I scurry back to my original spot on the sidewalk, the one that affords me the best view of the Hawthornes through the window while also still keeping out of sight. I see Charles and Barbara Hawthorne look up as the judge approaches them. Mr. Hawthorne gives Judge Connelly a friendly handshake, and the judge bends down to plant a whiskery kiss on Barbara’s hand. He takes a seat at the table and immediately brings the glass of wine to his mouth.
“I didn’t realize they were friends,” I murmur into the phone, nearly forgetting that Miranda is on the other end of the line.
“What are you talking about? Tell me!” Miranda pleads.
“I’m outside a restaurant where the Hawthornes are having lunch. The judge is with them. Remember him? The one who sentenced my parents?”
“Of course I remember him. He was an asshole. I’ve never seen anyone quite so glad to send someone away for life.”
“The Hawthornes don’t seem to think he’s so bad,” I say, edging closer for a better look. Apparently, the judge has just said something very funny. Both the Hawthornes are laughing.
It’s possible that this is just a business lunch, I try to reason with myself, not wanting to jump to any conclusions. After all, the Hawthornes are one of the most powerful families in New Orleans, and it’s possible that, being the well-connected people that they are, they’re simply discussing business with Judge Connelly over wine and jambalaya.
But there’s an obvious familiarity between them as they speak with easy smiles on their faces.
“Have you ever considered,” Miranda says quietly into my ear, “what you’ll do with the rest of them? Besides the Hawthornes?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Hawthornes may have been the ones who may have gotten this whole ball rolling. With your parents, I mean. But they aren’t the only ones to blame,” says Miranda insistently. “They weren’t the ones that found your parents guilty. They weren’t the ones that sentenced your parents to life in prison. If you ask me, your parents were wronged by more people than just the Hawthornes.”
I’m surprised to hear Miranda say this.
“And here I was thinking you were just in this for the money,” I say, half-joking.
“What can I say? I’m a con woman with a heart of gold.”
I twist a strand of my hair nervously, mulling over her words.
As I was planning this return trip, it had only been the Hawthornes at the forefront of my mind. But watching Judge Connelly through the window as he motions to a waiter for another glass of wine, I feel my thirst for vengeance deepen.
Miranda’s words have stoked a fire in me.
There’s a bleep on the line, indicating that someone has sent me a text message. I pull the phone away to read the message, and my eyes widen when I realize who it is.
Liam.
Where are you right now? reads the text.
He’s contacting me already? He must have enjoyed our date more than I realized. I wonder which part, I think, feeling a familiar warmth between my legs.
“I’ve got to go. Liam’s texting me,” I say hurriedly to Miranda.
“Of course, go! Good luck! And for God’s sake, this time keep me updated!”
“Thanks, I will,” I promise, and jab at the screen to hang up. I text back to Liam, I’m in the French Quarter.
It’s only a few seconds before Liam’s response pops onto the screen: Are you wearing panties?
The warmth between my legs turns more intense. My cheeks flush.
I’d answer, but I don’t want to lie to you.
Once again, Liam’s response is immediate. I’m displeased to hear that. Remember what we discussed. It’s not a question.
I look down at my dress, which is rustling softly in the breeze around my bare legs. What is he trying to say? I thought he said that I was only supposed to go commando for future dates—not when I’m walking around the French Quarter by myself, stalking his parents. But of course he doesn’t know about that last part.
The phone chirps again. I look back at the screen and gasp at what I read.
Take them off.
My hands begin to tremble with nervous excitement. I wait there for a few moments, counting the seconds. How much time does a woman need to remove her underpants in public without drawing too much attention? A minute? Two?
Finally, I text back, Okay, done.
What Liam doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?
Send me a picture, Liam responds.
My mouth drops. He can’t actually expect me to put the camera between my legs and take a picture—can he? I know that his hands were all over me last night, but somehow this seems more intimate.
My heart pounds. I don’t want to say no, but the idea of sending him a naked photo this early in the game is almost too much to consider.
Maybe after date #2. You know that I’m a proper lady, after all, I text back. That seems like a good compromise.
One of your many charming qualities. Fine. Send me a photo of the panties, then. On the sidewalk. I want to paint a mental picture of you walking nearly nude around the French Quarter.
I hesitate, wondering how to reply, but then Liam sends a second text message.
I’m stuck in board meetings all day and I’m already bored to death. Help make my afternoon a little more interesting and I’ll reward you later.
Reward me? A hundred possibilities spring to mind, and each and every one of them sends a shiver through me.
I walk a little farther up the sidewalk and press myself against the side of a nightclub. The door to the club is shut and the windows are closed—it hasn’t opened yet this early in the day. I steal a glance on either side of me to be sure that no one is looking. As quickly and inconspicuously as I can, I reach under my dress and yank my panties down. I kick them off quickly and toss them a few feet away, as if separating myself from the scene of a crime.
I’m suddenly aware of how the air is cool and light between my legs; I can feel something in my pelvis twinge with excitement.
