by BB Easton
I hopped off my step and bounced over to where John was standing by the door. I wrapped my bony arms around his bony midsection and squeezed. But, instead of hugging me back, John’s tall, lanky body went rigid in my embrace. I let go and took a step back, afraid that I’d hurt him or crossed some kind of line.
But John wasn’t even there. His eyes had rolled up into his head as if he were about to have a seizure, but he didn’t convulse. He simply stood there, still as a white-eyed statue.
Then he whispered the number eleven. Twice.
Eleven eleven? The fuck does that mean?
“John?” I was about to shake him but decided it might be best if I didn’t touch him again.
John’s eyes slowly rolled back into their normal positions, and he shook his head as if waking from a dream.
“Okay den.” John smiled, pulling open the shop door. “Laissez les bon temps rouler!”
Then he disappeared inside.
The fuck?
I sat back down on my step, ready to ponder and overanalyze every word John had just uttered, when I heard the booming of a marching band thundering in the distance. Every thump of the bass drum sounded louder than the one before it.
The parade had begun.
The energy on the street was joyous. Alive. Kinetic. Infectious. I let it lift my spirits. I let it remind me that I was Brooke fucking Bradley. Lover of life. Wearer of combat boots. Thrower of caution to the wind. I wasn’t a pouter. I mean, I was a pouter, but not when there was a good time to be had.
So I did what Brooke Bradley always did at parties. I pulled a soda bottle full of premixed Jack and Coke out of my purse, poured it into my empty stomach, and set my sights on a boy.
There were fire-breathing dragon floats, scale-model riverboat floats, and dozens of alligator floats, but the only one I cared about was the one with the fifteen-foot-tall harlequin jester on the front that I knew would be delivering my guy. I peered into the darkness as far down Bourbon Street as I could see, ignoring the plastic beaded necklaces I was being pelted with, until it came into view.
The jester float belonged to a local bar called Jokers Wild that was known for its live rock music. Phantom Limb’s new manager, courtesy of Violent Violet, had an in with the owner and booked the gig. It was great exposure. There were thousands of people in the French Quarter that night, and I’m pretty sure every damn one of them heard Trip’s screaming vocals at some point.
The jester on the front of their float was at least fifteen feet tall and looked like he’d just snorted a bushel of blow. His eyes were crazed. His smile, maniacal. Kind of like how Trip looked once he came into view. He wailed and gesticulated and made love to the mic stand as the band played a surprisingly good Love Like Winter cover, which I suspected was at the request of their record label.
The crowd went fucking nuts. Other than a few marching bands, there hadn’t been any floats with live music, and this was clearly a rock-’n’-roll audience. Tits were flashed. Beads were tossed, quite happily, by Trip, who was starring in his own personal Girls Gone Wild fantasy. And there was Hans, standing at the back of the float, playing his bass with his head down.
I shouted his name, but between the amplifiers and crowd noise, he couldn’t hear me. I shouted louder even though I knew it was no use. In a panic, I grabbed one of the decorative metal poles holding up the second-story balcony and pulled myself up onto the handrail by the stairs.
“Hans!” I screamed, waving my one free arm. “Hans!”
He never even lifted his head, but luckily, my flailing caught Trip’s attention. Taking two steps to the right, he smacked Hans on the arm and pointed at me with a grin. I held my breath as my guy looked in the direction of Trip’s outstretched finger. Tingles spread from the top of my head to the tips of my toes as his gaze swept across the crowd.
Look at me, baby. Over here…
I waved my free arm like a lunatic, nearly losing my balance, but just before my favorite steely stare found me, a burly dude standing on the sidewalk in front of me lifted a very drunk, very blonde girl up on his shoulders.
Mardi Gras Barbie immediately yanked her shirt up with both hands, gave a little shimmy, and shouted, “LDH!”
My blood ran cold as Hans’s eyes landed on her instead of me. When his pursed lips pulled up in a flirty smile for her, not me. When he blushed and shook his head at the sight of her bouncing titties, which I’m sure were full and jiggly and didn’t look at all like they belonged to a starving orphan boy like mine.
