“Fifteen are already reported dead and twenty-six wounded here at the site that once used to be the Coteau Holmes Correctional Facility. No one is sure how this massive fire broke out, but authorities speculate it may have been the work of disgruntled inmates planning an escape. The massive blaze began in some of the solitary holding cells around three-thirty this morning and rapidly spread throughout the prison. Unfortunately, since the facility was in such a remote location, the St. Martinsville fire fighters were not able to get to the fire in time to save much of the building. However, thanks to the quick thinking and diligent efforts of the guards here at Coteau Holmes, the vast majority of the inmates were evacuated unharmed into the gated yard. There have been no reports of any escapes, which has a nearby community sighing with relief.”
Howard flipped to the next channel. Why had he stopped on that story? What did he care about some prison in Louisiana catching on fire? It was that name, Coteau Holmes. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
Chapter Seven
Grant, twenty-six years later
Mardi Gras was the mission. I called it a mission because when a group of college guys are this serious about partying, it becomes more than just a road trip to New Orleans. This was our mission. Well, it was their mission. I was more like an innocent bystander that got drafted to go whether I wanted to or not. It wasn’t like I didn’t want to go to New Orleans, and I had absolutely nothing against drinking and having a good time, but I had heard the stories and seen the aftermath of Bourbon Street. The whole thing seemed a little on the dirty wild side for me.
“Come on, Grant. Don’t puss out on us now. You want to be a writer, right? Well, you got to experience some shit so you have something to write about.”
The majority of this had come from my pre-med friend Eric. Of course, Kyle and Reggie added insults and their own brand of convincing whenever possible. In the end, it was Eric’s dumb so-you-have-something-to-write-about comment that always made me cave. I knew it was juvenile, but it was also right.
All my years in Pennsylvania had given me a picturesque childhood full of lovely Kodak moments of white Christmases, autumn sunsets and endless summer days in the woods. We were your typical old-school television family, all cookie cutter and nice. It was a lovely backdrop for a childhood but made the idea of becoming a writer difficult. To write a story there must be a conflict, and how could I write a truly compelling story when I had experienced so little conflict of my own?
I suppose that was why I chose to go to LSU instead of somewhere local to home. The South had always intrigued me, and Louisiana seemed like a completely different world altogether. In the end, it was my choice because it was as far away from my cookie-cutter home life as possible. The Brady Bunch be damned, I needed to experience something.
“So Cheese Steak, are you ready for some action?”
Eric asked me this as we finished loading the car and I took my place in the back seat next to Kyle. Reggie sat shotgun and Eric got in the driver’s seat. They all looked at me with ridiculous grins on their faces. I was the novelty. I was the guy from up north who had never been to Mardi Gras before.
Rolling my eyes, I said, “You do know that I’m not from Philadelphia, right?”
“Doesn’t matter, Cheese Steak. Would you rather we called you Yankee?”
“You do know the Civil War ended a long time ago? We won.”
“Yeah, but we have to call you something. I’m Gator, Reggie’s Mud Bug and Kyle is Burg.”
“Grant is fine,” I said with a grin.
“Whatever Cheese Steak,” they all said in unison before they all broke out in hysterical laughter. It was contagious, so I laughed too. I knew I wouldn’t be able to outrun my nickname. Let them call me what they wanted. It was guy speak that meant I belonged.
“Like I said before, are you ready for some action?”
All the guys began to whoop and holler in response, and I couldn’t help but join in as the car sped out of the parking lot toward New Orleans. As soon as we reached the highway, Reggie cracked open the beers, and we all drank and talked about which bar to hit up first. Since I didn’t know New Orleans, I just let them debate about which one had the best Hand Grenades and which one always had the hottest girls. I listened with mixed enthusiasm before I piped in with my own thoughts on our plans.
“Hey, I was thinking tomorrow we could go on one of those ghost tours or maybe a cemetery tour or something. They are supposed to be really interesting. Maybe we could hit up a voodoo shop?” This was met with much less enthusiasm, and I instantly had three sets of confused eyes looking at me.
“Are you a chick, Cheese Steak?”
“Dude, I plan to be in a bar every minute that I’m awake,” stated Kyle.
Reggie added, “There is no last call except on Fat Tuesday. I plan on being so hammered that the street sweeper will have to push my ass home. Screw a ghost tour.”
They all laughed. I knew then that in order to get an idea of the New Orleans I wanted to know, I would have to make my plans when the others were peacefully sleeping off their hangovers.
The drive was not very long, and we found our hotel among all of the streamers and colorful costumes just off of Canal Street. The constant music and movement of this place was intoxicating, and it seemed to get into our blood and follow us up to our rooms. I shared a room with Eric, and Reggie and Kyle bunked together. We all were excited as we took turns showering and got ready to hit up the town.
We walked down the stairs, through the lobby and out the door only to be greeted by an insane number of people dancing and screaming in our way. Beads were being thrown everywhere, and confetti and glitter rained down on us from who knows where as we maneuvered through the throngs of people. There were so many women flashing their breasts it became just another part of the scenery, and eventually we didn’t even stop to look.
