by Skye Warren
“You know what?” Marlena says, a sly expression on her elfin face. “I don’t think I’m actually in the mood to walk. I’ll take the Bentley. Meet you there, Bethany.”
Bethany shoots daggers at her with her eyes but stays on the sidewalk with me as her friend leaves. “You scared her off,” she tells me, accusatory.
“She wants to play matchmaker.” I hold up a white bag with a green stamp.
Her hands go to her hips. “A peace offering?”
“Nah, I thought I might get hungry.”
She grabs for the bag, but I hold it out of reach. “Say you’re sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“‘I’m sorry for making you traipse all over the goddamn city looking for me, when all you were trying to do is protect me, Joshua.’”
“You’ve never traipsed anywhere in your life.”
I shrug and start walking toward the theater. It’s only a few minutes away from the brownstone. “Suit yourself. I’m hungry after all that traipsing.”
One step. Two steps. Three.
“Fine,” she says.
That’s not good enough so I keep walking. Her footfalls catch up to me.
“I’m sorry.” Her teeth will turn to dust if she keeps grinding them that hard.
“What was that?”
“I said I’m sorry,” she says, stopping in front of me. “I’m sorry for skipping out on you when all you were trying to do is protect me.”
“And?”
Her nose scrunches. “And I accept your offer of security.”
“Was that so hard?” I ask, handing over the bag of beignets.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first ballet school was established in 1661 by King Louis XVI, who danced in the ballets, sometimes in multiple roles in the same ballet.
Bethany, five years earlier
I dodge cars and tour buses and horse-drawn carriages across the street.
The dance studio dots the edge of the French Quarter, which means it’s packed with tourists day and night. Between those times, there’s an uneasy quiet, a softer hum anticipating the night ahead.
Humid air boils the city. I’m wearing sweatpants and a loose T-shirt because they’re easy to throw over my leotard and tights. I don’t like lingering in the studio after class.
The shop below sells cigars and maybe other things. Illegal things.
A group of men always seems to gather on the street in front of it, smoking and swearing. More men as the night goes on. They give me looks as I go by, no matter what I’m wearing. Once, practice ran late. A man cornered me behind the cracked stone column.
He kept me there for hours, or maybe only seconds, before I kneed him between his legs. Curse words followed me into the cemetery as I dashed away.
Now I make it a point never to be outside when it’s dark.
The cracked sidewalk pulls me along the outside of a cemetery. Sunlight peeks around statues and monuments, the structures that house the dead sometimes grander than the ones we live in. In the corner, wrought iron curls away from its crushed-stone corner. A hundred years of vagrants have worn away the rock. I pull my messenger bag close to my body so I can squeeze through. Damp fills my lungs, that familiar scent of rot and sickly sweet flowers. A trail of dirt guides me through the cemetery—the shortest distance through without stepping on graves.
I’m focused on the scrubby toes of my sneakers.
A shadow is my only warning. It moves. My heart rampages through my chest, and I look up suddenly, blinding myself. A large male body swings into view. Someone strong. Someone holding a white paper bag with the words Café du Monde.
“A peace offering,” he says, holding it out.
I make myself breathe deep and slow. Calm down, Bethany. The scent of fried dough makes my mouth water. I can almost feel the powder dissolving on my tongue. “No, thanks.”
He shrugs and tosses the bag onto the grass. “Suit yourself.”
Before I can think it through, I snatch it up. “Don’t do that.”
A smirk. He must know how badly I want these beignets. Cafe du Monde makes the best in the world. “Thought you might be hungry. Your teacher’s a real bitch, isn’t she?”
I continue walking on the path, the heavy bag clutched in my fist, and he falls into step beside me. My teacher is a bitch, but I’m not about to agree with him. She’s mean, but she’s good. Every time she corrects my form, every time she shouts, again, every time she slaps a ruler against my thigh for missing the beat, I’m one step closer to leaving this city.
