The Lion of Frenchman Street

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  By the time she and Peter finally dragged back to his place after a night of mixing drinks and making music for people who preferred not to be home on Thanksgiving, the flogging and fucking made her thankful she wasn’t curled up in her old room in Gloucester alone. In the exhausted aftermath, she remembered the job application, but decided it wasn’t worth trying to talk coherently enough to tell him about it. The odds of anything coming of it were so slim it didn’t seem worth bringing up.

  Chapter Seven

  In early December, he invited her to a “very special musical event,” dress code casual. She wasn’t sure what to expect. They’d enjoyed a lot of music together, usually before slipping back to his place for some wild sex. But this performance was in the late afternoon. She didn’t know the neighborhood it was in, but her GPS guided her to a Boys and Girls Club in one of the city’s more rundown neighborhoods.

  She triple-checked the address before going inside. She was in the right place. What the…?

  She sat down in a clean, though shabby, auditorium full of a multiethnic crowd of what looked to be families. Wild applause started even before the curtain opened. She clapped along timidly, unsure what to expect.

  When the curtain opened, her applause became real.

  Peter, a proud papa lion, was leading a group of the tiniest jazz musicians she’d ever seen through a shaky but energetic rendition of “Hold That Tiger.” Several more groups of young musicians, ranging in age from kindergarten to high school, followed. The show closed with them all on stage together, playing a jazzy medley of familiar holiday songs. It wasn’t always in sync or in tune, but no one in the audience seemed to mind. Certainly Kelsey didn’t as she fought back sentimental tears.

  “I volunteer there in addition to teaching my paying students,” he explained afterwards, as he was tying her up to the sounds of Ornette Coleman. “I was lucky. My folks could afford music lessons when I was little. A lot of people can’t. So I give back when I can.”

  That was when Kelsey officially lost her battle not to fall in love with Peter Lyons.

  She didn’t say anything, though. He’d have to break through the wall he’d built that first night with his brave, sad rant about how he didn’t believe in romantic love.

  He sure acted like a man who was close to falling love, if not there yet.

  But until he said something, at least dropped a hint, maybe played her a romantic song without prompting, she was going to enjoy the moment, like she’d been resolving all along.

  It wasn’t easy anymore. But she kept telling herself that as long as she might have to bail on New Orleans, she was going to take things one day at a time and not risk ruining a good thing on the off chance it might become an even better thing.

  * * *

  A couple of nights after the concert, Kelsey arrived at Peter’s place at precisely 7:30, wearing a burnt-orange scarf tucked into the neck of her leather coat and a matching cloche. More for looks than warmth, he figured, since she’d been marveling for weeks about how warm late fall and early winter were in New Orleans. The touch of vibrant color made her look good enough to eat, but Peter thought that was pretty much always the case.

  He also pretty much always thought she’d look even better without the cute outfit and with a few ropes or handprints or something as accents. In this case, maybe she’d get to keep the hat. He could use the scarf for a quick tie, or as a blindfold.

  He pondered that image as he kissed her, enjoying the slight coolness of her lips warming under his.

  All in good time, though.

  They had never finalized plans for the evening. It would certainly end up with sex, but before that they might go out for cocktails and music, or stroll through a few galleries in the Central Business District, or stay in and watch a movie.

  And before they did any of that, they needed to figure out holiday logistics. His mother had been bugging him about it—that was his excuse—but really, he wanted to know how much of the season he’d get to share with Kelsey.

  It was hard to admit to himself how much he was looking forward to Christmastime with Kelsey, and not just because it provided a great excuse to gift-wrap her in red and green rope. New Orleans had unique traditions he thought she’d enjoy. Besides, he wanted her to spend part of Christmas day with the family. It had been a long time since he’d wanted a lover to share a family holiday. The last one had been Deneice, back in high school. No matter how serious he’d gotten with other girlfriends or subs, they’d spent holidays apart.

