Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  I’m reeling. Staggering. Punch-drunk. I nearly fall over when someone stumbles into me. And I blink dully when a woman I don’t know grabs my cheeks and kisses me on the mouth before hollering, “Happy New Year!” and dancing away.

  I’ve forgotten where I am. I’ve forgotten when I am or who I am or why I am. But there’s one thing I know.

  With those three words, Maggie has changed everything.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  You can come to your senses in a blinding flash. Like a tire iron upside the head.

  One minute, I was dancing with Luc like I’ve danced with him dozens of times before. The next minute… Bam! Tire iron.

  There’s no more denying it. No more shrugging it off. And definitely no more pretending it’s something it’s not.

  I want him.

  I want Luc.

  Thinking back, the writing was on the wall, but I didn’t see it. It was right under my nose, but I didn’t sniff. In short, my body knew long before my mind did.

  All those times I touched him and pulled away because something felt…off? All that hair-pulling and hand-wringing when I thought he might start dating Eva? Those nasty feelings I had toward Sally Renee? My crazy insistence on trying to set him up with Lauren—a woman I knew wasn’t right for him. Yeah. All of that was because I wanted him. For. Myself.

  But…how? How could I? How can I?

  For twelve years, my whole heart has belonged to Cash. Despite the distance that separated us, I’ve always yearned for Cash. Through a handful of relationships, I’ve always come back around to Cash.

  And now there’s this thing with Luc?

  Luc, the boy who used to sit on the front porch swing and paint my toenails? Luc, the first person I complained to when I had period cramps? Luc, the one I confessed my nervousness to about going to third base? Luc, the guy who, six months ago, I would have sworn up and down was the brother I never had?

  It feels so wrong.

  And yet, weirdly, it feels exactly right.

  Lord, I’m confused.

  All I know is that I need to see Cash. I need to talk to him. Maybe if I look at him, maybe if I hear his voice, I’ll realize what I’m feeling for Luc is a misunderstanding at best. A hallucination at worst. I’ll realize that it’s Cash I love. Cash I want.

  Like always.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I hand the taxi driver a twenty from my sparkly party clutch and add, “Keep the change,” before stepping onto the curb.

  The Vieux Carré is hopping tonight. Locals and tourists alike are out en masse ringing in the New Year. The sound coming from Bourbon Street is a dull roar of drunken debauchery. Smoke from the fireworks the city exploded over the river at midnight lingers in the air, making my nose itch and leaving an ashy taste on my tongue.

  After the countdown and kiss, after I ran from Luc like the coward I am, I frantically searched high and low for Cash. He was nowhere to be found, unfortunately. But eventually, I ran into a guy smoking on the veranda. After telling him Aunt Bea would skin him alive if she caught him, I gave him Cash’s description and asked if he’d seen anyone who looked like that. He told me he saw a man who might’ve been Cash climb into an Uber.

  I took my chances and called a cab.

  Now, standing in front of Cash’s house, I’m relieved to see lights burning inside. He could’ve gone anywhere in the city. To an all-night diner for a burger. To one of the house parties that rage in The Quarter. Or to any one of the hundreds of bars. But, thankfully, he came home.

  Blowing out a shaky breath, I head toward the front stoop. After taking the steps two at a time, I lift a hand to knock, only to find the door cracked open.

  Palm flat against the wooden surface, I hesitate. Considering the state he’s in, now might not be the best time to admit, Hey, you know Luc? Our best bud? Well, I think I might want to boink the daylights out of him.

  Then again, when would be the best time to admit that?

  I’m thinking…never.

  Shoving open the door, I holler, “Cash!” The word dies in my throat. The sh sound is barely a whisper by the time I’m finished.

  Scarlet Jensen is up against the wall. The top of her dress is pulled down to reveal the side of one bare breast, and the bottom hem is hiked up over her naked butt. Cash is behind her, his suit pants down around his ankles. He has a handful of her hair wrapped around his fist, and he’s hammering into her, his face red with exertion and beaded with sweat.