“Are you stalking me?” I ask, reaching into the bag. God, there must be ten of them in here. Still warm. I pinch off a large chunk and put it in my mouth. Yeast. Sugar. It tastes like pure heaven. I’m not sure it would be bad to have a stalker if he brought beignets.
“Your brother asked me to.” He snorts. “A bit like the fox watching the henhouse.”
I pause only a moment in bringing the beignet to my mouth. Don’t let him see you afraid. Don’t let him see you weak. “You’re not a fox. I’m not a hen.”
Those sharp green eyes don’t miss a goddamn beat. He sees my hesitation. Maybe he even sees my fear. Knowledge can be a weapon, and this man seems especially dangerous. “More afraid of your brother than me, are you? What does the fucker do to you?”
“He doesn’t touch me.” Too much bravado. It sounds like a lie.
“Should I kill him for you?” The question comes out light, almost playful. It makes my heart skip a beat. These are the kind of men my brother makes friends with. Killers.
“No.”
He glances sideways at a particularly intricate angel spreading her wings above a crypt. “You sure? I wouldn’t mind. It would give me something to do besides drink and fuck.”
My stomach clenches around the bites I’ve taken. I force the rest of the beignet into my mouth. I’m sure my lips are covered in white powder. “You’re an asshole.”
He grins, unrepentant. “Why do you think I get along with your brother?”
I pull out another beignet before shoving the rest into my messenger bag. They aren’t exactly expensive, but there’s never extra money for sweets. Not when there are rips in my leotards and holes in my shoes. “Don’t let him hear you talk like that. Even if you’re joking.”
Then he’s standing in front of me, moving so swift and quiet that I almost run into him. I’m around dancers every afternoon. Athletes. It still takes me by surprise. How does a soldier move with such grace? “Awww, are you worried for my safety? You think your brother is going to bury me in one of these unmarked plots?”
You wouldn’t be the first one. I don’t share that part. This man doesn’t deserve my protection. He hasn’t earned it, not even with the sugary goodness in my messenger bag. Dinner. That’s what I’ll eat for dinner. It will be a welcome respite from endless spicy stew. “He really asked you to follow me?”
“Wanted me to make sure you got home safe.”
More likely he wanted to make sure I didn’t take a detour. My brother has a lot of friends in this city. He has even more enemies. I wonder how much Josh knows about that. “Who would want to hurt me?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
We reach the end of the cemetery. There’s no break in the iron here—only a low tomb that serves as a stepping stone. I hitch myself up and grab the arrows at the top of the fence. With a grunt I swing myself over. I land with an inelegant thud, the messenger bag slapping against my hip. Josh barely makes a sound when he follows me over. Most people don’t realize it’s easy to throw your body weight around. Muscles and inertia go a long way. It’s much harder to control the fall, to pull your punch. It’s much harder to be soft.
“Thanks for the beignets,” I say, squinting into the sunlight. I can see my house from here, the yellow gate, the black roof. The shards of glass dotting the top of the concrete fence. “In return I’m going to give you some free advice. Go away. Go back where you came from or anywhere at all. New Orleans has nothing good
to offer you.”
It’s not hard to see that my brother has plans for this man. He’s skilled and without morals—the perfect employee for my brother’s business. Plenty of people have come and gone. Most disappear without a word. I never know if they’ve left or ended up dead. For some reason it matters that Josh doesn’t follow in their footsteps. The money isn’t worth losing your soul.
Josh leans back against the iron gate, crossing his arms in a pose of supreme relaxation. I can almost pretend I don’t see his alert emerald gaze or the bulk of a gun beneath his T-shirt. “You turn and turn and turn, like one of those ballet figures in a music box. Don’t you ever want to break out of the mold? Do something other than a pretty little plié?”
Every time I breathe. “You don’t know anything about my plans.”
“I know you’re afraid of something. And I know it’s not me. Call me jaded, but that’s pretty fucking interesting. I’m used to being the most scary motherfucker in the room.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “Goodbye, Josh.”
