by Lena Black
Then, around Jackson Square, in the shadow of St. Louis Cathedral, I spot one that makes me stop in my tracks.
I wake with an overwhelming loneliness. My eyes burst open, and I spring out of the temporary bed like a pole-vaulter. I’m in a room I’ve never seen before. Not remembering what happened (or where I am), I reach out for Shaw, but he isn’t beside me. I peek out the windows to the view of hanging ferns and black wrought iron railing. I’m in the French Quarter, the early morning sun peeking over the rooftops. I’m atop a bar or restaurant or something.
Greier.
Greier’s apartment.
Sex with Greier.
Shit.
I dress in the sweats and shirt I wore last night and then collect my destroyed wedding dress wrinkled on the floor of the bathroom. Some of the buttons are missing and the fragile loops are snapped.
Did I do this to my dress? Or did he?
I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers from the closet in the main bedroom. They’re a size too big.
Ex-girlfriend.
Big boobs.
Big butt.
Big feet.
I’m plainly not the normal body type he prefers. Emphasis on the plain.
I place my ear to the door, listening for any movement beyond it. When there isn’t any, I open the door and make a dash for the stairs. It’s wrong to leave him like this, but last night was a mistake, a slip in judgement. He must agree. His absence speaks volumes.
Taking the steps two at a time, I slink out the door marked private. I need to disappear. If he comes back from wherever he’s gone this early in the morning, I would die of embarrassment. I’m grateful for the clean getaway. I have enough on my back without the awkward morning after talk, too.
I lock the main entrance to the restaurant from the inside and shut it behind me. I walk with a quick pace down the sidewalk, to nowhere in particular. It’s stupid to abandon the security of a job and a roof over my head, which he offered me after we fucked. There’s no other way to describe what we did last night. It was filthy, dirty, sweaty monkey love. As much as I want to take his proposal, it’s street-walkery to accept anything from him after I’ve given him my body.
I stride westward on Bourbon, my arms crossed in front of me, hugging my dress against my chest. It’s chillier than I expected it would be, the sun hidden by a thick layer of fog. I barely see the second story windows of the old French-Spanish buildings pressed snuggly against the road.
Except for the odd person, the Quarter is dead—and beautifully eerie.
Following St. Peters, I hit Jackson Square, gawking in awe at the towering cathedral, its clock face watching over the lazy Mississippi River. With a stroke of the big hand, the bells ring out from the mists surrounding the tower, an almost soulful sound. I shut my eyes and listen, breathing in the cool morning air. It actually settles my nerves, and for a fleeting moment, everything feels like it’ll be all right.
I’ve always wanted to come here and visit this place. After all the weeks I’ve been here, helping put the finishing touches on the wedding and training to be the perfect Southern wife, I never got the chance to see any of the city, to explore the place I was supposed to call home. I saw the inside of cars and wedding boutiques and the opulent manors of the Garden District. Now, here I am. Alone, broke, and scared, but able to enjoy this experience.
I open my eyes and quietly admire everything, the bells fading away in the background, when a deep male voice calls my name, “Reagan!”
My initial instinct screams to flee, but I’m crippled by the fear I’ve been discovered by my former fiancé. Taking a brief second, I recognize the voice lacks the molasses-like twang. One other man in this city knows my name, knows I am in the Quarter.
“Greier,” I utter, barely a whisper under my breath.
Looks like we’ll be having the talk after all.
I face him. He jogs to me in a hooded sweatshirt and black running pants.
“Why aren’t you in my bed?” he asks.
The intimacy of his question makes me cringe. Not outwardly. I’m not looking to bruise his ego. But I only remember bits and pieces of our night together. After the first drink, things start to bleed together. He’s still very much a stranger to me.
“Listen.” I tuck an unkempt chunk of hair behind the shell of my ear and continue walking. “I appreciate last night, but I shouldn’t stick around.”
He catches up and keeps pace with mine. “What about last night do you appreciate exactly?” I glance over at him, his lips stretched across his perfect teeth in a charmingly arrogant smile.
“Everything.” I face forward again. “It isn’t right to drag you into my problems, Greier. I’ve been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours, and I need to figure out my next step. I’m sorry.”
I quicken my gait, but his hand catches mine and keeps me from creating distance between us. He steps in front of me and walks backwards.
“And where will you go, Rae?” Rae? “You have no money. Even if you get a job in the next few days, which I doubt since you only have pajamas and that torn wedding dress to wear, how will you pay for a place to live?”
He’s right.
I didn’t even have money to pay him for the drinks last night.
I can’t call my parents or Shaw.
My wallet and cards are at the LeBlanc’s estate. Even if I could get my hands on them, if I used my debit card or accounts, they’d find me, track me down. My parents are in charge of my money. Every cent is theirs. I’ll have to face them eventually, but not today. I need time. I need money. I need a miracle.
Here, Greier is throwing me a life preserver in alligator-infested waters, and I’m taking a leisure swim. Without him, I’m fucked. To put it mildly.
When we hit the end of Jackson Square, he stops me.
“Let me help you,” he says, attracting my attention from the thoughts beating my head. “I need a waitress. It’s fixin’ to get busy for us with Carnival. You could use the employment, and I could use you.”