  When he looks over at me, he blinks blearily. I might as well be a three-toed sloth for all the understanding that shows on his face.

  Unfortunately, I’m not having any trouble comprehending what’s going on. Despite the whole room tilting, I can’t deny what’s right in front of my eyes.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I whisper, blindly reaching for the door behind me. “Sorry, I—” I shake my head and turn to run.

  I don’t remember how I got to the sidewalk. Did I skip down the steps or simply jump to the ground superhero-style? Either way, here I am, standing on the cracked concrete, looking up and down the street, unsure where to go.

  My heart feels like it’s been popped into a pressure cooker with the temperature set to high. My head is a jumble of amorphous, swirling thoughts. There’s a pain low in my gut, like someone has taken a fistful of my bowels and is cruelly twisting them.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Maggie?”

  I gasp and spin to see Cash standing in the open doorway, doing up his zipper and wiping the sweat from his brow. His hair is a mess. His tie is half undone. And his eyes look surprisingly clear.

  “Sorry,” I manage even though someone has shoved a towel down my throat. “I came by to—”

  Why am I here again? I can’t recall.

  The scene from his living room is branded onto the backs of my eyelids. Every time I blink, I see it all over again. Scarlet’s mouth open and panting. The flex of Cash’s butt muscles as his hips piston. The raw sexuality of the moment, and the simple, inexplicable truth that I walked in on the man I love making love—No. Not making love. That was fucking—another woman.

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  “Dammit, Maggie,” he growls, shoving a hand through his hair, mussing it even more than Scarlet’s fingers already have. “You can’t barge in on me like that. You can’t—”

  My voice is a bare rasp when I interrupt. “I know. I’m sorry.” And where the heck is Scarlet? Looking over his shoulder through the open doorway, I can’t see hide nor hair of her. Did she escape back into his bedroom? Even now, is she sprawled naked on his mattress, awaiting his return?

  I really do think I’m going to be sick.

  For a while, he says nothing. Simply stands on the top step glaring at me, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Finally, he demands, “For fuck’s sake, stop crying. You’re making me feel like a total shit-heel when I haven’t done a damned thing wrong.”

  It’s not until he mentions it that I realize hot tears are streaking down my cheeks. I scrub them away. To my shame, more erupt to take their place.

  “I told you all I want is to be your friend,” he fumes. “Don’t make me feel like you caught me cheating on you.”

  “No.” I shake my head, wanting to get out of here. Needing to get out of here. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I only wanted to…” What? What did I want to do? “Wish you a happy New Year,” I finish lamely. “So…” I roll my hand, only to find it’s shaking. “Happy New Year. I’ll…uh…let you get back to it.”

  Then I turn tail and run.

  Shoving my way through the throng on Bourbon Street, I frantically wipe the tears from my cheeks. Then I recall what took me to Cash’s house in the first place.

  Luc.

  Luc, my savior. Luc, my friend. Luc my…one true desire?

  A strangled laugh escapes me when I consider the hypocrisy of my situation. I’m upset that Cash is screwing so
meone else when I want to screw someone else? When I specifically went to his house to admit that very thing to him?

  What is wrong with me? Why can’t I decide what I want? When will all of this stop hurting so much? And how can any of this be right?

  I’m so strung out on adrenaline and nerves that I can’t think straight. But I know I need to see Luc. We’ve got to talk about what happened.

  Pulling my cell phone from my clutch, I text him.

  Me: Where are you?

  I chew on a hangnail and quicken my steps toward home as I wait for his reply. It takes a minute, but then I see three dots appear on my screen. He’s typing. And then…

  Luc: Almost home. Pulled over 2 side of road. Y’okay? You disappeared from the party.

  Me: Fine. In The Quarter heading home.

  Luc: Good. You find Cash?

  I choke on a half laugh, half sob. Did I find Cash? Oh yeah. I found him.