I already have my back to him when his reply floats on the heavy breeze. “You’re wrong about one thing,” he says, his voice rich in the humid air. “New Orleans has something good to offer me. It has you.”
Probably a guy like this should be given the last word, but I’ve been flirting with danger too long to let him. There’s something about Josh that calls me to tease him. I blow him a kiss with an exaggerated wave of my hand. Goodbye, goodbye.
CHAPTER SIX
Bill Sikes, a vicious thug in the novel Oliver, was probably named after a merchant who lived near Dickens when he was a teenager.
Josh, five years earlier
I’ve been all over the world, but one bar looks like another one. Sloppy drunk girls and opportunistic motherfuckers hoping to fuck. That used to be me. It should be me. Instead I’m nursing the same Jack and Coke since I got here while Caleb feels up the third chick in a row.
They’re practically fucking at the table, her legs draped over his, his tongue in her mouth. I should take one of these girls into a grimy bathroom and fuck the tension out of my body. Instead I’m running my finger along condensation, cold where she’d be hot, imagining the sheen of sweat on a certain dancer’s skin. That dancer will be tucked into bed now. Big brother keeps a tight watch on her, which is pretty fucking hypocritical considering how he treats the girls in the bar. Caleb gives the pretty blonde a shove, sending her staggering on high heels toward a packed table with her friends.
“We have business,” he tells her. “Come back later.” And she goes, flushed, clothes askew. The group swallows her into a tangle of limbs and drinks. She’ll probably get fucked by someone else before Caleb takes her home. I’m not judging her. This is the life I live, too. It’s rough and dirty, the grime so thick no Clorox could make it clean.
We’ve got a square table for the two of us, which is practically VIP treatment in a place like this. He turns to me, and his tongue darts out to wet his lip. I keep my grip loose on the thick glass cradled in my palm. Let him think I’m only here for his business. The boss wants my eyes open on this trip to the bar, as if my eyes are ever really closed. That’s an excellent way to get a knife in the back…or the front. The characters in my part of the world are rarely much for subtlety. Caleb is no exception. He leans back in his seat, his dark eyes sweeping over the bar. “Ah—there they are.”
Two men muscle their way through the crowd, headed straight for us. Noah and Connor are obvious choices, even for Caleb. Connor walks with a swagger. He turns heads all through the bar. Every move he makes is an invitation to look at him. He pulls in everyone’s attention and lets it settle over his shoulders like the cheap yellow light of the bar is a goddamn spotlight. Connor loves the big entrance like he loves a good fuck. It almost makes up for the fact that he’s got a weird scar like a part in his hair. A combat injury he loves to work for the women.
The man behind him wants no part of the attention. He wears a scowl that sucks the light from around Connor and brings the bar back to equilibrium. If Connor pulls everyone in, Noah pushes everyone away. Summer heat followed by a cold snap. I’ve heard whispers in dark corners about how things ended with one of his patrol partners after they got into a fight. Even with the gun at my side I still wouldn’t relish a disagreement with Noah tonight.
Caleb stands to greet them with handshakes hard enough to crush bone, and the three of them squeeze back around the table. “Next time I call a meeting, be on time.”
Connor raises his hands, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Got caught up. Didn’t mean to halt the proceedings.” He and Caleb exchange a look.
“No need to be coy,” I tell them. “If you have something to discuss, then say it.” I don’t know how much longer I can sit here with that dancer’s body in a naked arabesque at the edges of my mind, wondering how smooth her skin would be under my rough palms, how warm and soft and clean.
A gleam flashes in Caleb’s eyes. He leans forward in his chair, revealing how much he wants this—how much he needs men of my skill and lack of morals. “I brought you here to present an…opportunity.”
The next sip of my Jack and Coke feels filthy against my tongue, like something might be swimming in it. Opportunity means black trucks parked outside warehouses. It means unloading thick cases in the dead of night. It means duffel bags stuffed with money and smelling like the desert.
