Smooth: A New Love Romance Novel (Bad Boy Musicians)

by Hazel Redgate

  Chapter Seven

  As it turns out, I don’t drink enough to forget about Carter. In fact, I don’t drink much at all.

  At the first bar we walk into, Danielle orders a row of shots for the bride and friends, and I decide in that instant that one of us is going to have to stay sober. No one else volunteers, so as they knock back cocktails like we’re about to enter Prohibition 2.0, I sip on a soda water with a slice of lime to spice things up a bit. As I shepherd the girls up and down Bourbon Street, trying my best to feed them as much water as I can along the way, my mind keeps drifting back to Carter.

  Every spare second I get is spent staring at my phone, scrolling down to Carter’s name, and waiting. I’m not even sure what I’m waiting for. The right opportunity to call him, maybe? Well, this sure as hell isn’t it. Even if I thought he’d pick up, even if I knew what to say if he did, I wouldn’t want to do it outside a bar in a city I don’t know, surrounded by people having the time of their lives while making sure Lauren and the girls don’t wander their way into trouble. If we have that discussion – when we have that discussion, I correct myself – it has to be perfect.

  I’m only going to get one shot.

  But that doesn’t stop me thinking about it. It doesn’t stop my thumb from reflexively bringing up our text message thread, expecting to find something to make my day a little brighter. It doesn’t stop me re-reading his words, remembering happy times in between trying to convince the girls not to try and make out with the Christian protestors in the middle of the street. It doesn’t stop me typing out and deleting a dozen or more messages to him while negotiating between four drunk women and a string of worn-out bartenders who just want to get on with their night.

  None of it distracts me from Carter.

  By the time we find our way to a karaoke bar, where my charges can be corralled into a booth that won’t put too much of a burden on the other patrons, I’ve hit a whole new level of maudlin. The problem is that I can’t work out what the problem is, what I should have done differently. I’ve just about managed to accept the fact that Carter doesn’t want to be a part of my plans, but… well, so what? Plans can be altered. You don’t sink the cruise liner just because you don’t like the colour of the deckchairs. We could have changed things. It wasn’t like I forced him into it… was it?

  Too many renditions of Man, I Feel Like a Woman later, we make it back into the (neon) light of the outside world. Like herding cats, I manage to get the four of them into something vaguely approximating the direction of the hotel, winding our way through a crowd of equally-drunk revellers.

  ‘Hey… Hey, El.’

  Lauren is leaning on me for support, both moral and physical, and her words come soaked in enough vodka I’m sure she could light her breath on fire. ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘That bar you went to earlier. What was it called?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. I’m distracted by the sight of sweet, innocent Paige making a surprisingly successful attempt at performing a poledancing move on a streetlamp. It’s always the quiet ones, I think. Jessica and Danielle hoot with laughter; I’m just concerned that she’s going to put a hat down and start taking donations to cover the cost of the night’s drinks. Perhaps that’s why Lauren’s question manages to slip past me unexamined.

  ‘Yes you do. What was it?’

  ‘The Coeur de Vie… why?’

  ‘And the guy you totally have a crush on… tall? Black?’

  Oh, shit.

  I follow the line of the finger she’s pointing, and sure enough, there he is: maybe thirty yards ahead of us, standing under the bright light of the Coeur de Vie sign, his trumpet case in hand.

  Grinning.

  ‘Hush,’ I say, too late to stop the blood from flowing to my cheeks. I’m blushing brighter than the neon of the rest of Bourbon Street combined.

  ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’ Lauren cackles. ‘Oh, he’s nice. I like him.’

  ‘Lauren Jeanette Harris,’ I hiss into her ear, ‘I swear if you don’t shut your mouth this instant I’m going to leave you right here in the gutter where the rats can eat you.’

  It doesn’t work. ‘Hello, Mr. Jazzman!’ Lauren yells down the street. ‘My friend thinks you’re cute!’

  The street steadfastly refuses to swallow me up, no matter how much I wish for it. Typical.

  ‘Is that right?’ he calls back.