Silently thanking myself for choosing attractive-looking panties this morning, I turn on my camera’s phone and snap a quick picture. Quickly, before I can stop myself, I send the photo to Liam.
You’ve got excellent taste in lingerie, Sophia, he texts back.
Can I pick them back up now? I ask.
No. You won’t need them. Think of it as a gift for whatever lucky person happens to come across them.
I hesitate.
I could leave these here and walk around the city for the rest of the day knowing that some stranger has discovered my panties. The idea sends a hot pulse between my legs.
But then, I reason, I’d lose a perfectly good set of panties. And I guess this is getting a little weird. And besides, Liam won’t know that I scooped them back up.
My nerves win out. I lean over, suddenly hyper-aware that I can’t bend too far over without exposing myself, and snatch them from the sidewalk. I stuff the panties quickly in my bag. I’ll wash them later and they’ll be as good as new. And he won’t ever know.
The phone chirps again. Liam’s sent me another text message.
I’m taking you out tonight. I need something to look forward to at the end of this dreadful day. I’ll come by at nine to pick you up.
What if I have plans tonight? I text back. I don’t, of course, but I just want to see what he’ll say.
Cancel them.
There’s that dominant attitude again. I chuckle softly to myself.
Where are we going this time? I ask.
You’ll find out soon enough, he replies.
Another surprise?
You’ll enjoy yourself, I promise.
I look back over to the restaurant’s brick interior, where Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne are still inside with the judge. My heart starts to beat fast with anticipation for whatever Liam has in store for me.
I can still hardly believe that this is all actually happening. For years, I’ve dreamed of retribution—and
now I finally feel like it’s within my grasp. Every date with Liam brings me closer. And now it’s only a matter of time before the Hawthornes get what’s coming to them.
Can’t wait, I text back. See you tonight.
6
A fresh pair of lavender panties lies neatly on my hotel bed.
I stare at them, fidgeting, engaged in a furious and silent debate with myself about whether to put them on. I know that I agreed to Liam’s terms—but there’s no way he actually expects me to follow through with it, does he?
It was one thing to concede to the “no-panties” rule in the heat of the moment under the moonlight, but it’s another notion entirely in the harsh white light of my hotel room. Somehow it strips away all of the excitement and intrigue of the last twenty-four hours.
Suddenly, I’m just a scared little girl testing the limits of her—what? Sexuality? Sense of daring? Determination for vengeance? All of the above?
My eyes flick to the digital clock on the nightstand. The numbers flash at me, red and urgent. Liam will be here any minute. I have to make up my mind, and soon.
And what if I do decide to put on the panties? What will Liam say if he tries to touch me down there—correction: when he touches me? Will he turn angry at my refusal to obey? Will he refuse to see me again? Could my entire vengeful scheme collapse over such a thin detail?
Or—what if he expresses his anger in a different way? He had promised to “reward me” for texting him that photo earlier today. What if there’s an opposite to that—what if he wants to punish me?
Somehow, this possibility is almost as thrilling as the notion of not wearing panties at all.
I grab the panties and toss them back into the drawer. Better to choose the safer of my two options, I decide. At least this way I know what I’m in for.
There’s a knock on the door.
This time, I don’t keep him waiting. I rush across the room and grab the handle before he’s even finished knocking.
Liam grins when I open the door. His left cheek dimples when he smiles, I realize.
How have I not noticed that before? I think to myself.
He looks absolutely dashing in a three-piece business suit, a blue hue so dark and deep that it reminds me of the night sky. His hair is combed back neatly; not a single strand is out of place.
“Did you come here from work, or is our date actually just another board meeting?” I joke.
“I don’t think the members of the board would approve of what I intend to do to you,” he says, winking at me. My stomach begins to fill with butterflies.
“So where are we going?” I ask, reaching for a scarf. I know that the straps of my soft black dress are not going to be enough to keep me warm this evening, particularly if we’re going somewhere that blasts the A/C—which is practically everywhere in this town.
“You keep asking me that, as if I’m going to suddenly forget that I told you that it would be a surprise,” Liam says coyly, watching me wrap the scarf around my shoulders. I step out into the hallway with Liam and lock the door behind me.
“Am I supposed to put on the blindfold again?” I whisper to him as we walk down the corridor.
“It won’t be necessary this time,” he says. He smiles and then adds, “But if you’re so excited to wear it, we can find other uses for it later.”
I stifle a gasp. Liam clearly senses my discomposure, and his smile grows wider. Clearly, he enjoys testing my limits.
Lucky me.
The drive this time is quick. Soon enough, the view from my window is filled with bars, cafes, and clusters of people sipping from tall margarita cups. The car slows to a stop.
When Thomas comes around to open the door for us, we are instantly hit with the sounds of nightlife in the French Quarter: the indecipherable din of chattering people, the muted sounds of live music spilling out of bars and clubs, and the occasional woo! of excitement coming from somewhere down the street.
Liam gently takes my arm and helps me out of the car. I’m extra careful to keep my dress tight around my legs as I wobble onto the sidewalk. I chose to wear this dress tonight specifically because it’s more demure, hitting me at my knees instead of mid-thigh.
