by Lyra Byrnes
The trip to Santa Barbara with Melanie, she recalled. At least Mel had gotten laid that time.
Kraxis eyed the street, licking his lips. “I’m not waiting for Varian.”
“He had a phone call to make,” said Jet. “So Bourbon Street, ho!” He wore skintight black jeans and a shimmery silver tank top.
“Aye, let’s find us a Bourbon Street ho,” Kraxis leered.
“Won’t you be recognized?” asked Josie.
Bram shook his head. “New Orleans isn’t much of a heavy metal town. Why do you think we didn’t play here?”
“That sucks.” Josie was more determined than ever to make the blog a success. Next year Domination would headline…whatever arena the city had.
“I have been on the business end of, ‘Aren’t you somebody?’ Always flattering,” he said wryly.
“Your American accent sucks,” laughed Josie. “So you’ve visited here before?”
“Yeah.” That was all he gave her. A tanned blonde in her carefully preserved forties walked past him, spun for a second look and sauntered on, hips swinging.
No wonder. He looked downright edible, thighs taut in his trademark leather pants, shoulders rock solid in a black T-shirt. Other women on the street seemed to think so as well, as did some men. He was the target of lascivious once-overs, provocative lip-licking and wide-eyed whispering. More than one set of sorority-age girls nudged each other, whispering, “Who is that guy?” But apparently none could place him. Domination might not have been a big deal in New Orleans but Bram Hunter’s magnetic presence was just as electrifying without a mike in his hand.
For a city overrun by tourists, the streets smelled surprisingly sweet, like fresh greenery and flowers.
She wouldn’t think about the Goddess of the Nightworld, whoever she was. No way she was handing over this evening and all that power to some mysterious bitch who didn’t know what she had when she had it.
Around every corner another flowering plant perfumed the air—jasmine, sweet olive, rosemary wafting from a private courtyard. Josie goggled at the architecture, the beautiful scrollwork on the iron balconies and the tropical colors of the buildings.
But as they strolled up the most famous street of all, the scent of flowers gave way to spilled beer, vomit and human sweat. The least offensive smell came from the remains of mule pies, left in the middle of the road by carriage drivers unwilling to clean up after their beasts. Torn-down-looking women haunted the doorways of strip clubs, costumed characters roamed, pushing fliers, performing for tips or carrying signs for “Huge-Ass Beers”.
Kraxis was on board with the last one. For good measure he also bought each of them a bright-red Hurricane and didn’t spill a drop when a couple as large as he was nudged him in passing.
“This is fucking horrible,” said Bram.
She took a sip. It wasn’t bad, more like a fruit punch than a cocktail, but she knew better than to test that theory and gulp it down.
“It sucks a large amount of ass,” Jet agreed. “The drink, the street and the whole thing.”
Only Kraxis was having a good time. He’d somehow gotten hold of an entire roast chicken and was making quick but messy work of it, entertaining the tourists. He drained a second huge-ass beer in one chug, belched like a Tartar and won a round of applause.
Jet smiled benevolently. “He’ll be looking for a fight next. I’d rather get in trouble elsewhere.”
“Bourbon and Saint Ann, doll-face.” A transvestite clicked past them on the sidewalk, casting Jet a flirtatious look. “You won’t last two minutes.”
Bram turned to Josie. “That leaves us. Where to?”
“Let’s just walk around for a while.”
“All right, but I warn you. The longer you make me refrain from tearing that dress off your body with my teeth, the harder I’m going to be on you later.”
She took his arm. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
But inside she was a writhing basket of worry-snakes. She had fired off the second post for Adventures in Submission, triple-checked that only Melanie could read it and started organizing her notes for the blog. Artie had sent her the digital format specs and half of them didn’t make sense. I don’t even have a button for that symbol, she’d thought desolately, glaring at her keyboard as if to will it into being.
There had been nothing to do but call her editor and pester him with questions. But it wasn’t Artie who picked up the phone.
“Warren Conrad’s office.”
“I need to speak to Artie.”