  Lauren nods like a bobblehead in an earthquake.

  ‘Well, your friend has a good eye,’ he smiles. He tips his hat to us for a second. ‘You ladies stay safe, alright?’ His voice is rough and raspy and deep, no doubt from a night on the trumpet, but his tone is mellow and I can tell that Lauren is suitably charmed. When he winks at me before he turns the corner, I think she’s in danger of swooning her way into a puddle right there in front of me.

  ‘Who was that?’ Paige calls out when Jack is – mercifully – out of earshot. ‘Why did he wink at Ella?’

  ‘He’s no one,’ I say, redoubling my efforts to get them home and wondering if it would be an excessive to call an Uber to travel a block and a half. Wondering if I could pay him extra to reverse over me when he’s done and put me out of my misery.

  ‘He’s Ella’s new loverboy,’ Lauren says, then lets out a whoop of laughter that echoes down the street. That’s all the encouragement the other three need: within seconds, they’re making kissing noises and misremembering kindergarten lyrics about trees and baby carriages.

  It’s too stupid for me to stay angry at them for long.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, smiling despite myself. ‘Time for bed.’

  It takes us another twenty minutes to make the ten-minute walk back to the hotel, but somehow we manage it. Paige and Danielle and Jessica mount the steps of the hotel like novice Sherpas trying to find their way up Everest, but Lauren stops me before we start our ascent.

  ‘Ella.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘I mean, I love you. I really do. You’re my best friend.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So you’ll be honest with me?’

  ‘If it gets your drunk ass up these stairs faster, sure.’

  ‘That was him?’ she asks conspiratorially, like it’s a secret between just the two of us. ‘For real?’

  ‘For real.’

  Lauren lets out a theatrical sigh and smiles down at me.

  ‘Oh, El,’ she says. ‘You are totally hooking up with a musician at my wedding.’

  Chapter Eight

  It takes another thirty minutes to figure out which girl goes in which room and where their keys are, and by the time I’m back in my bed the sun is starting to peak through the curtains, bathing the room in an eerie blue glow. It was bad enough in full daylight, but now the kitsch-factor is through the roof.

  I find myself staring at the swan photograph, with their two necks in the shape of a love heart. It’s positively nauseating. Just imagine having that staring back at you when you’re trying to have sex, I think, and shudder inwardly.

  I’m almost pleased to find that it’s not just the fact that Carter isn’t here with me that makes the room seem tacky and obnoxious. It would be tacky and obnoxious even if I was curled up next to him, rather than laid out in a thin line in the middle of a too-large bed. What the room’s decorators were selling wasn’t love. It wasn’t even close. It was a shorthand, a facsimile. No one had love like this. No one’s affection was ever adequately conveyed with swans and chocolates, with rose petals and heart-shaped sequins – and if it was, maybe it wasn’t really love at all. Maybe it was just as fake as the flowers on the dresser.

  My relationship hadn’t had all that schmaltzy crap in it; I would never have allowed it. The whole idea of romance seems suspect to me. Even when Carter proposed, it didn’t come with any of the trappings. I mean, sure, there was the ring, but that’s just expected. And there was the dinner… but a dinner is a dinner. We went out for dinner
all the time. We could afford it, so why not? That was different. We went out because it was easier than cooking, not so we could show each other how we felt. We didn’t need to. It was just… understood.

  Take the proposal, for example. It wasn’t a big thing. We had a serious discussion about marriage, came to the conclusion that it would fit both our lives – or so I thought, anyway – and then he’d gone out and bought the ring the next time he could make time. When he found it didn’t quite fit, even though I’d told him my ring size myself, he’d joked about hoping I didn’t take it as an omen – but of course I didn’t. It wasn’t a signal from the universe, or a bad luck charm. It was the logical choice. It felt right.

  It was all according to the plan. I had never felt so content.

