His Uptown Girl

by Liz Talley

  “Show-off,” Dez grumped, crossing his arms and eyeing the space above the bar. He sensed Tre slipping toward the door and turned. “Hey, Tre, I been meaning to catch you.”

  Tre stopped, his eyes questioning, his stance tense. The kid was always jumpy, as though he expected someone to throw a punch at him at any moment. “Yeah?”

  “You said at the art gallery the other night you were looking for some extra work?”

  “Yeah?”

  Conversationalist the kid wasn’t. “So I gotta staff this place and thought you might want dibs on some shifts.”

  “I ain’t old enough, am I?”

  “You have to be over eighteen.”

  Tre nodded. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

  “And think about taking that horn Blakely offered you. I’ve never seen a kid who could blow like you, and you were, what, in junior high?”

  Tre inclined his head.

  “Freaking amazing.”

  Reggie spun at Dez’s words and regarded Tre with new eyes. Nothing Reggie liked more than a young kid with musical talent. Reggie played football for his living, but his passion was playing bass and working with inner city kids in the Second Line Players, a weekly program that preserved New Orleans’ musical traditions. It’s where Dez had met the football player. “He’s that good?”

  “He was,” Dez said.

  Tre wouldn’t look at them. “I’ll check into it. Mrs. Theriot done brought the horn and set it in front of me like she was my mama or something. Determined to give it to me.”

  “Then take it. Damn, man, you gotta have something in life. Can’t take care of your brother and cousin and work all the time without having something to take the edge off. Better music than booze or drugs.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Good. We’ll plug you into the work schedule and when we’re done, we’ll blow for a while.”

  Tre nodded and slipped out the door.

  “Well, damn if there ain’t a whole lotta surprises in that antiques store across the street,” Reggie said shaking his head. “That kid really any good?”

  “He blew my freakin’ mind when I first heard him. He was only eleven years old and played like he’d been sprouted from the womb with a horn in hand. Freaky.”

  “Hmm.” Reggie stroked his chin. “I already liked that kid—he knew who I was but he didn’t ask about the Saints or football. Know how often that happens?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Never. Kids like him always want an autograph. A pic on their iPhone so they can post to Instagram or whatever that crap is Gemma’s on all the time.” Gemma was Reggie’s twelve-year-old daughter, who lived with her mom in Dallas. Reggie spent the spring and summer in Texas and would be leaving once the club opened. His friend rolled shoulders the size of boulders, and glanced around the club. “You know what else I like? This club. The vibe is good here, and I can see it really taking off in a big way. And now I found a kid with golden lips. Good day, my friend, good day.”

  Dez laughed. “Opportunist.”

  “I like money in the bank. Besides, I’ve been hankering to find someone new, someone who can really feel the music. It’s like rubbing a lamp and finding a genie to shake things up. I wanna hear this kid play, so call me when he comes back.”

  If he came back.

  Something about Tre made Dez sad. He didn’t know the kid’s story, but Tre wore enough of his life for Dez to see things weren’t easy for the boy. Not many kids his age would shoulder the burdens Tre carried. Selflessness was a rarity on the streets of New Orleans.

  “We’ll see,” Dez said, thinking his words covered a lot in his life. He wasn’t building his house on sand, but he wasn’t on a firm foundation yet. Too many balls up in the air, each with the potential of clonking him on the head.

  The last thing he needed was a lump of regret. Too much remorse already in his life.

  He glanced out at the street between him and Eleanor, and wondered if he should keep that particular ball in hand.

  Only one way to find out…and that meant putting it into play.

  *

  ELEANOR PASSED THE PLATE of sugar cookies toward Kristina Simoneaux, and picked up the agenda. The meeting of the Magazine Street Merchants Association convened at the Kitchen Counter, a lively breakfast and lunch place owned by Mr. Michigan that closed in the late afternoon, providing a perfect establishment in which to hold their quarterly meetings. About twenty people were present, but most came for the cookies and company.