  Not this year. Not this woman. He wanted to show her what Christmas was like here.

  And good lord, he wanted his family to get to know her better. What was happening to him?

  He took Kelsey’s coat and hung it on the back of the door. “Mom wants to know if you’re coming to midnight mass with us on Christmas Eve. We usually go to St. Patrick’s in my parents’ neighborhood, but she suggested St. Louis if you came along, and that’s something to experience.”

  She sighed. “Not happening. Don’t want that lovely cathedral struck by lightning.” She was fiddling with her scarf as if it fascinated her rather than meeting his eyes. Not like her. Then again, they’d never talked about religion. She might be Buddhist or pagan or atheist and not entirely comfortable with his family tradition.

  He wrapped his arms around her from behind and clasped her wrists. “In New Orleans, we get dispensation if our sins are interesting enough. Otherwise that cathedral would have burned down two hundred years ago. And since it’s New Orleans, the music’s great, no matter which mass we attend. But if you’re not into it, we’ll see you Christmas morning. Later we can catch the bonfires…”

  She began to fidget with her scarf, looking away from him. “I figured this would be easy to say, but it’s not. I’m going home for Christmas, with a couple of days on each end.” She turned in his arms so she could—finally—look at him. Definitely not the face of someone in the holiday spirit. “I’m sorry. We just fought out the details this morning. And if you’ve ever been around an Italian family fighting things out…let’s say I need a drink.”

  “One drink coming.” Doing something would cover his consternation.

  Family was family. He got that. But so much for red and green rope, and midnight mass at the church he’d attended as a boy, and the Christmas bonfires on the Levée along the river.

  He knew by now she liked bourbon, a simple drink that gave him a chance to check the weather app on his phone. As he handed her the glass, he showed her the results of his search. “It’s snowing and twenty-eight in Gloucester. It’s sixty here. Should be in the fifties on Christmas and my mom and grandmother always makes enough food for the whole parish. You should invite your folks down here instead. It’ll be fun.”

  My God, I actually want our families to meet. When was the last time that happened? Not Alison. My parents knew Deneice’s, but we started dating in high school so it was inevitable.

  “I wish we’d thought of this months ago, but I don’t think it would work anyway. The whole family other than me is on the North Shore. Mom bought me the plane ticket before I’d even had a chance to talk to her about it, which was what all the arguing was about.” She sipped the bourbon, then continued. “My grandmother’s making the Feast of Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve, and she insists I need to be there. Apparently everyone missed the hell out of me at Thanksgiving, and Christmas is an even bigger deal for my family.”

  It all made sense. She had family and traditions of her own. And since they hadn’t made firm plans after Thanksgiving, it was partly his fault. He’d assumed, and everyone knew the old joke about what assuming did. “Is this the way you want it?”

  She shrugged. “Yes and no. They’re my family so I’m glad to spend the holiday with them. But I also wanted to spend it with you. A tough call, but they took the decision off my hands.”

  “Like I should have.” Peter snapped the words out, then realized how mad he sounded.

  Mad, he realized, beca
use he had this stupid fear that if she left New Orleans, she wouldn’t come back.

  Like Deneice. Like Alison.

  She’d be back, though. She’d chosen to live here and was sticking it out despite setbacks. And next year he’d plan better and they could share the holidays.

  Kelsey stared at him, obviously trying to figure out the anger. Disappointment would have made sense, but his reaction must seem completely out of left field. Probably because it was.

  There was a fix for it. “It’s too late for Christmas, but next time you’re in a quandary, let me know and I’ll take the decision off your hands. I promise it’ll be more fun than your mom doing it.” He took her bourbon, set it on the shelving unit that held his LPs. “I know you like it when I make decisions for you.” He grabbed a handful of hair, tilted her face up and claimed her with a kiss.

  Cocktails or movies could happen later. Right now he needed her.

  Needed to seize control of her.

  That way, he’d also regain control of himself.

