by Lucy Farago
“That’s cool.” Too bad it came at the expense of human beings. “I’ve always wanted to see the South. I’ve never traveled much, so it’s kind of a shame I won’t get to see any of New Orleans.”
“Who said anything about not going into town?”
“I just assumed …”
“We can disguise ourselves. Actually, you don’t need one. Honestly, no one would recognize you if they saw you now. I think my beard is full enough to hide my face.” He rubbed a hand over the growth on his chin.
It was the first time he’d seen her without makeup. Even on the day of the shooting, she’d had black smudges on her eyes. Admittedly, she felt naked without it, vulnerable. But then she reminded herself this was Blake. If she couldn’t trust him, who could she?
“You like that?” She pointed to his new beard. She didn’t, but she wasn’t going to tell him. Guys had this thing about beards, and ugly or not, it was his. Truthfully, it hid his stunning face and nothing had the right to do that.
“No, but it’s necessary. Some of Ryan’s missions have made my face somewhat recognizable.”
She hadn’t been mistaken. “You were on the cover of GQ.”
He winced. “Once. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
She considered hounding him until he fessed up, but he seemed genuinely embarrassed having graced one of the biggest magazines in the world. She let it go. “Okay, when can we go?” she asked, eager to see New Orleans. Then she remembered, her excitement fading. “You can’t go anywhere. You’re still injured.”
“Give me a day or two to get used to walking around. I’ll be fine then. But if you’d rather not wait, Dozier can take you.”
Was that disappointment she heard? Yes, definitely disappointment. She wouldn’t have gone without him, but it was nice to think he didn’t want her to. “No, I’ll wait for you. And to that end, we should head back. This is your first day out, and we don’t want to push it.”
“But we’re still having breakfast on the porch, right?”
“Under the blue porch,” she corrected. “What better way to ward off those evil, sick demons?”
Chapter Eleven
As promised, two days later Blake felt well enough to take Rhonda into New Orleans. Not wanting to tire him out, she’d made him promise the excursion would be short. Dozier tagged along.
“Make sure you have some sweet potato pie.” Dozier grinned. “Or better still, go to Chez Paul and get a whole one to bring back.”
“Are you ever not hungry?” Blake asked.
“Only when I’m full. You’d know about being full of it, wouldn’t you, Blake?”
“Sooo funny. Care to get out of the car and walk into town?”
“Play nice, boys.” Rhonda swore these two lived to torment each other.
When they reached the city limits, Dozier hopped out of the car. “My voodoo queen awaits. Text me when you’re ready to go.”
What would it be like to sleep with a man Dozier’s size? Then looking over at Blake, she realized she liked them on the leaner side.
Not that she’d had many of them to categorize as lean, but the few men, three in total, she had slept with hadn’t been the live-in-the-gym type.
Her first had been a fellow student in college. She’d been so relieved to be doing something for herself, she’d given her virginity away. No regrets, but no fireworks either. Feeling sorry for herself, Rhonda’s second lover had come after she had to quit school. Regrettably, he’d been the only one to come. Her third, short-lived affair had occurred just after her father died. She knew he was more interested in dating a stripper than dating Rhonda. But she needed me-time and had allowed his exuberant attention, against her better judgment. Then there was Blake. While he wasn’t like the other shmucks in her pathetic love life, she was starting to see a pattern, one she didn’t like.
“Where are we going first?” she asked, trying and failing to not sound too excited. She was in New Orleans. If there was a city other than Vegas, known for its sin and debauchery, she was in it. And it was nice, so nice, not to be a part of it.
“How about a late afternoon snack? You can’t exactly come to New Orleans and not have a beignet. Let’s head to Decatur Street. That way.” He pointed to his left.
“Do you know the city well?” she asked, following.
“As Christian is a native, I come down when he’s here. Boys’ weekend type of thing.”
“I see a lot of those in Vegas.”
“I guess you would, but this city isn’t like Vegas. There’s a history here.”