  “So the funds for the new Christmas wreaths will come from the renewal grant?” the recording secretary asked, pen poised above her notebook.

  “Correct,” Eleanor said, moving her finger down to New Business. “Okay, we have a petition for membership from Desmond Batiste, who would also like to say a few words. Dez?”

  Eleanor had tried to keep her eyes off him all evening, but now it was impossible.

  Dez stood, dressed in pressed khaki slacks and a white button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves and open at the throat. The man took business casual to a new level. Several of the women on the board leaned forward. Mr. Hibbett, the treasurer, crossed his arms and nodded to Dez.

  “Good evening,” Dez said, his gaze traveling over each member of the six-person board. Eleanor tried to remain passive, but the warmth in those eyes felt like a match struck against her skin. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, swallowing hard.

  He is just another potential member of the association. You do not want to strip him naked. You do not want to lick his stomach. You do not want to chain him to your bed.

  Crap.

  Keeping her distance in front of her colleagues wasn’t going to work if she kept imagining the wicked things she wanted to do to him.

  And have him do to her.

  Dez turned away from the large table where she sat and faced the other members present. “I’d like to thank the board for allowing me to address you this evening. My name is Dez Batiste and I’m the owner of a new jazz club opening in less than a month, the middle of March to be exact. I know many of you have reservations about having a nightclub in the middle of a shopping district and inside a beloved icon, but tonight I’m going to prove to you that Blue Rondo will complete the picture of a restored Magazine Street.”

  As Dez spoke about his venture, Eleanor watched him charm his audience. Several business owners nodded as he made salient points about diversity, others remained impassive as he discussed business hours and the implausibility of his patrons taking up parking for their customers. As he spoke, Dez moved, talking with his hands, his posturing expressive, his words passionate—all that he was spread out on the table for the merchants who’d worked so hard the past seven years to rebuild the street shattered by desperation. A warm certainty burrowed in her heart, a strange feeling of fear and excitement.

  Not for Blue Rondo or the association.

  But for her and the man who loved his community and his music so much he wanted to overlap them and bring forth something good from the ashes of his world.

  How had she not seen this? Why had she been so afraid of what Blue Rondo might bring? Maybe her own fears had tangled into something that stopped her from imagining a better community…a better Eleanor.

  After making points about what the club could do for the area, and how he’d already had contacts in the State Department of Tourism who were featuring Magazine Street in a national campaign for the fall, Dez finished with, “So each of you must know I care very deeply for this community and want to help it grow into a vital, thriving center for the arts, music and commerce. You have my pledge I will carry forth your mission.”

  With a nod, Dez resumed his place in the back of the restaurant, next to Reggie Carney, who’d slipped in while he spoke. She almost smiled at the irritated look he shot the football player, but reined in her emotions enough to say, “Thank you, Mr. Batiste.”

  A low hum broke out when the others caught sight of the New Orleans Saints player, and if
Eleanor had a gavel, she might have used it. Since she didn’t, she cleared her throat and finished out the agenda, ignoring the buzz in the room over Dez and Reggie, pretending it was any other meeting.

  Didn’t work, but she dealt because if Eleanor was good at anything, it was dealing.

  After days of not seeing Dez, the thought of taking things to a new level with him had cemented in her mind. She’d missed him, but appreciated the space he’d given her to deal with Blakely, the police and her mixed-up emotions. The first order of business—Blakely—had been the hardest.

  The morning after Blakely’s drunk and disorderly arrest, Eleanor had sent her daughter’s hungover friends back to Oxford before sitting her daughter down for a little chat.

  It hadn’t gone as well as Eleanor would have liked, but she’d hammered out her complaints to her nauseous daughter.

  “Who are you?” Eleanor asked Blakely as her daughter curled up on the overstuffed sofa in the family room.

  “What do you mean? I know I screwed up, but I really can’t handle a lecture now, Mom. I feel like shit.”