  Me: He’s back at his place.

  Luc: Glad he’s home safe. Listen, don’t freak out about what you told me. I’m fine if you wanna forget it. Chalk it up to too much to drink or the party atmosphere or whatever.

  Me: Don’t want to chalk it up to anything. DO want to talk about it.

  Luc: Call me?

  I stumble to a halt, staring at those two words. Should I call him? Would it be smarter than going to see him?

  “Argh!” I wail when someone rams into me, a hard elbow slamming into my shoulder and momentarily numbing my fingers so that I drop my cell phone.

  “Ssssorry,” a guy in a sequined party hat and a shirt covered in beer stains slurs. He staggers drunkenly, and before I can retrieve my phone, his foot lands on top of it.

  A sickening crunch can be heard above the noise of the revelers streaming by.

  “No!” I yell, picking up my demolished phone. The screen is shattered, and one whole corner is bent at a precarious angle.

  The drunk’s slow, lopsided grin makes me consider doing extreme violence to his nether regions.

  “Ssssorry,” he slurs again. Then he shrugs and rejoins the group weaving their way up the sidewalk.

  Hardening my jaw, I continue my march toward home.

  The houses in the French Quarter are painted every visible color in the light spectrum. Walking down certain streets, you begin to wonder if a bartender slipped a psychedelic drug into your drink. But I’m in no mood for the visual feast tonight.

  As the blocks pass, I try not to replay what I saw at Cash’s house. But it’s useless. The scene is on repeat in my head. Over and over again, I’m pummeled with the imagery. Battered by it. But oddly, each recital, each echo hurts less than the one before it.

  I can feel something happening inside me. A part of me is unraveling. Loosening. Letting go. It’s like the tectonic plates in my heart are shifting.

  I hate to say it, but it’s almost a relief.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Dear Cash,

  Randy Barker stopped by the ice cream parlor this afternoon. You probably don’t remember him since he’s quiet and shy and mostly likes to spend his free time with his nose shoved in a book. We had the same study hall our freshman year, and I remember thinking then that there was something sweet about him. And interesting, in an unassuming way. I mean, anyone who reads that much is bound to be interesting, right?

  Anyway, he asked me out, and I should have said yes. I opened my mouth to say yes, but my heart wouldn’t let my lips form the word.

  The silly organ still belongs to you, apparently.

  That’s hard for Eva to understand. When I called her and told her what happened, she scolded me for being a fanciful fool.

  I suppose I am a fanciful fool. It’s officially been a full year since you left, and yet here I am, pining for you the same as ever.

  Speaking of the year anniversary, Sullivan called me in for questioning again this evening after I got off work. I guess he thought to remind me that Dean is still gone—not that I could ever forget—and I told him what I’ve always told him. What I CAN tell him.

  Like always, he wasn’t satisfied. I think he might’ve tried to get nasty with me, but Aunt Bea was there with her lawyer, and after about an hour, they both decreed that Sullivan’s time was up.

  I was shaking in my shoes by the time I left.

  I’m still shaking now as I write this.

  A year, Cash. A YEAR! How can that be?

  The flip-book you gave me is sitting here beside me. The Story of Us. I wonder, has our story reached its end?

  Love, Maggie

  Living with a broken heart sometimes causes you to make broken decisions.

  The look on Maggie’s face as she stood in the doorway will haunt me for the rest of my days. Never wanted her to see me with another woman. Not like that anyway. Only wanted the gossip and the rumors that I’d been with Scarlet to reach her ears so she’d finally realize I’m serious about the limits of our relationship and give up hoping for more.

  God knows I have.

  Once and for all.

  The email I received before leaving for Miss Bea’s party did the trick, and thinking of it now reminds me of my conversation with Violet. That was never part of The Plan. But when she came at me, calling me dirty names and accusing me of everything under the sun, my pride wouldn’t allow me to stand there and take it.