“I get it.” She pointed to the tented patio that made up Café Du Monde. “Here you can have a beignet and a coffee, and know you’re partaking in a tradition that has withstood time.”
“1862 to be exact.”
Nothing in Vegas was that old and if it was, they’d have torn it down and made a new one, bigger and better. If only she could do that with her life. Wouldn’t it be nice to strip away the old as she’d stripped off her clothes, only to put on something new, something untainted by regrets? “1862? That’s one stale pastry.”
“Yes,” he replied, not missing a beat, “imagine the coffee. Shall we?”
He gave her his arm and she linked hers through his. “Let’s get at. I can smell the icing sugar from here and it’s making my mouth water.”
Blake not only had two orders of the fried dough confection, making it six beignets, but he stole one of hers. Not that she minded. There was something satisfying about watching a man relish his food. The fact that he was healthy enough to thoroughly enjoy pastry and coffee made her happy. But it could have had something to do with the way he licked the sugar off his lips. She caught herself staring at his mouth. She sipped her chicory coffee, forcing herself to look down at her mug and off his beautiful face and decadent tongue.
“So, where to next?” she asked.
“How about a walk along the harbor?”
“Are you up for that? You don’t want to overdo your first real day out.”
“I’ll let you know when I get tired. Have I told you how beautiful you look today?”
Rhonda touched one of the braids trailing over a breast. “I’m a grown woman and my hair is in braids. No make-up, and the last time I wasn’t wearing combat boots on an outing was Maggie’s wedding.”
Blake had insisted they try the sweet and innocent approach. She’d nearly taken off his head when he’d handed her a pair of tan Chinos, but in hindsight, he’d been right. In an orange Lacoste polo shirt, she looked nothing like herself.
“You look great. You always look great. Like the morning after our night together.” He leaned over the small café table. “Seeing a woman’s lips wet and swollen from my kisses. There’s a certain amount of … pride knowing I did that.”
“Pride? You mean chest pounding, he-man ego.” She smiled.
“No, that would’ve been when you screamed my name.” He dabbed his finger in the icing sugar on the plate then dusted her nose with it. “You know … when we were …” He quirked an eyebrow and grinned fiendishly.
She brushed the sugar off with her thumb. “What do you call it when your friend has to carry you up the stairs, drooling like a baby? Were ya pounding it then?”
He straightened. “Humiliating.”
“Nah, that would’ve been when you called him Mama.”
He blanched. “I didn’t. Tell me I didn’t.”
She broke out laughing. “You should see the look on your face. Priceless.”
“You lied? Evil woman.” He sat back and made like he was pouting. She knew he was faking because first, men like Blake didn’t pout and second, the corners of his mouth twitched.
They spent the rest of the afternoon walking by the harbor. He pointed out a few of the ships owned by Christian’s family, and they watched as guests boarded a riverboat for an evening cruise. It was nice.
“I don’t remember the last time I did this,” she said, when they sat on a bench by the river.
Taking things slow for Blake, all afternoon they’d sit on one of the concrete walls overlooking the water or in one of the outdoor cafés dotting the riverbank.
“You don’t remember the last time you walked?”
“No, smartass.” She looked at him sideways. “This.” She circled the air with her hand. “This whole thing. Just a really nice day with a friend.”
She’d come to realize they were friends. Okay, they’d slept together and fate had twisted their paths into something heinous, but from that bloomed a friendship.
“Is that what we are, Rhonda?”
“Sure.” She lowered her voice. “You don’t go into hiding with someone and not become their friend.”
“Is that all I am, a friend?”
She studied him, telling herself not to read too much into it. It was probably more chest-thumping.
*
Blake was an idiot. Having more with Rhonda wasn’t an option. Not only had he promised Christian, but himself as well. And more was what she deserved. She also deserved to be spoiled. She needed to be loved by a man who could give her everything, not someone whose family demanded of him, like her father had demanded of her. Intentionally or not, that man had been a taker and Blake wouldn’t do that same thing to Rhonda. He wouldn’t be a taker, but nor could he be a giver.