  Chapter Eight

  When Kelsey got back from her brief Christmas holiday, she and Peter were on conflicting schedules at their various jobs. For a few days they texted without even speaking, let alone seeing each other.

  They finally saw each other New Year’s Eve at The Dubious Concoction, but the bar was wild that night. Kelsey literally had only a chance to wave before the crowds overwhelmed her with drink orders.

  His group and another were alternating sets and, with the crowds, none of the musicians were even trying to fight their way to the bar between sets. She managed a smile and a touch on the shoulder when she brought over water and a heaping bowl of popcorn during one of the breaks, but it was too loud to speak. He turned his head, pressed his lips onto her hand.

  Pleasure shivered and danced over her whole body from that small contact.

  He was onstage during the countdown to midnight, though the group had stopped playing, waiting like everyone else for the big moment. Antoine literally shoved her out from behind the bar, muttering, “Go kiss him, girl, or I swear to Jesus I will.” She fought her way through the crowd of people clamoring for refills on their drinks so they could toast the start of a new year.

  She thought for a second she’d have to get onto the stage, but he spotted her fighting her way toward him, set the sax down, and climbed down. His longer legs and the same presence that surrounded him onstage (and in the bedroom) parted the crowd where she could not.

  The year started with his strong arms around her, his lips on hers, and the first words she heard in the new year were, “Mine. My girl.” Another kiss and he added, “It’s going to be a great year, and we’ll enjoy it together.”

  Love you rose toward her lips, but that seemed like too much of a cliché. It didn’t come off as sincere to say I love you for the first time on a holiday when you were feeling sentimental and full of hope. Not to mention full of exhaustion, with the pace she’d been running behind the bar. A guy could laugh it off as delirium.

  Around 2 a.m., she was glad she’d kept her mouth shut.

  The bar was staying open all night in honor of the holiday, but after midnight, the press of customers started to thin out. There were other bars, other parties, places to grab late dinners—and, from the body language she observed from behind the bar, more than a few people were heading off to find privacy and fulfill the promise of the New Year’s kiss.

  During a moment of relative quiet between pieces a woman let out a delighted, “Yes! Of course!” and the room went wild. Peter and his fellow musicians waited onstage, smiling patiently, until the ruckus died down.

  “She said yes!” a male voice sang out. “Jen’s going to marry me!” He sounded drunk on a combination of fine alcohol and joy.

  “I gathered,” Peter said drily. “Congratulations to you both.”

  “I’d like to make a request in her honor,” the man went on. “Play ‘When I Fall in Love’ for us. Because this one’s forever.”

  “Please?” a woman who must be Jen added.

  Kelsey felt a smile blossoming. She couldn’t see the happy couple’s faces, but they sounded so sweet, so in love. And now Peter was going to play one of her favorite old standards, one that was so mushy she’d never had the guts to ask him to play it for her. She’d get to enjoy it vicariously.

  What happened instead was Peter shook his head. “Sorry, my friends. I don’t do that song.”

  In the stunned silence, the lead singer from the other band yelled, “We do! We’ll take care of you next set, mes amis!”

  Peter smiled wearily, looked at each member of his band. “Why don’t we bring the Lafitte Jazz Pirates up a little early for this happy couple?” he asked. “And then we can jam together for a song or two.”

  The audience went crazy at the idea of the two bands together, but Kelsey couldn’t get past Peter’s tone as he proclaimed, “I don’t do that song.”

  The song was a standard. He must know it. It was bad showmanship and bad business to deny a request from a newly engaged couple. He’d deflected nicely, but that could have gotten awkward. There had to be a story behind his refusal.

  Kelsey couldn’t decide if she needed to know what it was or needed to avoid ever finding out. Not knowing might lead to setting off a booby trap down the road. But finding out might break her heart.

  Despite the chaos of tending bar for a crowd far more drunken and raucous than The Dubious Concoction’s usual civilized tipplers, Kelsey’s mind kept circling back to the look on Peter’s face when he denied the newly engaged couple their romantic song. Not cruel, but stark, as if he was looking tragedy in the eyes.

