at me. “Then leave. Because there’s nothing for you here. Not now. So, fuck off.”
I stay where I am. “Have dinner with me. Let me tell you—”
She pops the fat joint back in her mouth. “Motherfucker, no. I have nothing to say to you.”
What. A. Woman.
“Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock. Arnaud’s.”
“Not a fucking chance. Go to hell.”
I can’t help the smile that’s practically killing me to hide. “I’ll wait for you until they kick me out.”
She grabs the blunt, throws her head back, and that curtain of silky black hair goes flying as she bursts out laughing. “Try waiting fifteen fucking years, asshole.” Her mirth dies as quickly as it started, and she snaps her mouth shut. But she can’t take back what she said.
“You been waiting for me, mama? Because not a fucking day has gone by that I haven’t thought about you.”
After another deep drag, she puckers her lips again as she exhales, sending the cloud of smoke in my direction again. “I. Don’t. Care. And don’t fucking call me that. I’m nothing to you. Now, get the fuck out of my house before I shoot you.”
She lifts the shotgun as her amber gaze, a perfect match for the whiskey in the glass, spears into me like the blade that got her. She’s not fucking around, freshly painted walls or not.
“I’ll be waiting.”
She flips me off as she lowers the shotgun and reaches for the suture kit. I back away from the bathroom and show myself out of the house the same way I came in.
I’ll wait an eternity for you, Magnolia . . . but I hope you don’t make me.
With a backward glance at the light coming from the top right window of the house, I blow her a kiss that she’ll never see.
Thirteen
Magnolia
As soon as I hear the door click shut, I drop my head back to the wall I’m leaning against. My heart hammers like I’ve just run ten miles from the cops.
Jesus fucking Christ. What is he doing here? He shouldn’t be here. Saying those things . . .
“I’m here for you, Mags. That’s the only reason I’m back.”
His words wash over me before I can stop them.
I pluck the blunt from my mouth and clench my teeth. “I’m not drunk or high enough to have imagined that shit, am I?” I ask the empty room, and the lack of an answer tells me I’m right.
I lied to Moses. I have plenty to say to him. I’m just not ready to hear what he wants to tell me. Not at all.
Nothing he can say to me can make up for fifteen years of wondering why the fuck he never came back for me like he said he would. Fifteen years of knowing that it was easy for him to leave me behind. Fifteen years of knowing I wasn’t good enough for him. That I wasn’t worth it. That’ll fuck with a person.
“And how fucking dare he come back like this is something he can make right so damned easy?” I keep talking to the empty walls of my bathroom, but I wish there was someone to hear me. Even a fricking cat.
Maybe I should get a cat. A black one. Who hates men and has really sharp claws.
I set the shotgun down and reach for the bottle of whiskey. After a long pull, I nod to myself in the mirror.
Damn right. I’m getting a fucking cat. But first, I gotta sew myself up.
My hand is steady when I reach for the sutures and get set up. I sterilize the wound the best I can, and I go for it. As the needle punctures my flesh, I force my mind to go somewhere else. A trick I picked up at sixteen, when life on the streets should have killed me.
But instead of going to my happy place, it goes straight to the past . . . and Moses.
Fifteen years ago
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked as I pulled out the suture kit. The flashlight sat on the counter, reflecting in the mirror so I could see as much as possible.
I tilted my head at him. “You think I just keep this shit around for fun? Of course I know what I’m doing.”
“All right, mama. Then stitch me up.”
A thrill charged through me when he called me mama. I didn’t know why. I should have thought it was weird, but coming from this man, it was sexy as hell. He was sexy as hell.
Don’t think about fucking him while you’re sewing him up. Neat stitches. Less scarring.
“This is gonna sting,” I told him as my fingers hovered over the wound with the alcohol-soaked paper towels.
“Ain’t my first poke.”
I glanced down at the smooth golden skin of his chest, marked with scars that provided all the evidence I needed to know Moses hadn’t had an easy life either. It made me feel like he could understand me in a way most people never would. In a way nobody ever wanted to.
I pressed the paper towels against the wound, and he hissed between his teeth but said nothing and didn’t move. That strength and self-control was hot as fuck.
“All right. I’ll make this as quick as I can.”
His green-gold eyes flashed up at me. “Take all the time you need. I won’t flinch.”
Could this motherfucker be any sexier?
I believed the answer to that question was fuck no. My admiration probably had a hell of a lot to do with how he handled everything earlier tonight, but at that moment, I didn’t care about all that. Honestly, I didn’t even want to think about what would have happened if Moses hadn’t been here.
“Okay. I’ll make ’em neat and even.”
“Good woman.”
With his compliment warming me, I started working in the dim light, sewing closed a gash on his shoulder that he wouldn’t have had if not for me.