I was hot and sticky being pressed up against all of these people. Even though Eric kept us moving, all of the body heat around me made me feel feverish. Everyone had a drink in their hands, and as I saw drink after drink fall and splash on the feet of the person next to them, I was suddenly very relieved I had chosen to wear my worn-out boots tonight as opposed to flip flops.
The police broke through the crowd here and there, offering a small pocket of relief in their wake. We saw one lady cop pushing a guy that was hobbling on a broken leg through the crowd. He had a cast up to his knee on his right leg and was desperately trying to hold onto a crutch under his arm while she had his hands pinned behind his back. The guy yowled in pain. We got in behind her and followed the nice path she was clearing as she pushed the poor guy in front of her through the crowd. We couldn’t tail her long because she shoved the guy down a side street towards her patrol car, so we were on our own again.
Thankfully, the crowd began to thin the farther out we got on Bourbon Street, so making our way through the maze became easier and easier. It wasn’t long before Eric found the bar he had been looking for, and we were all relieved to abandon the street and make a beeline for it. Eric bought us all shots of something green, and we toasted each other before throwing the green liquid down our throats. It burned and tasted like apple at the same time. I bought the first round of Hand Grenades as we began to walk around the bar looking for potential points of conversation. There was an intoxicated couple in the corner that was making out on the pinball machine, and a drunken chick who was standing uneasily on the high-top table trying to maneuver an impromptu table dance. The hilarity seemed to be never ending.
The guys immediately started scoping out girls. Who was the hottest? Who did they actually have a shot with? Who was too drunk to even bother with? The night went on like this as we drank and laughed at one another. I had to admit that despite the crowd, this was fun.
I stood off to the side at one point and watched Reggie and Eric’s conversation. I like to do this sometimes. It’s fun to be close enough to listen but far enough to not interfere. It seemed educati
onal or scientific in nature, and I often felt like Jane Goodall observing the uninhibited behavior of a primitive species.
“I’m telling you, Gator,” said Reggie, already beginning to talk that slurring drunk talk after downing his second Hand Grenade, “that one there is in your league. You could get her.”
Eric looked unsure, which was an unusual expression for him, as he evaluated the girl in question. Eric was not only the most confident one in our group, he was also the best looking as well. He rarely had a difficult time with girls, and we often lived vicariously through his stories and experiences. However, the unsure look on his face was intriguing to me, so I walked over to join the conversation.
“Who are we talking about,” I asked casually.
“That one. The blond by the end of the bar,” said Reggie as he pointed with an empty drink in his hand in the direction of their gaze.
I followed where he was pointing and that’s when I saw her. There was no way to mistake who they were discussing. She took my breath away, and I instantly understood why Eric seemed so unsure of himself. Who wouldn’t be with her? She looked slender but toned under a black tank top and short blue skirt. Her pale skin shone against the thin black velvet scarf she wore tightly around her neck. Her blond hair was bone straight and cut off dramatically just above her shoulders in a way that tapered down longer around her face. She wore very little make up except for some light-blue eye shadow and blood-red lipstick that left the slightest imprint on the clear glass she was sipping from. Her face was flawless.
The girl looked aimlessly around the bar, but in a flash turned her gaze on us. That’s when I saw her impossibly blue eyes. They were a kind of blue that seemed to be artificially made, and they were rimmed with a dark line of purple that made them seem shocking and animalistic. I was taken aback. Was she some sort of model?
“Na, I think she’s too much for me. Maybe if she was a little drunker, but just look at her. She seems stone-cold sober to me. Besides, those eyes of hers are funky. You think they are contacts?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, intoxicated with the sight of her.
Eric grinned from ear to ear at the sight of me and elbowed Reggie in the ribs to point at me. Even though Eric was a brutish idiot at times, he was also more perceptive than people gave him credit. If there was one thing he could do really well, it was read people.
“Well, I think Cheese Steak here should go talk to her,” he said with a hard slap to my back.
“What? Ah, Cheese Steak doesn’t have a snow ball’s shot in hell with that girl,” stated Reggie with a laugh that was supposed to mock me.
“Now hold on just a minute—” started Eric.
“No, Reggie’s right,” I said. “I mean look at her. Who would she go for?”
“I don’t know. She looks like she might be a little Goth. Maybe she likes the sensitive, creative-writer type that will be a good guy and buy her a proper drink,” he said as he took the remainder of my drink from me and handed it to Reggie. “Now go. You need a new drink and so does she. Chicks like that dig artsy guys.”
He hit me on the back again with his large hand and pushed me forward in her direction. I looked up to see if she saw that, but she was thankfully looking away. I walked slowly across the bar toward her, and my heart began thumping loudly in my chest. This was insane. She was so beautiful. What was I going to say to her? I didn’t have time to think, because before I knew it, I was already standing in front of her and those animalistic blue eyes looked up and met mine.
“Hello.” She spoke first, and her voice rang daintily like a tiny bell. Oh, why did she have to have a nice voice too?
“Hi,” I replied uneasily.
