by Meghan March
I shimmied my black skinny jeans off and scrubbed the grit from my knee and hands. After patting the raw skin dry with paper towel, I hissed as I poured the antiseptic over the scrapes.
“Fuck, that hurts,” I murmured through clenched teeth.
The door cracked open. I stilled. Was Simon checking out my thong-clad ass at this very moment? Surprisingly, the thought didn’t bother me. The man was built, and I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed for eating crackers.
“Damn, Lee. Now that’s what I like to see when I get to work.” A rough hand cupped my right ass cheek, and Con’s head bent low over my shoulder. “It’s been too long, babe. Need to get you home.” He kissed my neck. “Get you in my—what the fuck?”
He spun me around and grabbed my hand. “What the hell happened? Did someone put their hands on you? Push you around? Was it like last—”
“No! Nothing like that.” Con, Delilah, and Yvonne “Yve” Santos, my boss at the Dirty Dog, were the only ones who knew about my near miss at becoming a sexual assault statistic. Harriet would worry too much. And beyond those four, I didn’t really have anyone else to tell. Depressing thought to some maybe, but it was my choice. The fewer people I let in, the fewer people I had to lie to. They’d become dearer than my actual family, and they deserved better than the half-truths and outright lies I fed them. I met Con’s concerned blue gaze. “Huck decided he wanted to chase a carriage. I fell off my bike.”
Con looked out the bathroom door to where Huck snored, taking up the entire break room couch. “Damn dog.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, maybe you should go home.” My spine stiffened.
“It’s just a couple of scrapes. I’m fine. Besides, you know I need the money.”
“Because you’re stubborn and won’t let me pay you more so you don’t have to work so damn much.”
“That’s because I’d feel like a whore.” We’d had this conversation a hundred times. If he paid me more than he did before we’d slept together, I’d feel like I was getting paid for services rendered. You know, above and beyond.
“Like I said, stubborn.” He smacked my ass. “But I like that thong. What do you say? Come home with me tonight if you’re up to it?”
Inexplicably, my mind snapped to the man only a few walls away. I stalled. “Umm … I don’t know … Ask me later?”
He gave me a chin jerk before heading toward the corner of the break room and his makeshift office. Con may look like a tatted-up bad boy, but from what I could tell, he was actually a fairly astute businessman.
An hour later, Simon came around to the register to pay for his new tattoo. I’d been stealing what I’d hoped had been covert glances over my shoulder the entire time he’d sat, shirtless, in Delilah’s room. But every time I glanced his way, his eyes had flicked to mine. Intense, assessing hazel eyes that I wanted to see up close so I could figure out how the green, brown, gold, and gray swirled together. I didn’t understand my attraction to him. Yeah, he was pretty to look at. But so were lots of guys. He had the cut muscles and banging six-pack that said he took care of himself. But again, so did a lot of guys. Con, for one. But, for me, Con was about comfort, being close to someone for a night because I missed the feeling of being touched. With Simon … it was burning curiosity and flaring lust. I wanted to know how his hands would feel against my skin. If he’d strip me naked and trace the lines of ink with his fingers … and then his tongue. If he’d like the little surprises I had tucked beneath my clothes. Con had never even seen them, and I’d sworn Delilah to secrecy after I’d accepted her dare. When Simon stopped in front of the counter I was shifting on my cushioned stool, trying to relieve the ache my wandering thoughts had produced.
He didn’t speak for a moment, just studied me. He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his worn jeans without breaking eye contact.
“Do you get a break?”
His question jolted me back to reality. “What?” I asked.
He pressed both palms against the scarred, graffiti-covered surface and leaned toward me. “Have dinner with me. Tonight.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Con, who seemed to have the shittiest timing on the planet, stepped out of the break room and came to stand behind me. “Councilman, I didn’t realize you’d come back.” Con’s voice held a note of something I couldn’t identify. It wasn’t jealousy. It was something … else. He must have glanced down at Simon’s forearm, because he said, “Glad to see you got your touch up. No charge for that. Feel free to be on your way.”
I glanced back at Con, giving him a what the fuck look. His behavior was completely off. He might not be unfailingly polite to every customer who walked in the door, but he didn’t usually try to throw anyone out.
“I got a new one, too. I’ll settle up with Charlie, Constantine.” Simon’s tone carried a stubborn edge.
Clearly there was history here I wasn’t privy to. And then Con’s words solidified in my brain. Councilman?