  Eleanor sat on the other end of the couch, tucking her sock-clad feet under her. “Blakely, you’re not the same. This kind of thing, it’s not you. You pushed a policeman and knocked down ladders. In essence, you made a fool of yourself. Not to mention it was dangerous—you could have hurt someone.”

  “Mom, I was drunk.”

  “Even when you’re under the influence, you know what you’re doing. I’ve been drunk. Inhibitions may loosen, but you don’t pull away from the core of who you are. I didn’t raise you to act like a spoiled brat.”

  Blakely frowned. “Is this about the purse? I’ll take it back if that makes you feel any better. Or maybe I should trade in my car for a crappy used Toyota like you had. Or maybe I should just go to Delgado. Would that make you happy?”

  Eleanor stared hard at her daughter. “That’s not the issue. Your behavior is.”

  “And yours isn’t? You went out with Dez.”

  “So?”

  “Jesus, Mom. You and him are like hot sexy lava meets cold cream. It doesn’t work. It’s wrong.”

  “Look, young lady, I don’t need your permission to date Dez. Or anyone else. You said over a month ago for me to get a life, so I am.”

  “But I didn’t mean with someone like him.”

  “This is not about Dez, Blakely. This is about you. About getting arrested, about trading in the sweet girl who gave her Christmas presents away one year, who won a service award, who—”

  “Doesn’t think she has to be freakin’ Gandhi or Mother Teresa 24/7, Mom. I’m not spitting on homeless people or boiling puppies, for God’s sake. I’m just having fun and enjoying being young and, well, privileged. You act like it’s a sin to have nice things. It’s not like you don’t wear designer clothes or drive a high-end vehicle yourself. Little hypocritical, aren’t you?”

  And then Blakely had stomped off, packed her belongings and left without another word.

  Her daughter’s anger and harsh words had wounded Eleanor…but also strengthened her resolve to claim a life for herself. She’d started down a different road and was committed to seeing it all the way to the end…even if claiming herself risked losing her daughter. Something told Eleanor she couldn’t back down without cementing her fate…without Blakely, the Theriots and everyone else in the world getting the message Eleanor didn’t value her own desires.

  So tonight Dez would be coming home with her…if he, uh, didn’t have any other plans, and if he still wanted to show her how good he was at foreplay.

  She swallowed hard and refocused on Mr. Hibbett’s report about how the NOPD hadn’t apprehended the hooligans responsible for the damage done to the stained-glass rooster.

  Several minutes later, after shaking the hands of the many members who’d attended the meeting, including ones who’d once spoken out vehemently against him several months before, Dez stood beside her.

  “So I submitted my application for the association online. Just an FYI.” No gloating in his voice. No told ya so in his gaze. He’d done what he set out to do—not merely gain entrance into the association, but win over his detractors.

  And he’d won over one of his staunchest—the president of the Merchants Association.

  “Oh, okay. I’ll make sure it gets taken care of,” she said, giving him a smile. “You did it, huh? Worked them right into the palm of your hand.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “You’re not angry, are you? I know you’re still not sold on Blue Rondo, but I hope I can prove to you and everyone else it won’t turn into something contrary to your mission. Scout’s honor.”

  Eleanor narrowed her eyes at the three fingers he held up. “Were you a scout?”

  “No, but I wanted to be. I always liked those neckerchief things.”

  “I can’t imagine you in a neckerchief.”

  “You really don’t want to know what I imagine you wearing,” he said, his voice smooth as a satin sheet.

  “Oh? Probably nothing, right?”

  His eyes glittered. “Wrong. I was thinking support hose. I have a thing for them.”

  Eleanor nearly choked. “Oh, do you? Well, aren’t you a lucky boy. This old lady has a drawer full of them.”

  “I hope so.” His smile teased, and the intimacy between them warmed her, which was shocking considering Mr. Michigan had turned off the heat earlier that day. Her teeth had actually chattered at the beginning of the meeting, but now sheer waves of heat radiated down her spine.

  “Do you want to come to my house for a late supper?” She glanced around because asking Dez to her house made her feel so naked, so bared to him. All of her—what she wanted, what she needed—spread in front of him. Her turn to lay it out in front of him.