“Josie! Generous of you to check in. Artie’s out but you still have me. Did he ever talk about how comfy this chair is?”
The penny dropped. Warren Conrad, nasty little rat with whale-sized ambitions, not afraid of a little undercutting and story-stealing and, Josie had always thought, originator of the “dick-sucking lips” title. He used to lick Artie’s boots so transparently most of the office just laughed at him.
Well, someone higher up had taken him seriously and now he was in charge. Just great.
“I have some questions about this digital format thing.”
“Don’t worry about that. Send me your notes and I’ll get the post out.”
“No,” she answered firmly. “I’m the writer. Just decode this thing for me and I’ll put it in my words, my voice, with my own spin.”
She heard him chuckle unpleasantly. “No time for that. The blog is blowing up and we need content. We’re even getting ad hits. If I’m going to turn a profit on Rock Star Online you’ll have to do a little work, sweets.”
“Warren, look—”
“Get that file to me ASAP. I’ll send it back for final approval. Not that you can make any changes. It’s a legal issue.”
“What the hell?”
“I gotta jet, babe, no time to chat. You always did run that pretty mouth of yours.” He hung up.
She punched keys, her cheeks flaming. My writing, my voice, my experience, she thought miserably. And even those are out of my control.
Bram’s voice shook her back to the present. “You all right, love?”
“Um, yeah, peachy keen. I won’t think about work tonight. So when were you in New Orleans before?”
“Off and on,” he answered vaguely.
Frustrating. “What’s fun to do?”
“You’re fun to do. Oh, you mean in public.”
“Stop it!” But she couldn’t help giggling. “And yeah, about that. Do you think, because you won’t be recognized… I mean, no one’s reputation is on the line here. If we’re a, um, a couple, I guess maybe we could… Are we a couple? That’s probably a strong word.”
Silently Bram looped her arm through his. She wondered whether he’d ever been half of a couple before. She couldn’t imagine the lone-wolf rock star walking arm in arm with a girl like an ordinary human being—pursuing her, giving her flowers, taking her to dinner. Whatever lovers do. She had never been an expert player in the dating game.
Good thing they had skipped that part because here she was, publicly nestled against a man who made other women drool like starving dogs catching sight of a pork chop. Yet someone had broken his heart. Who?
He steered her into a low-slung, half-timbered building whose peeling exterior walls revealed ancient brickwork. Inside it was dark and crowded, candles flickering on every table, the jukebox blaring a pop hit Josie would have paid to never hear again.
“What is this place?”
“Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, a front for notorious pirates.”
“In that case, you look right at home.”
He indicated a free table and headed toward the bar. Josie watched the street outside. In front of the bar a carriage pulled up. The driver dismounted and a waitress sauntered out, jotted something down and returned. Frat-boy types shouted over the music, older couples looked around wonderingly, a few people who seemed to be locals chatted amiably along the bar. It all seemed incongruous with the gentle candlelight. She had always liked pop but tonight it sounded
insipid, bloodless and repetitive. This song in particular—another pop tart saved by vocal modifiers and heavy production.
The music stilled as if the jukebox, insulted, had read her mind. Bram placed a huge red drink in front of her. Josie eyed it dubiously.
“Hurricane.”
“Um… Aren’t you having one?”
One look shut her up. “It’s not the slop you had before,” he went on, taking a sip of whiskey. “They make them with real fruit juice and fifteen kinds of liquor, something like that. “
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Do I need to?”
She tasted the drink. Delicious but deadly, as promised. “What do you usually do here?”
Bram looked away. In the candlelight his cheekbones stood out in stark relief. “Get in a fair bit of trouble, as it happens. Thought I’d try something new. I heard somewhere birds like to dance.”
“Dance? No, not this bird. Nuh-uh.”
“How about standing around swaying a bit?”
As he spoke the music kicked in again, a slow, loping tune, sad and hopeful at the same time. “I’m walkin’ to New Orleans,” sang…
“Fats Domino! Now that’s more like it.”