Present day
As I tie off the last stitch, the vision of Moses a decade and a half ago, in my newly inherited whorehouse right after Hurricane Katrina, fades away.
I ain’t got time to be dwelling on the past. Not anymore. Mama’s got herself a brand-new house, and she’s working on a future to match. No man will ever stand in the way of me getting the life I want.
Not even Moses Gaspard.
Fourteen
Magnolia
I wake up to the sound of a door shutting. Groaning, I sit up from where I’ve been curled up on the bathroom floor, using my duffel bag as a pillow. My back, neck, and side ache like a son of a bitch.
“I’m too old for this shit,” I mutter as I roll my head from side to side, trying to release the kink I got from sleeping in this position. Damn. Everything hurts.
“Someone up there? Ms. Maison?” Rocco calls from downstairs.
I clear my scratchy throat and answer. “Yeah, I’m here. I’ll be down in a minute.” I smack my lips together and realize I have wicked cotton mouth and need water.
“Shit. Sorry,” he calls. “Didn’t think anyone was around.”
Pushing up from the floor, I wince as the stitches at my side pull and stretch their limits. I peel back the tape and gauze to take a look at the wound. Not too bad. Neat sutures. Mostly straight. Doesn’t look infected.
I’ll call it a win. Lord knows I need one.
I rummage through the duffel, pull out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and change my clothes. I would have done it last night, but I smoked until I was so high there was
nothing I wanted more than to sleep for a few solid hours. I needed that too.
With a glance in the mirror, I realize my hair is a disaster, so I shake it out and finger comb it. Rocco has never seen me any way except totally put together, but I can’t bring myself to give a fuck right now.
I shove the shotgun back in the duffel, along with everything else, and do a quick wipe down to make sure I got all the blood. No need for more questions than he might already have.
That’s when I remember the knife. Shit. I hurry to wash it clean and quickly decide it’s going in the brand-new safe in the master closet.
With the duffel stowed and the knife locked away, I pick my way downstairs in the tennies from my go-bag.
Rocco looks up from nailing a piece of trim in the kitchen. The shock on his face tells me I look worse than I thought.
“You okay, Magnolia?” He doesn’t usually use my first name, but his concern seems sincere.
“I’m fine. I was here late, checking everything out, and decided to crash.” My voice sounds like I drank a fifth of whiskey and smoked a half ounce of weed—because I did.
His brows swoop together as if he’s trying to figure out why I’d choose to sleep on the floor since there’s no furniture. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m perfect. The house is too.” Hopefully, the compliment will cushion the blow of the bomb I’m about to drop. I need to adjust the timeline we agreed to only yesterday. “I’m moving my things into the master bedroom tonight. I need a change of scenery. Will you finish up anything you need in there so I can get someone here to clean it and the master bath?”
His eyes are as wide as saucers, but he nods. “Of course. Most of the punch list is for downstairs anyway. You don’t mind being here while I’m working? It shouldn’t be too loud, but it won’t be exactly quiet either.”
A little noise sure as hell beats getting shanked. “Do what you need to do, Rocco. I’ll handle the rest.”
He slaps the floor where he’s crouched like it’s settled. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you like.”
“Thank you.” With my clutch pressed against my side, I give him a weak smile. “Well, I’m off. Check in with you later.”
He waves, and I take a step toward the door leading outside to my gate. That’s when I see it. On the mantel. Another fucking chess piece.
I cross the room and grab the small white horse head.
“You play pretty fast and loose with that knight of yours.” Moses’s voice, fifteen years in the past, echoes in my head.
Beneath the chess piece is a piece of thick white paper. It reads:
* * *
8 p.m. Arnaud’s. I’ll wait for you.
* * *
I crumple it into a ball.
He’ll wait for me? He’ll fucking wait for me?
Keep waiting, motherfucker. Because you’ve got a lot of catching up to do.
Fifteen
Moses
“You think she’ll show tonight?” Trey asks from behind the computer he’s rarely ever separated from.
He looks up in time to catch the skeptical expression I shoot his way, but the clicking keeps coming as his fingers never stop moving.
“No way she’ll fucking show tonight,” Jules says with a shake of his head as he shoves a beet into the juicer for our pre-workout morning concoction. “That woman is going to be a tough nut to crack. I’ve got money on her putting a hole in ol’ Moses before she’s done.”
He’s not too far off. I met the business end of her sawed-off last night. Nevertheless, I throw my hand into the air and flip him off. “Fuck you, Jules. You gonna finish that shit before I turn eighty?”
Jules tosses his head back and laughs. “You’re just pissed she wouldn’t let you come to the rescue like some kind of white knight. Hate to break it to you, boss, but that ain’t exactly you.”
I ignore Jules and turn back toward Trey, who sits at the long scarred wooden table in the house we leased in the Marigny as our base of operations here in New Orleans.