Use me.
I flinch at the fragmented memory forcing itself to the front of my mind.
“You’d really give me a job? You don’t even know if I’m capable.”
“Aren’t you?” he asks.
Am I? I’ve never had a job a day in my life. Well, maybe that’s not entirely accurate. I’ve worked my ass off every day since the day I was born, making my parents look good. I stood beside them during my father’s campaigns and speeches, attended dull galas to raise funds, met with other senators and their whitewashed families, posed for well-planned photo ops, kept a 4.0 GPA throughout my collegiate career, involved myself in many charities. I actually loved that part. I would’ve done it even if it wasn’t expected of me. Hell, I was ready to devote myself to a man I didn’t even love—for them. Sometimes I wonder if the reason they had me was for political gain. A family man is more trustworthy, more relatable.
I may not have had what most would consider a normal nine to five. But I worked twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five a year.
When I realize I’ve left him hanging, I inquire, “What does it entail?”
“Taking orders, serving food and drinks, and handling the drunks. They get rowdy. But you’ll be watched after and could make great tips. It doesn’t have to be a permanent situation, just through Mardi Gras, then we figure out where to go from there.”
Leasing with the option to buy, a tempting offer—especially since it’s the only one I’ve got.
“That’s generous, Greier. Truly. Too generous. I’ve already stolen your room, your booze, your food, it wouldn’t be right to take this from you, too.”
“You’d be doing me a huge favor. I need the help, and you need the money. It’s win-win.” He uses my words from the night before against me.
My lips crack into a smirk.
This man has no idea who I am, he has no connection or attachment to me, yet he’s bending over backwards to rescue me, a les
s than perfect stranger.
Even though I’m beyond grateful for his offer, I’m curious what’s in it for him. Why does he feel the need to come to my rescue? People don’t help others unless they have an ulterior motive. Growing up in politics, in my family, has shown me that sad fact time and time again. Maybe it’s rude to question someone’s motives, but I have to know.
“Why are you hell-bent on saving me?”
“It’s my blessing and my burden,” he answers with an empty tone. “Are all Northern girls so suspicious?”
I think about it and then shrug. “It’s a defense mechanism.”
He sighs, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and shifting his focus onto nothing in particular to his right. When he acknowledges me again, his face is a blank slate. But his eyes have something subtle in them.
“If I could explain it, I would, but I can’t. I can’t allow you to walk away without knowing you’ll be alright.”
“You aren’t going to stop following me until you do, are you?”
“No,” he laughs, “I can’t.”
“Well, shit,” I breathe out.
I’m not a hundred percent sure I’ll stay in New Orleans. It sounds infantile and ungrateful not to jump at his proposition. But I’ve never been independent. I’ve always relied on someone one way or another. Whether it was my parents or a boyfriend or Shaw. I’ve never been alone. I’ve moved from relationship to relationship. I’ve always had someone paying my way, which, in turn, led them to believe they had control over me and my decisions. This is my chance to finally be responsible for me, take my own path, make my own way.
However, even though I’m done depending on others, you gotta pay to play. Hard to be independent without a dime. But what kind of woman takes employment from a man she slept with the night before? I believe they call them prostitutes.
He’s my only option. And he isn’t a bad one.
“Well,” I mutter, “since you insist on saving me. I guess I’ll let you.”
“So.” He claps his hands together, startling me, and then rubs them rapidly. “You’ll stay with me until your next move. I could use a roommate since the ex-monster left my dick hanging in the wind.” He pauses. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
I smirk at him. He smirks back. It’s sincere.
I shiver.
Without warning, he rips the gown from my hands and chucks it aside.
“Hey,” I whine.
“What?” he asks. “Did you plan to wear that again?”
I shrug. “Not likely.”
He strips his sweatshirt off.
“Hold your arms up.”
I stretch them high into the air, and he slides it over my head. It’s oversized but warm. The scent of sweat and Irish Spring soap woven into its soft fibers.
Greier reaches out for me. At first, it takes me by surprise, until I grasp what he’s doing. He removes my morning hair out from the collar of the sweatshirt, careful not to tug on it roughly, and sweeps it over my right shoulder.
From what I can remember, he was anything but ginger with me this morning.
If I do this, we need to set some ground rules first, we have to draw a clear line in the sand.
Stepping over the wedding dress on the ground, we start walking toward the riverfront again. As we turn onto Decatur, running parallel to the river, I murmur his name, “Greier.”
“Yeah?” he responds, keeping his eyes forward.
“You don’t expect me to fill the role of your girlfriend, do you?”
Stride faltering, he rotates his body toward me slowly, his face twisted.
“What?”
“The titles I’m taking are roommate and employee, right? You don’t expect me to act like your girlfriend, too.”
“No,” he laughs, “that’s not a requirement.”
My ego dies a little.
Judging by his girlfriend’s clothes, I’m not his type. Not that I’m thinking about whether or not I am. I’m not. I have too much in the air to entertain the fantasy of this man and myself. And I’m unavailable.
