Sworn

by Maria Luis

  The officer’s eyes ducked down to stare at my non-pregnant body. “Let me get you his number, Miss . . .”

  I hesitated briefly, then told my first truth to another soul in years. “Laurel,” I whispered, my hands turning clammy where they rested on my stomach, “it’s Laurel.”

  “Right, Miss Laurel.” With quick, efficient movements, Officer Templeton opened his desk drawer and pulled out a rather large binder. He popped it open, tongue to the tip of his finger, and began to flip through the pages, one by one. “Don’t know why they alphabetized this damn thing by first name. Hold on.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Would Asher be shocked to answer my phone call? Knowing him, he’d find a way to turn it all around and ask me the one question I’d tried my best not to think about for the last few days: whether or not I’d get on my knees for him.

  You wouldn’t, especially not now after . . . everything.

  In the darkest parts of my soul, however, I feared that I would.

  “All right, Miss Laurel, here we go.”

  Hearing my real name made me twitchy, and I pasted a smile on my face and took the scrap of paper he handed me with a number scrawled across it. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Officer.”

  Templeton’s cheeks flushed red at the praise. “My name’s Josiah,” he muttered, eyes on the gift shop behind me, “if you’re looking for a middle name or something down the road, and it’s a boy, consider it as payment for linking the two of you up.”

  The way this day was going, I’d have a fake bedroom designed for the baby by the time the clock struck midnight, too.

  Still, I owed him at least my left kidney, and so I played right along with the tangled webs I’d spun. “Josiah with an ‘h’ at the end?”

  The corner of his mouth crooked upward. “Yes, miss.”

  “You got it, Josiah with an ‘h.’” I backed up, one foot and then another, offering a little wave. “Thank you so much for everything!”

  Twisting on my heel, I ducked my head and picked up my pace as I headed for the front door. Pregnancy lie aside, I’d gotten exactly what I’d wanted tonight.

  Hooking my backpack to my front like a kangaroo pouch as I walked, I unzipped the front pocket and shoved the paper inside, too preoccupied with tucking it in safely to watch my step.

  A body bulldozed into my shoulder, or maybe it was the other way around, and I released a soft “oomph!” when I twisted to the side from the unexpected contact.

  And then I saw the person who’d bumped into me, and the soles of my boots might as well have turned into glue. My weight swung forward, hands clenching at my sides, and then, like one of those toys that pops back into place, no matter how hard you shove the plastic body, I rebounded.

  Run.

  My heart shrieked at me to go, to sprint through the front door and hail the first cab that could take me anywhere in the city . . . so long as it wasn’t here. But my feet, my damn feet were still rooted to the ground where I stood.

  Run! Run! Run!

  “Watch where you’re going, ma’am,” one of my stepfather’s bodyguards barked at me as they all stepped into the lobby as a uniform group, like a school of fish.

  I fell back, hands locked on my backpack straps, my eyes never veering away from the man who’d ordered Momma’s death. In my wildest dreams, I had imagined this moment a thousand-and-one different ways.

  The most frequent reverie ended with a bullet to the back of his head, just as he’d done to Momma.

  The most rational one, on the other hand, had me dominating the conversation as we sat in a courtroom. Before me, on a table, I would have every document linking my mother’s death to Jay Foley organized, laminated, and tucked into files that I thumbed through without quivering hands.

  But in every version of the events that existed in my head, I never imagined the one that actually played out.

  Fear seeped into my veins, saturating every ligament, every tendon, every muscle, turning my limbs into useless appendages that did nothing but tremor. My legs, my arms, all paralyzed. After twelve years, I was in the same room as my mother’s murderer . . . and terror gripped me like a poison I’d experienced only once in my life.

  The night everything went to hell.

  “Sorry, Mr. Mayor,” said the bodyguard who’d spoken to me, “another lost tourist.”