That’s all I could think of to say? I had to say something else. Think of what Eric would say.
“Um, I noticed you were low on your drink, and I’ve sort of finished mine. Can I buy you something else to drink?”
She didn’t break her gaze with me, which made it awfully difficult to breathe evenly. Then, much to my relief, she smiled slightly with a curious hint to her face.
“Well, you could, but all I am drinking is water, and I believe that it is free.”
I smiled back at her. “Well, I can at least be your water boy and get you a refill, can’t I?”
“Sure. That would be nice.”
Success. But her name. I needed to learn that at the very least.
“If I’m going to be your water boy, I don’t think it’s too much to ask your name.”
She seemed to tense a little, and I worried I had gone too far. I was never good with the small talk, flirty stuff. The name thing must have been too fast for her. Thankfully, my paranoia cleared when she relaxed.
“Anna.”
“Grant,” I said in return.
“Nice to meet you, Grant.”
“Likewise. Let me go get us those drinks.”
I practically bounced over to the nearest hole at the bar and ordered one ice water and one beer. I thought a beer was better than a Hand Grenade at this point. The syrupy Hand Grenades were leaving a tacky feeling in the back of my mouth. I took the drinks, tipped the bartender way too much and walked back over where Anna was standing. The only problem was she wasn’t standing there anymore. She was gone.
My shoulders slumped with disappointment as I looked around for her but found no trace. I guess I had crossed a line with her when I asked her name, if that had been her real name at all and not some made-up one she’d given to get me to go away. I frowned noticeably and wondered if the guys were watching this.
Suddenly, someone’s hand was on my shoulder, and I spun around to see a girl who was definitely not Anna. She had that same exotic look about her though, and she was gorgeous like Anna was. However, where Anna’s skin was pale and flawless, this girl’s skin was dark chocolate and perfect. She had long braided black hair that flowed around her like small ropes when she moved, and her eyes were a rich amber color with a dark ring of black that lined them. She reminded me of a cat or some other wild animal that happened to be wearing a purple tank top and jeans.
“You’re looking for Anna?”
Her voice was a little deeper but still lyrical, and the smile she flashed me was intoxicating. Her question seemed more like an accusation than a question.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She cocked her head to the side with a curious expression and gracefully moved out of the way of two stumbling drunk people without even looking at them. She even moved like a cat.
“Well, I got her this drink.”
“Let me guess. Water?” She said this as she looked at the drinks I was carrying in each hand.
“Yes.”
“She’s such a stiff.”
“Excuse me? Do you know her?”
She suddenly looked me in the face again as she gracefully avoided a stumbling, drunk patron. Another big smile crossed her face.
“You are curious about her, aren’t you? You’re looking for her?”
I blushed and looked down at my beer instinctively and took a quick drink. This conversation was getting a little awkward, and the way she was looking at me made me feel uncomfortable, even violated.
“Well, don’t worry, drink boy. I know Anna. I’m a friend of hers, and she just went to the restroom. She asked me to come find you and tell you so.”
Good, so she didn’t ditch me after all. I felt relieved but slightly uneasy by the presence of this new supposed friend who was still staring at me. Something about her gaze unnerved me to no end.
“Oh, thank you.”
“Sure thing. Anna wanted me also to tell you to meet her in the other room. It’s not so crowded there. I bet you can tell she is not that into crowds.”
I thought about her unique appearance and the way she stood away from the crowd off in the corner of the bar.
“There’s another room?”
“Yeah, it’s what you would call a chill room. You kind of only know about it if you know
about it. That sort of thing. But I can show you where it is. Most of these old bars have them for the locals.”
Something felt a little wrong. Why was she being so helpful and what was this chill room? Did this mean that Anna and this girl were locals?
“I don’t know,” I said, wavering.
“Oh, come on. I’m about to go back there myself. I was hanging out there when Anna came back to tell me she was going to the restroom and to come get you. She’s a little shy or else she would have told you herself.”
“Well, I guess so.”
“Great. Follow me.”
She grabbed the hand that was holding Anna’s water and led me around the corner and through a back hallway. Something still felt odd and a little dangerous about the situation, but another good swig of beer and the thought of seeing Anna again propelled me farther. Soon, no one else was around us, and she opened a beat-up door with a thick metal handle at the end of the corridor.
The girl yanked me quickly through the door, and much to my surprise, I found myself outside instead of in some local bar chill room. She had led me out into a back alleyway that cut in between bars. There was a thin line of putrid water creeping along the old cobblestone pathway, and the only company we had were a few dumpsters smelling of filth and vomit. The walls were high and close together around us, and there was no one anywhere to be seen. The night air hit my face fast as she pushed me forward with strength that a girl her size should not possess.
I dropped the drinks, and the glasses shattered against the stone ground as I used my hands to brace myself against a nearby dumpster. She slammed the door quickly, and I heard it click as it locked. I knew I was in danger, but what could this girl do to me? I was easily six foot one, and I worked out at the campus gym often. She looked to be barely five foot six and was almost as thin as Anna.
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