“I’m sorry, Rhonda. I only meant, I only hoped,” he amended, “we could be close friends.”
“I’ve never been friends with a man. Hell, I can count on one hand how many true friends I’ve actually had.”
“What about the women at the club?” He assumed you didn’t do something as personal as take your clothes off and not share some kind of connection with the women you worked with. But he was a man, what did he know? Perhaps a job was a job. He hoped not. It would break his heart to think of Rhonda alone like that. But again, what did he know? Maybe it was how she got through it.
Rhonda shrugged. “I’m more of a house mother than a friend. But that’s my doing, not theirs.”
“You really didn’t like dancing, did you?” It would explain why someone wouldn’t want to get cozy with the people she worked with.
“Honestly,” she said, her face going tense, “I hated it.”
“Rhonda—” he began, stunned by her frank admission.
“I hated it.”
Were those tears in her eyes. Had he made her cry? He could kick himself.
“I did what I had to do. There’s no taking it back, but I hated it,” she repeated with such vehemence, her pain reverberated through him.
“I’m sorry,” was all he could think of to say. He wanted to hold her, tell her he’d make it better, that her life would be better, but he didn’t dare. He didn’t dare promise what he couldn’t deliver.
“It’s all right. It was my decision. Right or wrong, I made it. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Because,” he drew closer, “we’re friends. And I would like to think you believe you can trust me.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder, flinching as one of the riverboats blew its horn. “Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
He kissed the top of her hair, inhaling the fresh aroma of her shampoo. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
He nudged her. “I’ve never been friends with a woman either.”
Rhonda smiled, then quickly glanced at her watch. “We’ve been out of the house over six hours. You’re overdoing it and you,” she pointed a finger at him, “promised no overdoing it.”
He couldn’t help it. He grinned. She was such a nag. But she nagged because she cared, cared for him. That was a problem, but the bigger issue was making himself acknowledge that it was a problem. Right now, he didn’t care. He had larger troubles. Someone wanted a bullet in his head.
“Fine, let’s go home. I’ll text Dozier. But you can’t come to New Orleans and not walk down Bourbon Street on a Friday night. Agree to that, and we go home.”
“Are you blackmailing me?”
“Aye, lass, I am.”
“That’s not fair, laying on that sexy brogue to get me to do your bidding.”
“Huh. I’ll have to remember that on our next date.”
She stopped mid-way, standing stock still. “Date? This was not a date.”
“Yes, it was. We went out. We ate. We’re going home. Date.” He wrapped his other arm around her waist. “But don’t expect a kiss. I never kiss on the first date. I’m not that kind of guy.”
She shook her head. “Move it along, lunatic.”
They chatted amiably the couple of blocks to Bourbon Street, passing not one, but four groups of very intoxicated bachelor parties.
“That,” she nodded toward the last group of men “is something you see lots of in Vegas.”
“True enough,” he agreed, raising his voice over the loud rock music of the club they passed. “But is there that?” He pointed to a very large woman lifting her shirt and flashing a group of partiers on the balcony of the bar across the street.
“No. I’ve seen a lot of crazy things, including a wedding between a guy and his blow-up doll, but exposing yourself for plastic beads is plain weird.”
“Hey baby,” someone called from the same balcony.
They looked up in time to see one of the partiers toss beads in their direction. They landed with a clatter at Rhonda’s feet.
“There’s more if you want,” he shouted.
Rhonda looked at the beads by her toes then back at the man who’d offered them to her. He was young, young and drunk. She smiled, the saucy intent of that smile fake. He’d seen it before. It was the one she used on stage, the one he’d come to realize was for show.