  I prayed for Foley to keep his eyes on anyone else, to keep them off me. I prayed so hard that when his gaze did swing my way, it was as though I’d drawn on the invisibility cloak from Harry Potter that I’d begged so much for as a child.

  I didn’t dare breathe as his dark eyes slid over me, lingering for one impossibly interminable second, then dismissed me in the next.

  Never in my life had I ever been so grateful to be deemed just “another lost tourist.”

  Feeling as though every nerve on my body had turned to ice, I swerved on my booted heel and beat it for the front doors. Toward safety.

  “Ma’am?”

  Oh, God.

  “Ma’am!” Clipped shoes hit an even staccato behind me. “Ma’am, you dropped something.”

  You can do this, I told myself. Just turn around and act normal, and for the love of all things good, do not break down into tears in this goddamn lobby.

  The mental pep talk didn’t do me a lick of good.

  I looked back over my shoulder, careful to keep my body trained to the exit in case I needed to bolt, only to see Officer Templeton standing there. Now that he was no longer sitting down, it was hard to miss how big he was, nearly the same size as Asher. But unlike the man who’d taken my innocence, Templeton looked at me with sympathy.

  Probably on account of the whole baby thing.

  Gaze skirting over to where my stepfather stood, I kept my voice low. “Is everything okay, Officer?”

  Templeton thrust an arm forward, his hand closed in a fist. “This fell out of your backpack while you were leaving.” Fist turning over, he flattened his hand. In the center of his palm was a crinkled ball of paper.

  Heart thundering, I shook my head and looked back to my stepfather again. If he saw us . . . if he bothered to take another look at me . . . . Every word in my vocabulary tangled into nothingness. “I don’t—”

  Templeton invaded my space, palm out. “Take the damn thing before someone sees,” he hissed.

  The urgency in his voice had me obeying like a soldier in respect of a drill sergeant. The balled-up paper fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, and I nodded my thanks awkwardly. “I appreciate it. I’m going to go now.”

  His dark eyes flitted over my face. “Be careful today,” was all he said, cryptic as all get-out.

  Without wasting another moment, I ducked out of the police precinct, letting the curtain of my hair shield my profile from prying eyes—my stepfather’s eyes, in particular.

  Tourists jostled past me as I tumbled out onto Royal Street, and with a quick look to my left, I darted right, away from the more commercialized side of the Quarter with its bright lights and even louder music.

  I needed the darkness. I needed the shadows.

  At one in the afternoon, neither was a possibility.

  Ten minutes later, I found myself in the very first pew of St. Louis Cathedral with the kneeler pulled down. To anyone walking down the center aisle as they roamed the historic church, I was sure I looked like a devout Christian in prayer.

  And I did pray.

  I prayed long and hard that Mayor Jay Foley forgot all about our accidental meet-up.

  I prayed that Officer Templeton wouldn’t repeat my appearance at the station to anyone else.

  I prayed, most of all, for the fear to flee my body. In the span of minutes, I’d lost every ounce of confidence I’d gained in the last few years and turned back into that scared little girl with her face buried in her knees while her mother was killed just feet away.

  Coward.

  The word shot around in my head like a slingsh
ot, repeating over and over again with every inhale that I drew into my body. I had lived where my mother had died, and instead of honoring her by standing tall and coming out to the public about what had really happened on that terrible night, I had run.

  Twelve years later, I was still running.

  All those years of researching took on an entirely new meaning as I knelt at that pew, my stepfather’s face still so vivid in my mind.

  I was a coward. I was still that little girl, still too terrified of her own shadow to truly step out into the light and make a change. I was the very depiction of deception, living with my step-cousin and pretending for all these years that our meet-up had been entirely accidental and not, actually, designed by my own hand, after I’d caught mention of her name in the newspaper when she’d made a fool out of herself at an event held by my stepfather, her uncle.

  The sound of wood creaking snapped my head to the right.

  An elderly lady pulled down her kneeler, and, like me, rested her forehead against the back of her clasped hands. As though sensing my stare, she lifted her head and looked over at me.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  “Laurel—”

  My weight wavered on that pew, eyes zoned in on that little old lady’s face. “What did you say?”