  “I’ve already eaten.”

  She blinked, trying to recover. “Oh.”

  “But I’d still like to come by…for a drink?”

  Relief blanketed her. She’d been afraid he’d changed his mind after last Saturday night, after Blakely, whether intentionally or not, had trampled the flame they’d kindled. Looking from the outside in, she knew she looked like trouble—her doubts, her inexperience, her family baggage. What man wouldn’t run from that? But Dez wasn’t running yet.

  Eleanor needed Dez.

  Needed the crackling energy tempered by his practical, easy nature. She basked in the desire he felt for her as much as she cherished their friendship. Eleanor had awakened from a cocoon ready to spread her wings and take flight as someone new. She didn’t want to live as Eleanor the faded. She wanted to live boldly, not afraid of flapping those wings and taking off into the unknown.

  And she knew Dez Batiste could—how had Margaret put it?—scratch that itch.

  “So let’s go,” Eleanor said, smiling at Marcie Gorman and giving a wave, but heading toward the front door. No way would she get stuck talking to the salon owner. Marcie always wanted to try Botox on folks…and new hair colors.

  Dez shook another few hands, but in two minutes, he emerged on Magazine Street, his expression relaxed, but a purpose in his step. She watched him from inside her Volvo before pulling away and heading toward her house.

  She beat him there by a good five minutes, which gave her enough time to turn on a single lamp, light a few candles and take a shot of vodka.

  Coughing and wiping the tears from her eyes, she hurried to the door as the chimes rang. For a crazy moment, she wondered if her daughter might be standing on the other side. Like maybe Blakely could sniff out her mother about to get naughty with Dez, but when she opened the door, there was only Dez.

  Dez.

  With close-cropped dark hair, smooth honey skin and deep gray eyes. Broad shoulders, lean hips and not a wrinkle on him anywhere. Her Aztec prince.

  Despite the pretty hefty shot of vodka she’d taken minutes ago, her mouth grew dry. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he said, propping his hands on the door frame and leaning toward her. “You gonn
a let me in?”

  She swallowed. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

  She fanned a few imaginary bugs away from the flickering lanterns beside the door and swung the door wider. He passed by her, brushing her hip with his hand, making her suck in her breath. Thank God there weren’t really any bugs buzzing around her porch. She might have added protein to her diet.

  Closing the door, she turned the lock.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE SOUND OF the dead bolt snapping into place echoed in the foyer of her house. Eleanor pressed her lips together because even though she hadn’t intended it to sound like a decision, she knew it had. Done deal. Eleanor wanted Dez, and she would have him that night. In the house she’d shared with her husband.

  God. It felt weird. It felt…somewhat freeing.

  Beyond time to step forward.

  She tried to tuck away the anxiety churning in her gut, but it insisted on staying and pricking at her, shredding her nerves.

  Dez turned. “Well, that says a lot, doesn’t it?”

  “I always lock men in my lair. Well, of course, you’re the first one, so I’m setting a precedent.”

  Smiling, he turned toward her formal living area. “Jesus, you’re making me nervous. Let’s have that drink.”

  He read her like an open book. And just why was she so nervous? It was just sex. People had it every day, and she’d already shucked her clothes in front of him two weeks ago. No big deal.

  Breathe, Eleanor, breathe.

  She sucked in a deep breath and gestured to the back room. “I’m not trying to make you nervous. But, yeah, a drink sounds good. Come on back to the family room.”

  Family room? Why had she called it that? Yes, perfect. Remind herself that once a family occupied that room, playing Barbie dolls, watching Saints games and putting up the Christmas tree. She’d never ever imagined herself seducing a younger man in a room with curtains she’d made from vintage toile found in South Hampton.

  “Nice house. Very elegant, very you.”

  The right thing to say—very her. Exactly. This was no longer a house for a family. It was Eleanor’s house—which sounded strange and a little lonely, but was exactly what it was.