“Oh, honey,” she yelled back, “you’ll have to do better than that.” She then touched the point of one strappy sandal to the beads. She swirled the purple plastic across the sidewalk in a figure eight. The movement accentuated her very long leg and the beautiful hips attached to said leg. It made a man think about having his hands around those hips as she rocked herself over him.
Blake blinked as she kicked the offered beads onto the street. She tipped her head up toward the guy who’d tossed them. The expression on his face had gone from a jerk who’d been trying to get any woman to flash her tits, to a man who desperately wanted to see Rhonda’s.
She gave him her usual, sensual don’t fuck with me grin, the one guys loved. And even dressed the way she was, she was sexy as hell. The sidewalk around them clattered with the sound of more falling beads. Rhonda laughed haughtily and began to walk away. “Keep the plastic for the plastic, fellas. These are real.”
Blake followed her as audible groans filtered down from the balconies. Beads continued to be tossed as Rhonda made her way down Bourbon Street. She visibly relaxed once they were clear of the frenzy she’d created.
“Not interested in Bourbon Street souvenirs?” he said, staying close behind.
She spun around, fists clutched by her sides, a very, very irate woman. Holy shit, he was just kidding. She wouldn’t flash anyone, let alone for beads and he was glad, extremely glad.
“What,” she said, teeth gritted, “is that supposed to mean? You think I strip for the fun of it?”
“No—”
“Have you not been listening to anything I’ve said?”
“Of course I have—”
“Then what makes you think I’d flash those morons for beads? You think because I’m a stripper I’m up for that kind of ‘fun’?” she demanded.
“Rhonda—”
She marched off.
“Rhonda, I can’t keep up with you.” He was feeling better, but chasing after her wasn’t an option.
She stopped, turned and glared, waiting for him to catch up.
“I was being sarcastic. I didn’t mean anything by it other than insulting the dickheads who threw the beads,” he said, shouting to be heard over the loud music booming from the bar they were next to.
Her evil-eyed stare faded, as she seemed to acc
ept his explanation.
“Drunks and women who have something to prove do that sort of thing.” He nodded back at Bourbon Street. “You are neither.”
“Sorry,” she said, flinching as the bar crowd inside cheered. “I overreacted. Come on. We’ll be late.”
She’d apologized. So why did he feel bad?
Rhonda, now solicitous of his injury, began to walk at a snail’s pace. Not that he’d admit it to her, but he was tired. Whatever energy he had in reserve had been used. Luckily, Dozier would be there waiting.
They didn’t make the turn off Bourbon Street. He mistook the first shot for part of the drum solo from the band performing at the next bar they passed. The second, he recognized for what it was: a blast from a shotgun, suppressor on. It pinged the wall beside his head, sending shards of brick into the air. Grabbing Rhonda’s hand, he made for the door of the nearest club.
A fellow the size of a small truck blocked the entrance. “Cover charge, folks. Cash only,” he said, clueless to the danger around them.
Blake rapidly scanned the area, trying to assess where the shots had come from—and if they were sitting ducks. He considered going for his gun but thought that could create panic. Panic they could hide in, but innocent bystanders might get hurt. The third shot answered his question. It struck the doorman in the shoulder. He snatched up Rhonda by the waist as she bent down to help the injured man. Ignoring her protests, he pushed past the other doorman who’d come to see what happened.
“Blake, he’s been shot,” she continued to argue as he dragged her through the club.
“We’ll be next,” he shouted as the band played, unaware of the menace outside.
“Blake,” she complained, struggling against his hold, vainly attempting to free herself.
No way was he letting go. He was running on adrenaline and if he stopped now, he was afraid he might not be able to continue. “Stop it, Rhonda,” he yelled over his shoulder as the music abruptly cut off. Inside the partiers were at last attuned to what was going on. He took a chance and stopped. He’d protect Rhonda with everything he had. He could do this. He pushed her up against the wall as the crowds dispersed, some toward the front, some back. Would the gunman continue to take out bystanders? He didn’t know and right now, he couldn’t concern himself with that. His priority was Rhonda.