We have a system, the three of us. We settle down in one place for a bit, and then travel to the jobs we decide to take. Make good money, and then move the fuck on. We’ve been living this way for over a decade, and I’m ready for something different.
Something slower. Something more peaceful. Something with a fiery raven-haired siren who I suspect needs peace in her life as badly as I do.
But before I could get to this phase in my life, where I was free to come back for her, there were a hell of a lot of hurdles to jump. More than I planned on, that’s for damn sure.
Luckily, we cashed in big in New York and handled my long-overdue business with Gabriel Legend—the last possible blade the guillotine of life had hanging over my head. Now that my shit with him is done and over, it’s time to get the girl and live happily fucking ever after. But that’s easier said than done. Especially when the woman in question is Magnolia Maison.
“That woman of yours wouldn’t want a white knight anyway. She can take care of herself. She needs a partner. Ride or die.” Trey grins at me.
Both of my colleagues have heard about my woman for years, and since we pulled up in the Big Easy, they’ve been watching her as closely as I have.
“Now that you can do,” he adds.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I reply as I cross the wide-open living-dining-kitchen area of the five-thousand-square-foot, modern-industrial rental, and scoop up the glass of juice Jules just poured for me.
“I don’t know how the fuck you two drink that shit,” Trey says, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
I peer down at the red liquid in the glass. “It doesn’t look bad.”
“Don’t play me. I saw what the fuck he put in that. Gross.”
I chug it in one swig and smack my lips for effect. “Fucking healthy. That’s what it is.”
Trey shakes his head. “I’ll stick to my non-healthy ways. Kills the badass-motherfucker vibe to drink beet juice.”
My badass-motherfucker vibe has little to do with what I drink and a lot to do with my reputation of making people disappear. My image is irrelevant. “You keep digging on that guy from last night. We’re gonna catch a workout, and then we’ll follow up on whatever leads you find.”
“Got it, boss.”
Trey salutes me as I grab my gym bag and head for the door with Jules on my heels and Magnolia on my mind.
Then again, she’s always on my mind. I haven’t been able to get the vision of her from last night out of my head. Sitting on the tile next to a big tub, shotgun in hand, smoking a blunt and drinking whiskey.
One hell of a woman.
As soon as we walk out the door, Jules pauses. “You think there’s a real shot she’ll come tonight?”
“That’s one thing for sure with Magnolia. You never fucking know.”
Sixteen
Magnolia
I take my Honda back to my condo building and pull it into its spot in the garage.
I’m on edge when I approach the elevator bay, but my strides are purely don’t fuck with me because I’ve got things to do and places to go. When I stop in front of the silver double doors, there’s an Out of Order sign in front of one car, and the memory of last night flashes through my brain.
He came so fast. So fucking fast. Goddamn it.
“You fucking whore!”
I can still hear the words. Was it personal? My gut knows it was. Shit like that happens in New Orleans, sure. But when it happens to me, it’s usually not an innocent coincidence.
Which makes what I’m doing today imperative—packing my two biggest suitcases with everything important and wheeling my way out of the building before anyone can ask me where I’m going.
That lasts until I step out on the sixth floor.
Instead of a guy coming at me with a knife this time, I spy a man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair standing in front of my neighbor’s door. Everything about him, down to the cheap suit and dusty loafers, screams
cop.
Great.
Did someone put a gris-gris on me?
Showing zero hint of recognition or concern, I clip down the hallway without paying him the least bit of attention.
“Excuse me. Ma’am?” he says as I walk by, but I pretend not to hear him.
I’ve got my key out and about to slide it into the lock when I sense him behind me.
He sucks his teeth and his nose whistles when he breathes. “This is some perfect timing. I was just knocking on your door.”
I glance over my shoulder, giving him as much time as I’d give a bee buzzing around my head. “What do you want? I’m not buying anything. Not your bibles. Not your vacuums. Not your bullshit. Not today. This building doesn’t allow soliciting, and I’m running late.”
That’s when I make a pivotal mistake. I meet his beady cop eyes and there’s no aw shucks, ma’am, I didn’t mean to bother you in them. His eyes are hard and sharp, but that’s not the worst part. I see recognition in them.
Fuck. He knows who I am.
Why am I surprised? I’ve spent the last fifteen years in this city attracting the wrong kind of attention from plenty of cops, but this guy isn’t familiar.
Have I ever met him? I flip through my mental files and come up empty.
That glint in his flat gray eyes tells me whatever is going to come out of his mouth next is nothing I want to hear.
“Let’s try this again. I’m Detective Cavender.” He flips out a badge and flashes it at me quickly, but I make out all the simple hallmarks of a legitimate NOPD shield. Crescent on top. Star in the middle. “I need to speak to you about last night.”
“What about last night?” I ask.
His bushy brows dive together on his forehead. “You didn’t hear the fire alarm?”