She took Bram’s hand and stood. He pulled her into his arms and began a slow side-by-side step even she could keep up with.
As if by magic the candlelight faded, the chatter of the crowd fell away. Josie felt as if she and Bram were alone in the bar, the city, the universe, lit from within. She buried her nose in his hair, breathed in his leathery, masculine scent.
With me, with me, she thought. He chose me. Not Bram Hunter, rock god, but this man who I’d want if he were a ditch-digger or a—she tried to think of some horrible profession—a lawyer.
The song ended too soon. She blinked the world back into focus. “Bram? Did you ever want to be a lawyer?”
“Have you gone mad?”
“Sorry.” They sat as another tune cranked up, a melancholy blues number. “What’s up with the jukebox?” she asked, pulling at her straw.
“Got the barmaid to pull the plug and reboot.”
She smiled. “For me?”
“For me, more like. I don’t like throwing around money to get what I want, Josie, but it was either that or kick the thing to pieces.”
“I would have beat you to it.”
“Oh?” he said with a teasing smile. “Coming around to Domination, are you? We’re going to have to get you kitted up. I’m thinking a leather mini and a few tattoos.”
“As you people say, not bloody likely. Fuck! Why now?” She dug the beeping cell phone out of her purse. “I have to take this. It’s probably Melanie, but my new editor is supposed to send…”
But it was Warren. Oh, no. Oh nonononono.
Hey Spanky, nice report from the field. Ever wanted to go viral? Send me the lyrics for the new album, all notes, etc., in Hunter’s own writing or you’ll get your wish. And next time include pics. Just kidding.
Chapter Twelve
Claiming cramps and a sudden migraine, Josie fled back to the hotel. She hated to end the evening with him, especially when she had been on the verge of admitting her feelings. More than feelings—a complete change of worldview. Her career, her ambitions, all of it shrank to pinpoint importance when she was with him. She didn’t want it anymore. She wanted only him.
But would he listen? And would it matter anyway if she protected herself by betraying him?
Fuck it, she thought. Fuck this whole shark-tank of a business. She had a party to get to.
Industry parties were the worst—she wouldn’t know anyone or be able to get any decent quotes. At least she had brought the right clothes. Most junkets involved one of these tedious affairs, so her go-to little black dress got a heavy workout. It was flattering, safe and anonymous everywhere from L.A. to New York. After a shower and a time-consuming struggle with her hair she pulled on the dress and regarded herself in the mirror. Her eyes weren’t getting any bigger but the brown-rose lipstick suited her wide mouth and the heels looked sexy—not too pinchy as long as she didn’t walk much. That was hardly an issue. As usual she would haunt the food table, nibbling carrot sticks and wishing herself elsewhere.
The venue wasn’t too far, so she left early and clicked her way over by herself, hoping to catch some industry suit before he started having too much fun to talk to a reporter. She looked up at the squat Creole cottage and back down at her invitation. This was the right address. What a weird city.
She crept up the stairs and turned at the landing. It creaked and a light popped on, illuminating a fat man smiling hideously. Josie let out a bleat of shock. He wore a black suit and held a tea tray in welcome, his grin yellow-toothed above folds of jowls. Wax, of course, since she was in a wax museum, but it was still unsettling. Nothing creeped her out like these places full of inanimate figures frozen in dramatic postures, their artificial skins shiny. Except maybe clowns. She edged past the butler and continued to climb, hoping New Orleans didn’t have any famous clowns in its history.
The upstairs help was mercifully free of wax figurines, not counting the industry scavengers who had arrived as early as she had to tuck into the free booze and food. None of them spared her more than a glance. After taking in her tight dress and high heels they seemed to realize she was nobody important and turned away. She helped herself to some strawberries and a glass of wine.
How had Warren gotten hold of Adventures in Submission? It couldn’t have been Melanie. She wasn’t terribly bright but she had a good heart and would never do anything to compromise her friend. Perhaps Warren had hacked into her account and dug it up but that made no sense. He wouldn’t bother taking a shot in the dark in the hopes his star reporter had secrets chained in the dungeon of cyberspace. After all, he wanted to profit from her work, particularly since her tour blog was bringing in viewers and revenue. Destroying her career would only backfire on Rock Star and, by extension, him.