  Lauren’s proposal, though… Jesus, that was a hot mess. Drew had turned the tiny apartment above the comic shop into an out-and-out fire hazard. He’d filled the whole place with candles, some of them so strongly-scented that it they had made Lauren’s eyes water, not that she’d ever admit that; she’d managed to convince him she was just crying tears of joy. He’d left a narrow path to his bed, where he was knelt on one knee, ready and waiting. Of course, she’d run late at the hospital, so he’d been there for an hour longer than he was expecting, stuck in place because he didn’t want to blow his big opportunity by accident. It all sounded ridiculous to me, but she cried happy tears – genuine happy tears this time – every time she told the story. She could describe the exact look on Drew’s face when she managed to choke out her answer. She remembered every word he said to her when she stopped in front of him at the foot of his bed, even though there was barely room for her to move without risking setting her dress on fire. She knew exactly how happy she was in that instant, and how she had never felt anything like it before.

  I mean, it’s alright, if that’s what you’re into, I guess – but it’s not for me. Lauren was always the one who wanted the big fairy tale wedding, who longed to find the man of her dreams, who thought her life would be so much better as soon as the right guy came along. Then she had ended up with Drew, somehow. She had had a plan, and then he had come along and messed it all up. I couldn’t imagine a world in which Drew was the guy she had been talking about when we were kids – Drew, with his kitsch tastes, with his zero ambition, with his gawky, awkward smile. Prince Charming, he was not.

  But that’s the thing about plans: they only work for as long as you stick to them. You’ve got to sacrifice things in the short term to get to where you want to be in the long run. You’ve got to make them work – otherwise, what’s the point in having a plan at all?

  And suddenly, out of nowhere, there’s Carter’s face for just a second, and that nasal whine of his voice: Like you planned, Ella, he says. Like you planned. Like you always planned. And look where it got you, eh?

  I turn myself away from the godawful swan picture and bury my head in the pillow, blotting out as much of the light as I can until I finally fall asleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Even though I’m the last one in bed, I’m the first one up: by eleven-thirty, I’m showered and dressed and in the hotel restaurant, where for breakfast I have my pick of two stale bagels and coffee that smells more burnt than the bottom of a pizza oven. Instead I settle for a large glass of water and a bag of chips – you know, the healthy option – and idly skim through a book as I take bets on which of the four will be the first downstairs.

  As it happens, I’m right: it’s Paige. Paige, the youngest. Paige, the innocent. Paige, somehow the least drunk despite her impromptu stripper show on a New Orleans lamppost. There’s no danger of a repeat performance today, though. She shuffles into the restaurant like a zombie in a Romero movie, a pair of enormous cat-eye sunglasses trying – and failing – to block out enough of the light to keep her retinas happy. She scans the restaurant for familiar faces, which doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds; I’m the only person in there, except for the wait staff. The long march to my table at the back of the room, however, seems to take an age. By the time she collapses down into one of the nearby chairs, it’s hard not to feel sorry for her.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.

  Stupid question. The noise she makes answers better than words ever could.

  ‘Stay there,’ I say, and she puts up no complaint. ‘I’ll sort you out.’

  A few minutes later, there’s a glass of water and a double shot of espresso sitting in front of her.

  She smiles gratefully, but as she reaches for the coffee I pat her hand away. Instead, I slide my half-empty bag of potato chips over to her. ‘Secret hangover cure,’ I say. ‘It’s the salt. Give it five minutes, and you’ll feel a world better, trust me.’

  Paige looks sceptical, but she takes a chip and puts it in her mouth anyway. Her face brightens pretty much instantly.

  ‘How did you find out about this?’

  I shrug. ‘I went to college too, you know. It wasn’t all weekends in the law library. I did occasionally indulge a bit more than I should have.’

  ‘Hmm.’ It’s a noise I recognise. It’s usually followed by a Weird, or an I never would have guessed. Apparently, I don’t look like much of a party girl.

  ‘What?’ I ask, and she shrugs.

  ‘You just seem to have your stuff so… together, you know?’ she says. ‘Like you really know where you’re going with your life. I swear, most people just seem to be spinning their wheels. I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing half the time.’

  I wrinkle my nose at her. ‘Aren’t you a nurse?’ I ask.