  Now I’m left with the regret of telling her. Not that I’m worried she’ll spill things to Maggie. She has many less-than-desirable traits, but being a liar isn’t one of them, and she gave me her word that she’d keep things between us. But still. Now someone knows and—

  The sound of the toilet flushing precedes the arrival of Scarlet in the living room. She looks at me askance and brushes a self-conscious hand through her hair.

  Ever notice how some people can screw a complete stranger without a moment of awkwardness, but the instant they’re required to talk afterward, they turn into the world’s shyest person?

  “Sorry about…” I give the front door a feeble wave. “That.”

  Her lips twist. “Are the two of you—”

  “Friends,” I cut her off before she can finish. “Just friends.”

  “Oh.” She nods, clearly relieved. “Good.” Then she giggles, her shyness disappearing. “I guess next time we should make sure we lock the door behind us. Although…” She sidles up to me, patting my chest, her expression coquettish. “If next time is anything like this first time, we’ll be too carried away and we’ll forget again.”

  We were tearing at our clothes when we came through the door earlier. She’s right about that. But she’s wrong about there being a next time.

  Hate to admit it—especially because I’m beginning to suspect she’s a nice woman—but she was merely a means to an end.

  “I had a good time tonight.” I tenderly kiss her lips, trying to hide my revulsion. In my mind, Scarlet Jensen is now inextricably tied to the look of horror on Maggie’s face as she stood inside my front door.

  Scarlet leans back, studying the expression I try to keep blank. I feel like a piece of fruit that’s hung too long on the vine. I’m rotting from the inside out.

  “You’re not going to call me, are you?” There’s a knowing tilt to her chin and a world-weary glint in her eyes.

  I swallow and reach for my flask. My stomach is ice cold, so the booze hits it like a firebomb. “You don’t want me to call you,” I assure her. “In fact, you want to stay as far away from me as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a taker. Not a giver.” I see her eyes soften. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a project. Save your time. Save yourself.”

  Her expression turns contemplative, and I can tell she’s trying to decide if I’m worth the risk. News flash: I’m not. Then she proves she’s not just nice, she’s smart too. “Well, it was fun while it lasted. Thanks for a memorable night.”

  Wish I could say I feel relie
ved. But the truth is, I’m not feeling much of anything. The more time passes, the more numb I become. Of course, that could be the drugs.

  After Maggie left—and while Scarlet was still in the john—I downed three pills. Not so much for the pain in my head, but for the pain in my heart.

  “Can I call you a cab?” I ask.

  “Nah.” She shakes her head. “Think I’ll head up to Bourbon Street and see what the tourists are up to. It’s too early, and there’s still too much to celebrate.”

  After walking her to the door, I watch her turn in the direction of the sounds of revelry. I try to find peace in the dull roar of voices and laughter and music. In the dull roar of life. But I get distracted by a crow in the sweetgum tree on the corner. It cocks its shiny black head, cawing at me.

  A portent of danger.

  Or maybe that’s just in fairy tales.

  Then again, when a silver Mercedes careens around the corner and screeches to a stop next to the curb, I think perhaps I believe.

  My hands curl into fists when my sperm donor slams out of his car. He rounds the hood only to stand on the sidewalk and glare up at me. “You look like recycled shit.”

  I snort and hold up three fingers. “Three things to say here,” I tell him. “One, so you keep reminding me every time you see me.” I curl down my pointer finger. “Two, you’re one to talk. Ever think of ordering a salad?” I curl down my ring finger so that just my middle finger remains standing. “And three, happy New Year to you too, you sorry sonofabitch.”

  “Smart-ass.” His face is clenched. Then he dons a fake grin and spreads his arms wide. “Aren’t you happy your old man is out of jail?”

  “Not particularly,” I tell him.

  He laughs that oily villain’s laugh that I’ve hated since I was old enough to hear the malice in it. “That damn DA thought he pulled a fast one by arresting me during the holidays. Thinking the courts would be closed and no one would be around to set my bail. But I got friends in high places too.”