“Hans!” I screamed again, leaning around the competition and swaying like a newborn giraffe on the railing, but it was too late.
His eyes had already fluttered back down to his bass, a ghost of a smile still evident on his handsome face. It was that tiny smirk that made the ice water in my veins begin to boil. Heat rushed to my face and my fingers as I gripped the pole so hard, I’m surprised it didn’t collapse in my fist like an aluminum can.
Evidently, John had been right. I must have wanted some attention pretty damn bad because, before I knew it, my drunk ass had hopped off the railing, scooped a fistful of beads up off the ground, and chucked them directly at Hans as he passed. The second those purple, green, and gold pearls left my hand, I regretted the action, deeply, but it was too late. All I could do was cringe and hold my breath as the tiny projectiles flew over the crowd, toward my lover.
Luckily, plastic beaded necklace wads are not terribly aerodynamic. They nosedived somewhere between Mardi Gras Barbie and the float, missing both of my preferred targets by at least a yard.
Ugh! I threw my hands up and stomped down the four stubby little stairs that separated John’s shop from the street as the giant jester carried my guy away.
“Fuck Mardi Gras,” I muttered as I elbowed and shoved my way against the current of bodies lining Bourbon Street.
It was no different than any other Phantom Limb show. Random guys grabbed my arms and hands and hoodie as I passed, trying to pull me toward them, but I was so engrossed in my own inner dialogue that I just kept trudging through the Bourbon Street sludge, full speed ahead.
Fuck Hans. Fuck Mardi Gras. Fuck waiting.
Goddamn, I’m pissed. Why am I so pissed? Hans didn’t ask to see those boobs.
No, but he sure liked what he saw.
So what? He’s a dude.
Exactly. Two girls were competing for his attention, one that he loves and one with her tits out, and guess which one he saw? Typical fucking guy.
I yanked my elbow out of the clutches of some other typical fucking guy and kept right on walking.
That’s kind of understandable though. I mean, what if two guys were competing for your attention and one of them had his package hanging out?
Nuh-uh. Hans would still win. Hands down. Have you seen him? He’s fucking gorgeous. Especially compared to some rando’s scrotum.
Touché.
Another hand grabbed my wrist. I twisted it free without a second glance.
I shouldn’t have come with them. This was a stupid idea.
Yeah, let’s maybe not go to any more out-of-town shows for a while.
For real. You threw beads at Hans’s head tonight! What the fuck is wrong with you? What if they’d hit him?
They didn’t.
But what if they had?
Listen, nobody saw me do it, so it never happened.
I sidestepped some dickhead trying to talk to me and hustled across an intersection blocked off for the parade.
Did that guy really just ask me if I wanna party? Like I’m out here trying to pick up a prostitute?
I flipped the hood on my Phantom Limb sweatshirt up to try to look less approachable.
Maybe he just thought you might want some coke?
Well, I do, but not if it means I have to wake up in a bathtub full of ice, missing my spleen the next morning.
I crossed the street at another intersection and found myself staring up at a huge three-story building that seemed to take up the ent
ire block. The second-story balcony railing was draped in rainbow-print fabric, bass-heavy techno music pulsed from every seam, and there were so many people dancing outside and on the balcony the place resembled a psychedelic human anthill.
Just as I began to consider busting out the old Jolene Godfrey driver’s license so that I could see the inside of this Technicolor playground, my view was suddenly obstructed by a man-shaped silhouette. His uninvited lips smashed against mine then retreated, like a drive-by kissing.
My mouth fell open in shock as I watched a person who looked like he’d been carved out of marble—hard, hairless, perfectly sculpted marble—scamper off in a skimpy, sexy angel costume. And by costume, I mean a white thong, a pair of huge feathery wings, and a light-up halo. He stopped next to an equally drool-worthy specimen wearing the Satanic version of his ensemble, and the two beefcakes watched me, giggling like schoolgirls.
I flipped my hood back and glared at them, trying to act offended. The truth was that I appreciated their strange, unsolicited attention, but I couldn’t let them know that.