“There needs to be lines drawn. We can’t allow last night to happen again. That’s all I’m saying. We need to keep this arrangement platonic and professional.”
“You regret last night.”
“My head does.”
In more ways than one.
“And your body, does it regret having me inside it?” He steps closer, his breath visible in the air. It’s heavy and slow.
“No.”
And that’s the problem. I’m undeniably attracted to Greier. He’s more devastating than my hazy mind did him justice. But I can’t give into my attraction.
“I won’t force myself on you, Reagan. Not unless you ask me to.” Unless I ask him? A smirk plays across his face. “And when we do fuck again, it’ll be because you want it. Not to pay me for room and board.”
I clench my thighs together to relieve the ache radiating from between them.
“Then, what are your expectations?”
“For you to pay a portion of the groceries and bills, but never with your body. You’ll give that to me freely.”
I swallow down the knot in my throat.
“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
The carnality coming from him is like gravity, luring me into him. In a need to distance myself, I take a step back.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I just know how to read you, Rae.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I want to though.” He takes my hand and runs his thumb over the back. This all feels too intimate for me. “We both need things the other can provide. You need my help. I need yours. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
A little more than less.
“Alright,” I agree.
“Come on.” He nods his head down Decatur. “I’ll buy you breakfast before work. Ever had a beignet?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“It’s our version of a doughnut, except tastier and much worse for you. There’s this place down the street, Café Du Monde.” He points to a restaurant with a striped green and white awning. “It’s the best. And they have coffee.”
“Well, if they’re the best,” I joke.
He shoves his hands in his pants’ pockets, maybe to keep them to himself. I’m grateful. Because I’m already missing the way they felt on my body. And that’s a deadly thought.
Before Greier headed to work, he told me to take the day to sleep, maybe have a good private cry. Then I can start fresh the next day. I agreed and thanked him. When he left, I shut the bedroom door and crashed. I kept waking throughout the day, in a hazy consciousness of wake and sleep, the early weekend crowd humming in the streets below. But sleep drowned me in its dark waters again and again.
When I finally rouse, it’s night, the lights and signs of Bourbon Street blaring through the windows. The clock reads nine.
I slept all day?
I fumble out of bed, my body and eyes sagging with the remnants of sleep, and head into the bathroom for a short shower. When I’m clean and awake, I go to the kitchen and check out what’s in the fridge. There isn’t much but leftovers. I eat and surf the TV for anything watchable. You’d think with a thousand channels, there’d be more on.
By four, I’m bored and restless, so I acquaint myself with my temporary sanctuary. The Quarter doesn’t seem like a bad place to hide in plain sight with the chaos of Carnival.
I finger through “S” in his vinyl collection. Sam Cooke, Sidney Bechet, Steppenwolf. It’s an eclectic mix of artists. Two towers house the impressive record catalog. Between them, a framed King Creole poster. An Elvis fan.
Like little breadcrumbs for the woman who comes after her, clothes aren’t the only items the faceless ex left behind. This theme becomes clear throughout the apartment, perfume behind the bathroom mirror, a dainty floral teacup in the kitchen cupboard, fluffy slippers beside the couch.
I’m snooping thro
ugh a junk drawer, because people put the weirdest crap in a junk drawer, when my hand sweeps across cool metal. I retract it immediately. A gun. Curiosity slaps me upside the head. Carefully, I reach back inside and clutch the heavy piece in the palm of my hand, pulling it out and watching the light play off the barrel. My father taught me enough about guns to check the safety. It’s on. I feel the empowering weight of the revolver in my hands, admiring its killer beauty. I grasp my hands around the pearl handle, keeping my fingers away from the trigger. I spin around, pretending to confront a burglar, the barrel pointed in the direction of the stairs. “Put your hands up!”
Greier jumps back, his hands shooting into the air near his head.
“Jesus H. Fuck!”
“Sorry,” I apologize, setting the gun on the table next to me. “I didn’t hear you come in. The safety was on, I swear.”
“What are you doing with my gun?”
“Taking down the bad guy?”
He sputters out a laugh, but it’s more relief than humor. His chest sinking on an exhale.
“My fucking life flashed before my eyes.”
“And?”
“Not good. Next time you play Cops and Robbers, Miss Bonnie Parker, make sure a life is on the line.”
“Will do, Mr. Barrow.”
Once his heart stops trying to escape his chest, he kicks off his shoes with a groan, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a beer from the cooler. He brings it into the living room and falls back on the couch, crossing his feet on the table.
“You know,” he says, sinking deep into the couch, “my ex hated when I put my feet on the table.”
It’s not something we did in our home either. It was rude and ill-mannered. But I’m not home. And in this moment, I’m really glad.
“Mind if I join?” I nod to the beer.
“Not at all. And you never need to ask.”
I root for the frostiest one, popping off the cap with the opener on the wall. Of course, he would have one. A bar owner. Plus, his kitchen is well-organized and stocked. Everything has a place and is easy to locate. It’s neat. In fact, his entire apartment is. I would imagine it’s the girlfriend’s doing, but it’s not. It couldn’t be. If it was, this place would be a disaster by now. He’s just organized. It’s nice to see a man take pride in his home and work.