  She needed to know, but she didn’t want to. And she wasn’t sure if she dared to ask. Some secrets had to be volunteered, not pried out, and broken hearts fell in that category.

  At 7 a.m., when the music stopped and the management started shooing drunks out into the cold, dim light of a new year, Peter staggered over to her and gave her a kiss across the bar as if nothing odd had happened. “Want to go out for breakfast?” she asked. Food and conversation would be grounding after the wild, busy night. And while she wasn’t going to ask, maybe an explanation might come up naturally over coffee, eggs, and grits.

  At least a breakfast joint or all-night restaurant on New Year’s Eve morning, bright and bustling and full of tipsy revelers refueling, was the polar opposite of heartbreak. It might help take the edges off any lingering weird mood on both their parts.

  He shook his head and gave her a sleepy, exhausted smile. “I’m playing a New Year’s Day brunch at eleven. Love to spend a little time with you, beautiful, but I’m going home for a quick nap and a shower before I have to be at Muriel’s looking sharp. I’ll call you when brunch is over. Not that I think I’ll be good for much in bed other than sleeping, but it’s nice to do that with company. And sooner or later we’ll wake up.”

  Another kiss and he was off, leaving her to wonder if she’d imagined the strangeness about the song. Maybe he’d meant that that song wasn’t in their regular repertoire and he was too tired to pull it out of his ass and lead the rest of the group through it.

  He hadn’t said the words, but his actions spoke loudly, and he acted like a man in love. So why did he hate the whole idea of it so much? Why couldn’t he play a sentimental old love song for a newly engaged couple?

  For her own sanity, she needed to figure out how to get the story out of him, though she was still afraid of the answer. Yeah, she’d make herself ask one of these days when he didn’t manage to distract her from such serious thoughts as soon as she saw him or heard his voice.

  Which meant she’d have a good excuse to wait to ask for the story. He was as creative with erotic distractions as he was with music—and she was all too happy to give in.

  Chapter Nine

  Peter was smirking like a supervillain carrying out a dastardly plan as he issued an invitation that was more like an order. Kelsey couldn’t see him over the phone, but he
just couldn’t help himself. “Put on your dancing shoes and wear a skirt. I’ll pick you up at six.” They both had the night off from the club and miracle of miracles, neither of them had a side gig anywhere else.

  “What’s up?” It was the first time they’d had the same night off in a couple of weeks. From the surprise in her voice, she’d figured any plans would involve a quick dinner and then heading straight to the bedroom.

  He liked to shake things up. Sex didn’t have to be confined to the bedroom, or to what people usually thought of when they heard the word. When you were both kinky, imaginative possibilities abounded.

  “The dancing shoes are because I tracked down the zydeco band whose music called to you from The Spotted Cat that first night.”

  “You remembered!”

  “Of course.”

  Music mattered. He tended to recall anything that had to do with music or musicians even if it was trivial.

  But this hadn’t been trivial. Kelsey’s face had glowed with pleasure when she heard the zydeco and she’d danced on Frenchman Street. Even if nothing had happened between them—even if they’d turned down different streets after that and he’d never gotten to know her except as the pretty Yankee bartender at The Dubious Concoction—he’d have fallen a little in love with her because of that moment.

  In some sense of love.

  He wasn’t in love with her. She was hotter than Tabasco, but there was no guarantee she’d stick around. He hadn’t heard mumblings about maybe moving back to Massachusetts recently, but it had been something she’d seriously considered and it wasn’t as if she’d suddenly gotten richer. He wasn’t going to let another piece of his heart leave New Orleans with some woman. He’d run out of heart to risk.

  But that didn’t mean he didn’t care about Kelsey. He did, more than was probably a wise idea. And he was going to enjoy every minute he shared with his adorable, smart sub as if it were the last. Because you never knew.