As soon as my face was exposed, both guys stopped laughing. The devil gasped and placed a hand over his mouth, then they cracked up even worse than before.
“Oh my God, honey! I’m so sorry!” Beelzebub squealed, his flashing red horns lighting up his frosted blond tips. “We thought you were—”
“Somebody else,” the archangel of abs interrupted with a smirk and an elbow to his buddy’s ribs.
I crossed my arms over my chest and raised an eyebrow at them, genuinely offended that time. “You thought I looked like a boy, didn’t you?”
“What?” Satan screeched, moving his hand from his mouth to his heart. “No!”
“Whatever. It’s fine. It’s not the first time I’ve been kissed by a gay guy.”
“What makes you think we’re—” The chiseled cherub couldn’t even get through his question before he snorted and doubled over laughing, his wings and glowing halo bouncing with every chuckle.
The devil gestured toward his friend. “Sorry about her,” he said with a full-lipped smirk. “This one’s had a little bit too much pixie dust.”
The angel stood back up and put his hands on his narrow hips. Sucking in a few steadying breaths, he flashed me the most mischievous grin ever worn by somebody in a halo headband and asked, “You want some?”
I’d always suspected that the devil and angel on my shoulders were thong-wearing, coked-up gay men. I just never thought I’d get to meet them in real life. Within minutes, I was jumping up and down on the dance floor of what had to be the largest gay nightclub in the southeastern US with a head full of “pixie dust” that came from a vial hanging around an actual seraph’s neck.
“I love Mardi Gras!” I announced, spinning under the disco ball to a jungle remix of “Just a Girl” by No Doubt.
When the DJ started dipping into the boy-band volume of his catalog—and my celestial friends began making out with each other—I decided it was time for me to make like NSYNC and go “Bye Bye Bye” too.
Or at least go outside for a smoke break until some better music came on.
Everything felt like it was in fast-forward as I made my way out the door—my thoughts, my movements, time. I dance-jogged in place as I dug around in my purse for my cigarettes, but I found my cell phone instead.
Oh, yeah. This thing. I should probably use it. I wonder if the guys made it back to the van yet. I wonder if Hans even remembers that I’m here. I wonder if he’s off judging a wet T-shirt contest somewhere.
When I hit the button to illuminate the screen, a hysterical cackle bubbled out of my throat.
Not because I had eight missed calls and five voicemails.
But because the clock read 11:11.
Eleven eleven.
Make a wish, a voice inside me said.
So I closed my eyes and wished for Hans. No, I had Hans. I wished for LDH. I wished for him to see me the way Hansel Oppenheimer did. I wished for him to look up from his music once in a while and acknowledge that I was there. I wished for him to play for me instead of playing near me for himself.
When I opened my eyes, I moved my thumb to the green Talk button to begin playing my voicemails, but the sound of my name off in the distance stopped me. Even over the thumping Backstreet Boys remix behind me and the sea of drunk people in the street, I swore I’d heard it. My ears perked up, and I listened.
Just when I was about to chalk it up to mixing coke with my Jack and Coke, I heard it again. It sounded like it was being shouted through a bullhorn very far away.
I stood up on my tiptoes and looked in every direction, not seeing anyone I recognized. Then, I heard it again. Louder.
“If anyone”—unintelligible—“drunk girl”—unintelligible—“Brooke Bradley”—couldn’t understand this part either—“this float for a reward.”
Float? Reward?
I jumped up as high as I could to see over the crowd, and there it was, about four blocks away—the head of a giant jester, parting the sea of drunks on Bourbon Street like Moses parting the Red Sea.
I took off in a sprint, leap-frogging over puking party girls and spin-dodging handsy assholes with ease.
“If you guys see a tiny drunk girl with short blonde hair named Brooke Bradley, bring her to this float for a reward, okay?”
It was Trip’s voice, and he wasn’t shouting through a bullhorn; he was shouting through his microphone!
“I’m here! Over here!” I waved one hand as I ran, clutching the shoulder strap of my purse with the other.