It means weapons in the hands of men who look at us like meat waiting to be carved.
Noah leans against the wall, arms crossed.
I arch an eyebrow at Caleb. “Which is?”
“I’ll reveal the details when you’re ready to hear them. When I trust you more.” He lifts a shoulder. “For now all you need to know is that it will be worth your time.”
Which means the paycheck will be good. I wish I could wipe the bitter taste off my tongue with one of those unmarked bills, but I know as well as anyone that it won’t work.
I spin the glass around on the table, walking my fingers around the edge. Once upon a time I raised my right hand and swore to support and defend the constitution of the United States. Empty words for an empty soul. I did that for the paycheck, too. And a ticket out of hell. Now he’s offering me even more money. I should jump at the chance—not so I can become a snitch, but so I can make something out of my life.
I’m not a fucking hero. Never have been. “How much?”
Caleb lets out a laugh sharper than a knife. “More than you’ll know how to spend. As long as you come through for me. You get the job done. You don’t ask questions.”
Of course I wouldn’t. Not if I’m the man Caleb believes me to be. And I’ll be that man tonight. As for the other nights, I can’t make any promises. The table nearby, men with bad intentions, the women and booze they’ll use to accomplish them, seethes with laughter. A glass crashes to the floor. One more layer of spilled beer coats the wood.
“Listen.” Caleb leans in. “We’ve got more deals on the table, and we can’t take them all on unless we have some help. From people who won’t fuck us over.”
If I were a better man, I’d stand up and tell him that eventually, their illegal arms trading absolutely will fuck him over. In fact, it probably already has, out there in mountain ranges across the ocean. But what would I gain by doing that? I’d be shutting out two chances to waste Caleb instead of one. And I’m not a better man.
Because while half of my mind is scanning Caleb’s features for a sign that he’s trying to screw with me, the other half is back in that shithole of a warehouse. The ghost of Bethany’s lips on mine whispers over my skin. I’d fuck her just as soon as I’d kill him. I’d do one after the other. Of course, I’d prefer to fuck her with her brother safely underground.
“I have other business.” I push my chair back and stand up, tossing a bill down on the table. Caleb tenses, his eyes following my every move. This business involves inappropriate thoughts about his sister and a locked bathroom do
or.
“So you’re in, then.”
I look Caleb in the eye. “I’ll let you know.”
Fuck this decision. I push back, ignoring the fact that Connor follows me out. They don’t get an answer right away. Only he isn’t coming to pressure me into agreeing.
Later I’ll figure out whether I accept for myself or on behalf of the US government. Later I’ll decide whether I become villain or hero. Right now there’s only one place I want to be, and that’s between the legs of a girl much too pure for me.
“You going after Bethany?”
I stop walking but don’t turn around. How did he know? I must have given myself away more than I thought. Or maybe that’s how Caleb keeps the dirty fuckers in line, by dangling that jailbait pussy in front of us. Maybe that’s why he asked me to follow her home.
Don’t punch Connor in the face. I glare him. “What’s it to you?”
“She’s a nice piece of ass. Not much in the way of tits, but—”
“Is there a point to this?”
“The point is you don’t want to fuck with her. If there’s one way to make sure Caleb puts a bullet in your back, it’s to make a move toward his sister.”
Interesting.
“Because I’m white?” It hasn’t escaped my notice that even in the melting pot of New Orleans, couples of mixed race get some sideways glances. I wouldn’t put it past Caleb to insist on that dynastic bullshit.
“Nah, he doesn’t want anyone touching her. Or even looking at her. Including me. One time I talked about her ass, and he almost broke my jaw. You hear him talk, you’d think she was six years old instead of sixteen.”
Caleb may be a crazy fuck, but I can’t blame him for being protective of his sister. Sixteen years old? I don’t usually mess around with jailbait. Then again, I’m not ready to walk away from her either. “Keep track of your own dick. Don’t worry about mine.”