Someone had found it though. Someone with the means of rummaging around in her room, her laptop and her darkest desires. She had an inkling of who that might be. And now she was faced with an impossible choice—firebomb her life or betray Bram to secure it?
Put it out of your mind. It’s a party. Fun, fun, fun.
But it wasn’t much fun, despite the energetic brass-band music and the fabulous food. A half hour anxiously picking at shrimp and pretending she felt comfortable seemed more like a year.
More and more suits drifted in. Who knew there were this many industry people in such a small city? She was scanning the room, searching for a familiar face when the door crashed open and Kraxis strode in, already fortified with beer if the bottle in his hand was any indication.
Bucky followed, then Jet, smiling like a pageant queen, and Varian picking at the chipped black polish on his nails. The energy in the room shot up, as did the decibel level. The suits relaxed—the stars had arrived, justifying their presence.
She ate four skewers of lamb with figs before she remembered to circulate. The boys in Domination were cutting up, chatting with the publicists and A&R guys, making them laugh. Kraxis reenacted his famous six-minute drum solo on the backs of some willing partygoers. She made small talk with the tipsy suits who cornered her but her mind was whirring. Where was Bram?
She headed back down the stairs, uncertain in her heels, and almost ran headlong into him rounding the landing.
He gave her an appreciative appraisal. “Mm, girl. My very own party favor,” he said. “I can’t wait to tear into it.”
“I hate these things.”
“So do I. Come on, I’ll give you a tour of the place.”
“Everyone’s waiting for you. You’re the main attraction.”
“Then they’ll wait.” He pulled her along a black-walled corridor, eerie dioramas lighting up as they passed. Josie could feel the glass eyes of the mannequins on her. “You going to go emo on me again?”
“Just hit a snag at work. No big deal,�
� she mumbled.
“Got something to show you.”
They padded down a hallway lined with faded framed documents, turned and turned again. Josie could hear the brass band above them but was hopelessly turned around. The dioramas lit up as they passed but she tried not to look. They just got weirder. The military scenes seemed self-explanatory but then came a tableau of men who seem to have been rounded up and shot on the street, a terrifying depiction of a voodoo ceremony featuring an awfully lifelike serpent, and…
She had to stop in front of the scene of two women clawing at each other. “What the hell is that?”
“Couple’a bints having a row. New Orleans has a rich history of hookers pulling each others’ hair out.”
“This place gives me the wiggins.”
“Shh.” Bram gave a shove to the handle on an unobtrusive door and shouldered it open.
She followed him inside. The lights were off but a glow from the other tableaux softly illuminated the small space. Silk dresses and uniforms hung from racks against the walls, a lidless hatbox overflowed with feathers, the floor was treacherous with muskets and broken chairs. They seemed to be in a storage room of some kind. But it wasn’t all costumes and props. Heavy iron chains were attached to the walls with manacles dangling from them. The maw of an enormous upright casket, also iron and vaguely human-shaped, loomed open to reveal a set of deadly looking spikes inside. Piled like a nest of vipers on the dusty floor, a discarded stash of whips.
“I didn’t think this place could be any creepier without the mannequins.”
“Serves our purpose well.”
“And that is?” She cast an uneasy glance at the iron maiden and its far-too-real-looking spikes.
Bram pulled her close, forcing her eyes from the backstage detritus to his face, half demonic, all delicious in the low light. “You were intrigued by the idea of a dungeon, Josie, but afraid too. Is that right?”
“Yes,” she whispered. Mostly afraid. But there was something exciting about the sight of the cuffs chained to the wall. Were those for her?
He pulled the pins from her careful coif and tilted up her chin for a kiss. “The other day I got a taste of what you’re capable of. I’m going to show you what I’m capable of. Do you want that?”