I saw the wheels turning in a few people’s heads as I passed, like, Oh, that’s the girl. I should return her and get a—
But by the time their sluggish, inebriated brains formed the thought, I’d already blown past them.
“What’s up, New Orleans? Would y’all do us a favor and go find a little blonde chick named Brooke Bradley? If you do, Baker here will give you a BJ.”
“Hans! Hans!” I pushed my way through the wake of people gathering around the float and held up my hands. “Down here! Hans!”
Everything had been in fast-forward until the moment Hans peered over the side of the float. Then, it all shifted into slow motion. Shaggy black hair, slightly spiky from sweat, flopped over one gray-blue eye. Jet-black lashes blinked in relief. Narrow, pursed lips split into a two-dimpled smile. And long, strong, hoodie-covered arms reached for me.
My wish had come true. LDH, of Phantom Limb, had seen me.
I beamed up at him, tears of joy and disbelief stinging my eyes, and accepted his outstretched hands. Hans helped me scramble up the side of the float, which appeared to be crafted out of a flatbed truck with side panels, and pulled me into his arms.
Grabbing my face with both hands, Hans looked at me as if he were trying to convince himself that I was real. Then he kissed me hard on my closed mouth.
Pulling away, he glared at me with a deep V-shaped crease between his glistening eyes, all traces of his earlier relief gone. “You have got to stop disappearing like that! Fuck, BB! We couldn’t find you anywhere!”
I felt like Hans had just kissed me and punched me in the gut, all at the same time. It had never even occurred to me that he might be wondering where I was. Or that he’d thought of me at all. Did I really think that little of him? Did I really think that little of myself?
“Oh my God, baby. I’m so sorry. I had no idea—”
Two hands clapped me on the back mid-apology, one heavy and one light.
I looked over my shoulder and found Trip and Baker, both looking at me in annoyance.
“You scared the shit outta my boy, blondie. Glad you’re okay,” Trip said.
“Glad you’re okay,” Baker mumbled.
Returning to his spot behind the microphone, Trip announced, “We got her, folks! And since you guys didn’t even murder her, like Lucifer here said you would, you all get a reward!”
I craned my neck to see Louis, who winked at me from behind his dru
m kit just before smacking his sticks together three times. Right on cue, Louis, Baker, and Trip launched into America’s favorite sing-along song of all time—“Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey. Trip didn’t even get out the first syllable before the entire French Quarter chimed in, including me.
I smiled up at Hans and sang the lyrics, making exaggerated facial expressions to go along with them.
Hans smiled back, my silliness chipping away at some of his anger, and cupped a hand behind one ear. What? he mouthed. I can’t hear you.
I rolled my eyes and smacked him on the chest. Standing up on my tiptoes, I pulled Hans’s face down to my mouth and said, “I’m so fucking sorry, baby. I had no idea you guys were looking for me,” directly into his ear.
Hans kept his cheek pressed against mine and shouted back, “I called you five times. I thought you’d been fucking abducted.”
Only five? I had eight missed calls.
“I was at Oz. I guess it was too loud for me to hear my phone ringing.”
Hans’s volume dropped. “Did you even watch us perform?”
I pulled away and leveled him with a shocked stare. “Of course I did! I was standing right”—I looked around until I saw John’s shop behind us—“over there. I waited for hours, and you didn’t even look at me when you passed by.”
I felt my face begin to flush at the memory of his eyes on Mardi Gras Barbie’s body.
“Damn. Sorry, baby.”
I could barely hear him over the crowd. They were going nuts over Trip hilariously butchering the super-crazy high note in the middle of the song. I had to read Hans’s lips to comprehend the next words he said to me.
“I knew I shouldn’t have brought you here. It was selfish. I just…didn’t want to miss you. I didn’t even think about you being all alone…out here.” Hans surveyed the madness below with his eyes.
My sweet, backward boy, apologizing when he’d done nothing wrong.
I pushed up onto my tiptoes and kissed his frown, trying to turn it right side up.
“Hey,” I shouted as something occurred to me, “how did you guys get this thing back onto Bourbon Street? Didn’t the cops try to stop you?”