Still, the dangerous possibility of accidentally flashing someone is at the front of my mind.
His hand now on the small of my back, he leads me only as far as the end of the block before we come to a stop. We’re standing in front of a building that’s three stories high, each level boasting its own balcony with elaborate wrought iron railings.
“This is it,” he says, nodding to the blue awning that curves around the building. My eyes widen when I read the sign: ROYAL SONESTA HOTEL.
I can feel my pulse quicken beneath my skin.
Well, here we go, I think, trying to catch my breath.
I didn’t expect him to bring me to bed quite so soon, but I realize now that I was a fool not to expect it. It’s not like he put on any pretense about his desires.
His hand moves to the back of my neck and unexpectedly moves back and forth across my shoulders. The pressure is soothing against my tense muscles. For such a domineering, stoic person, the gesture is surprisingly kind.
“I know what you must be thinking,” he says quietly. “But it’s not what it looks like. Follow me.”
Not what it looks like? What else can it possibly be? I think wildly to myself, but nevertheless I follow him inside.
We step into a grand lobby. My eyes widen as I look around; it’s like something out of a myth. Arches are cut into the pale walls, making room for floor-to-ceiling windows on one side and a registration desk on the other. Intricate red rugs add a splash of color to the polished, ivory floor. The room seems impossibly vast. Is it a trick or mirrors, or does it really stretch on forever? I can’t tell.
But we don’t continue into the lobby. Instead, we turn and walk through a set of thick black velvet curtains. When we emerge from the other side, it feels like we’ve stepped through space and time, back to the Roaring Twenties. The room we’re standing in is dark and intimate, with a dozen tables clustered in front of a small stage. Red curtains are draped on the wall behind the stage, where a man in a suit is puffing at his trombone. Behind him, a pianist, a drummer, and upright bass player pluck at their instruments.
My shoulders drop in relief. So this is what he meant. We’re just going to listen to some jazz. This I can handle.
We take the table at the back of the room, and a waitress comes by immediately with menus in hand. I study the cover, which reads Irvin Mayfield’s Jazz Playhouse. I’ve never heard of this place—but I guess you tend to miss a lot of New Orleans’ hotspots if you move away when you’re only eleven years old.
“So no whiskey for you tonight, I take it?” he says lightly, perusing the menu.
I shake my head. “But the Ramos Gin Fizz sounds good.”
Liam waves back the waitress and places our order. He scoots his chair close to mine and stretches his arm behind my shoulders. We’re both quiet for a moment, listening to the jumping, rollicking sounds of the band onstage. The waitress returns with our drinks. The Gin Fizz is sweet and tart on my tongue.
“Do you listen to much jazz?” Liam speaks into my ear so that I can hear him properly—any further away in this loud room and his words would just sound like incomprehensible noises.
“Not really,” I say, “but I’d like to start.”
“You’re in a good city for it,” Liam says. He starts to tell me about his favorite local players and where to find them, but all I can concentrate on is his hand. It rests on my bare knee, only inches away from the hem of my dress.
After I fail to respond to one of his questions about jazz instruments, he catches me staring. His hand begins to slide up my leg in response, teasing me.
“So eager,” says Liam, misunderstanding my nervous expression for excitement. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Sophia.”
I turn toward him. His nose is only inches away from
mine.
His blue eyes find my browns. There’s something peculiar about them—something dark and sad and searching. This is not the look of a man who’s only interested in sex.
These eyes belong to a man who wants something more, I realize.
“What are some of the other things you like about me?” I whisper.
“You never cease to surprise me, for one,” he replies.
I raise my eyebrows. How is that possible? Has he already forgotten the blindfold, the steering lesson?
“But you’re the one who’s always bringing me on surprise dates.”
“There are a lot of women who wouldn’t like that,” he says, and the image of my cousin’s face wafts through my mind. “You’re willing to go along with these things, even when it’s obvious that it flusters you.”
Damn, I think to myself.
There’s my heart on my sleeve again, always betraying my true inner feelings. But miraculously, somehow it’s worked to my favor.
Liam continues, “I’m not certain of this yet, but—“
I lean forward, eager to hear the rest of his sentence, but at this moment, the trombone player cuts him off with a whining blast of noise.
“What? But what?” I ask.
Liam takes a sip of whiskey, looking pensive. “But you might be the kind of woman I’m looking for. I’m not sure yet.”
My heart begins to pound in excitement. The plan is working. It’s working. Miranda’s going to lose it when I tell her about this.
“What do you mean?” I prod. “Who are you looking for, exactly?”
“Someone daring. Unafraid.”
I nearly choke on my Gin Fizz. “Why should I be afraid?” I ask him, trying to force a playful tone into my trembling voice. “Are you going to hurt me?”
“Not unless you want me to,” Liam replies.
Holy crap! I try to find some hint of humor in his pale eyes, some indication that he’s joking—but all that I find is that dark gaze; that steeling seriousness.
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