  She blinked. “Love thy neighbor, child. You’re just fine there. No need to apologize.”

  Love thy neighbor.

  Love thy—

  Not Laurel. Never Laurel.

  “Peace be with you,” I ground out in a hoarse voice, just to return her kindness. Pay it forward and all that other shit.

  Sinking onto the backs of my heels, I dropped my gaze to the maroon kneeler. Templeton’s note. It was on the black-and-white tile, almost out of sight, and I silently berated myself for dropping it in the first place.

  Reaching down, I scooped it up and snagged a bible from the pew behind me. I propped it open with one hand at the base, letting the pages fall as they wanted. John 3:17. If I were a believer, I’d have a laugh at the irony of the message behind the verse—that through God, you might be saved. Here I was, hoping for salvation or, at least, some place to hide. As it was, I used the bible to conceal the way I unraveled the crinkled-up paper Templeton had shoved at me, rolling it flat like a batch of gooey cookie dough until the words became legible on the page.

  If chicken scratch could ever be completely legible, that was.

  Letter by letter, word by word, the ink came into focus.

  If you want to surprise Asher with the news, he’ll be at Whiskey Bay down in the Bywater tonight. 10pm. Wear something nice. ~ T.

  Whiskey Bay? There was no way that Templeton, a police officer, of all things, was encouraging me to camp out tonight at a strip joint in wait for my fake baby’s father . . . would he? I reread the note another time, then yet another time after that. I flipped it over, just to see if I’d miss something scrawled across the back.

  There was nothing.

  Approaching Asher at Whiskey Bay wasn’t a good idea. Hell, it was downright terrible.

  But after the day I’d had, terrible sounded just right.

  19

  Lincoln

  Walking into Whiskey Bay was a bit like stepping into a time portal.

  Nothing inside had changed in over a decade, not the red-and-black décor, with accents of gold; not the bouncers at the front door, who greeted me with a fist-bump and a “hell, man, it’s good to see you again.”

  Perhaps the only differences lay in the dancers themselves, who clung to metal poles, spun in elevated cages ten feet above the hardwood floor, and were a good deal younger than I remembered. Or maybe it was just that I was older, and probably not a good deal wiser.

  Kevan, a bartender from the olden days, slid a jack and coke across the bar to me. His once-curly dark hair had been shaved completely, his bald crown shining whenever the strobe lights hit at the right angle.

  He nodded to the drink. “Just like old times, right? You look the same.”

  I ignored the way he stared a little too hard at the right side of my face. “You’re as bald as a cock.” Bringing the cocktail up to my mouth, I sipped from the rim, disregarding the tiny straw he’d popped inside. “New look?”

  Kevan’s eyes turned flinty before he tipped his head back and laughed heartily. “Still a goddamn asshole,” he muttered, running a hand over his smooth skull. “Guess the NOPD didn’t wash out your mouth with some much-needed soap, am I right?”

  As usual when I let myself think about the NOPD and my suspension, bitterness swept over me. I downed a fourth of the jack and coke. “They tried, trust me.”

  “And failed?”

  “I’m still an asshole, aren’t I?”

  I hadn’t meant it to be funny, but Kevan roared with laughter, so much so that we caught more attention than I would have liked. Which reminded me of the other major difference here at Whiskey Bay . . .

  I leaned in, elbow on the bar. “I’ve never seen so many Hawaiian shirts and Birkenstocks in my life.” I nodded toward the other end of the bar where a dude stood, decked out in a pineapple-print shirt, tight pants, the requisite Birkenstock sandals, and an Apple watch on his wrist. “What the fuck happened to this place?”

  Kevan eyed the customer, snapped his gaze to the other bartender, and then rubbed the back of his head again. “Hipsters happened, man. The Bywater’s flooded with them.”