  ‘Not this week. If I was, I’d have a saline drip in my arm right about now.’

  ‘Sorry. The chips are the best I can do.’

  She smiles, and takes a big gulp of her water; I can tell she’s eager to get started on the coffee, but she’s got at least enough wherewithal to make sure she’s properly hydrated first. ‘Thanks for this,’ she says. ‘And thanks for taking care of us last night.’

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. Believe me. I’ve only been out with Dani and Jess and Lauren once before, but I don’t remember much of it. If you hadn’t been there to keep us in line…’ She doesn’t finish the thought. She doesn’t have to.

  ‘You would have been fine.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘Seriously. Lauren’s a trooper. I was there the first time she ever got drunk, and I can tell you that no matter how drunk she gets, she’s capable of looking after herself – and everyone else. Just make sure you’re using a different bathroom the morning after.’

  Paige laughs. ‘Well, I think it’s my turn tonight. I can’t keep up with them for two nights in a row. I figure it’s my turn.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Oh, Dani and Jess have got a full schedule planned. Four days of fun and frolics.’

  ‘And cocktails? I’m guessing a lot of cocktails.’

  ‘Now you’re getting it.’

  I shrug. ‘It’s OK. It’s nice of you to offer, but I don’t really drink all that often.’ And I really don’t feel like getting shitfaced this week. The sooner I can get it all over with, the better.

  ‘Even if I wasn’t offering,’ she says from beneath a raised eyebrow, ‘do you really think Lauren is going to let you go back to Chicago without seeing you make a drunken fool out of yourself? It’s New Orleans, honey. Laissez les bon temps rouler.’

  The heavy footfalls of Danielle and Jessica ring out their entrance into the restaurant. They slump into chairs next to us and flop forward in tandem, resting on folding arms as Paige and I share a grin. ‘Morning, sleepyheads!’ she singsongs at the pair of them; apparently the chips and water are already working their magic.

  The two invalids groan loudly, and plead for Paige to get them something – anything – that will make the room stop spinning.

  ‘What are we doing today, by the way?’ I ask as she leaves. I’m hoping, given their condition, that the answer is going to be something lig
ht – something, perhaps, that I might be able to skip out on if I’m being dragged along on another booze cruise tonight.

  It’s Jessica who answers first. ‘Psychics!’ she shouts, a little too loudly and a little too quickly; as soon as the light hits her eyes and she realises just how high the cost of enthusiasm is going to be, her head drops down onto the table and she lets out a regretful groan.

  Welcome to hell.

  ‘Psychics?’ I say. ‘We’re going to see psychics?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Paige says from behind me. She sets down two coffees, two large glasses of water and another bag of potato chips, and sets about curing her friends. ‘There’s a bunch of shops in town that do readings.’

  ‘Readings?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Tarot and palm.’

  ‘We couldn’t find anyone with a genuine crystal ball?’

  Danielle peels herself up from the table. ‘Oh, joy,’ she says. ‘Look out, ladies. We’ve got a sceptic.’

  Somehow, when she says it, the word doesn’t sound like much of a compliment; gone is the enthusiasm Danielle might have had for my arrival yesterday. ‘If that’s what you want to call someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts and fairies and old gypsy curses, sure,’ I say. ‘I’m a sceptic.’

  ‘It might be fun,’ Paige says. ‘You can still enjoy it, right?’

  I sigh. There doesn’t seem like there’s going to be much hope for me to change their minds – and based on the look Danielle is giving me, I’m not sure it would even be wise to try. I’ve already been the sensible one for one night this trip, swearing off booze just so I could help keep the four of them safe. The last thing I need is to get a reputation for being the boring one on the second day. It’ll make the rest of the week with these people a real slog.

  ‘Come on, Ellie,’ Danielle says. ‘What’s the harm?’

  I don’t know, I think. Tell that to the woman who pins all her hopes on getting a message from her dead husband, or the man who spends his life savings looking for help making a decision from someone who blows smoke up his ass the entire time. Put it right up there with crystal healing and homeopathy and all that other new-age bullshit – and then keep it far away from me.