  “And they all can’t wait to go to the strip club on a Thursday night?” I knew why I was here, and it had nothing to do with the dancers putting on a performance for the crowd. No, like some sort of lovestruck idiot, I’d only thought of Avery since our night together. Even though I’d been a dick at the end. Pushing her from my thoughts before I risked getting distracted, I said, “Don’t tell me the Basement is overrun, too.”

  The Basement wasn’t at all underground here at Whiskey Bay. Dig a little too deep under the surface in New Orleans, and you’d hit nothing but water. No, the “basement” was an insider’s joke to those who knew Whiskey Bay best—on the second floor of the industrial building, it was home to everything that the first floor wasn’t.

  Gambling. Sex. Drugs.

  Morals were checked at the door and the only thing praised within were human vices.

  Putting his weight into it, Kevan dragged a white rag across the bar. “Same old shit up there.”

  I took another pull of my jack and coke. “Same old people up there, too?”

  There was a minute pause, and then, “Always has been.”

  Perfect.

  Setting my cocktail down by my elbow, I slid a folded twenty beneath the plastic cup. Pushed away from the bar with a nod of acknowledgement. “Good seeing you again, man.”

  Kevan’s voice stopped me, and I glanced back, brow raised.

  Behind the bar, he shuffled from one foot to the other, one hand lifting and then falling again on its way up to rub his shaved head. Clearing his throat, he sent me a quick glance and then looked away. “You haven’t been here in a while, and I can only imagine what’s brought you back. But I just . . . I’m actually GM around here now.”

  Did he want applause? I forced a grim smile. “Congrats, Kev. It’s long overdue.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Mouth twisting, his cheeks hollowed with a rush of air as he exhaled. “What I’m trying to say is, we still operate by the same rules. No whiskey spilled in here. Not even the shitty, cheap stuff.”

  The thinly veiled warning felt like a slap on the wrist.

  I hadn’t been gone so long that I didn’t catch his drift, though. At Whiskey Bay, “no whiskey spilled” was synonymous with “no bloodshed.” Lucky for him, the club was just my meeting spot for the night.

  Zak Benson, Number Four, had a reputation that surpassed him for frequently visiting the rooms upstairs and the gaming tables.

  Playing craps, of all things.

  Holding two fingers to my temple, I offered Kevan a salute that teetered on the line of sarcastic. “You got it, K
ev. No whiskey spilled.”

  Whistling as though I didn’t have a damn care in the world, I headed for the back of the club, sidestepping groups of people as they stared up in awe at the dancers twirling around effortlessly like Cirque de Soleil performers. If only the Birkenstock crowd knew that the Basement catered to live-sex acts, they’d probably shit themselves.

  Just as it always had, the back of the club tapered off into a narrow hallway where the public restrooms sat. Passing the men’s room and then the ladies’ room, I paused outside the third door on the right, the one marked with a black sign that read GENERAL STORAGE. I lifted my hand and knocked twice.

  No one answered.

  Frowning, I rapped my knuckles on the door, a little harder this time.

  Still nothing.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I ground out, frustration biting out with every word, “Nat, just let me the hell in.”

  The door cracked ajar, and a female voice drifted out. “What, does the big, bad Lincoln want entry to a place that he raided?”

  Guess she wasn’t over that yet. Leveling my shoulder against the door, I gave a little push to test whether or not Whiskey Bay’s owner was still holding down the fort on the other side. When there was no resistance, I slipped inside and gently shut the door with the heel of my foot.

  Nat, Whiskey Bay’s Queen and Ambideaux’s ex-wife, glared back at me, blocking entry to the stairs that led up to the Basement. To my utter lack of surprise, she was tapping her foot impatiently, her spitfire attitude all but palpable as she waited for me to apologize.

  She hadn’t changed a bit, though her hair was now more silver than brunette.

  I cleared my throat. “If we’re being technical here, I wasn’t the one to make the call for the raid a few years back. The Bywater’s not even in my district.”

  Wrong answer.