“Seems strange that someone rumored to be kicking off a campaign for daddy’s old congressional seat would be getting more ink.” Con wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me against him. “Or is it something—or someone—else that brings you back?”
I jabbed an elbow into Con’s gut. He dropped his arm. I spun and whisper-yelled at him. “Quit being a dick, and drop this whole junkyard dog pissing on your territory act. That shit doesn’t fly with us, and you know it.”
“Lee … I just…”
“Just what?”
He sighed. “He’s not the kind of guy you should be getting mixed up with.” Con bent close and whispered in my ear, “I know you keep a low profile for a reason, and being seen with Simon Duchesne might not be the best idea.”
The heat that had been thrumming through my veins turned to ice. Con was right. He had no idea why he was so right, but he was. Regardless, I didn’t need him to run interference for me. I’d been taking care of myself for the last year, and I’d keep on doing it.
I pressed a hand against his chest. “It’s cool. I got this, Con.” He stared me down for a moment and then turned and left.
I spun back around and faced Simon Duchesne. Councilman. Son of a congressman. Rumored congressional candidate. The kind of man my mother would have salivated over having me date when I was Charlotte Agoston. The kind of man who was off limits and straight up dangerous to the continued anonymity of Charlie Stone. The potential consequences of being seen with him—and recognized—played through my mind at hyper speed. I’d have to leave New Orleans and this makeshift family I’d fallen in love with. It just wasn’t worth the risk.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
His eyes narrowed. “Because of Con? You’re with him.”
It wasn’t any of Simon Duchesne’s business who I was with, but I told him anyway. “No. It’s not that. We’re not … together, together.”
He continued to study me. “Then why? Because I’m not going to pretend like I didn’t see you every time you stopped and stared at me over the past hour.”
Well and truly busted. Conceited ass. “You’re pretty to look at, that’s all. Doesn’t mean I want to have dinner with you.”
“Fine. I won’t waste my breath then.” He handed over four hundred-dollar bills. “Tell Delilah to keep the change.”
He turned to walk away, and my ridiculous heart sank. Before I could berate myself for my ludicrous reaction, he turned back around and pulled something out of his pocket. A business card. He dropped it on the counter. “If you ever change your mind, Charlie.”
Six
Charlie
I turned down Con last Saturday night. It was the first time I’d ever done that. Given the awkward tension that had lingered between us all week, I was even more grateful to have the rest of the weekend off. Besides, I hadn’t had a Saturday night to myself in three weeks. And followed by an entire Sunday off? It’d been forever. Now I just needed my shift at the Dirty Dog to end already.
I looked at t
he clock. Twenty minutes to go. I sighed, reorganizing a rack of vintage concert T-shirts for the seventh time. My paycheck was going to take a hit this week because there was a Black Sabbath Heaven + Hell Tour T-shirt I needed to own. I didn’t splurge often, never really, but this shirt was so perfectly ironic because of the lyrics on the back. The part about blinded eyes and stolen dreams sent my thoughts back to Manhattan. The song summed up so much of my former life. Wearing it would be another little rebellion. I checked the time again. Five o’clock couldn’t come fast enough.
A slobbery tennis ball hit me in the side of the head. “What the hell?” I grabbed it off the floor and looked around for Huck. But all I saw was Yve rolling her eyes at me.
“What’s your deal, girl? You’ve been dragging ass all day and staring at the clock. Got a hot date?”
My breath caught in my chest. A hot date was exactly what I didn’t have. I thought about the business card buried in the bottom of my junk drawer. I still wasn’t sure why I’d kept it, but now it was dog-eared from all the times I’d dug it out only to shove it back in the drawer just as quickly. I hated the indecision Simon dredged up in me.
“Earth to Charlie…”
Shit. I hadn’t answered her question. “No—no hot date.” I decided, against my better judgment, to share. Maybe Yve would just kick my ass, and I could move on and stop thinking about him. I took a deep breath and added, “But … there is this guy…”
Yve rested her elbows on the glass case that served as a checkout counter and steepled her fingers. “Tell Yve all about it.”
So I did. I told her about both times he’d come to Voodoo, how he’d asked me out, and how Con had reacted.
“So, a hot piece of man asked you to dinner and you turned him down, why? Because Constantine was having a jealous moment?”
“It wasn’t jealousy really. It was more protectiveness … I think.”
“Call it what you want, but I’ve always thought your fuck buddy thing with Con was going to end with one of you gettin’ your heart broken.”
My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “Umm … what? No. It’s not like that between Con and me. So, just no.”
“Whatever you say. So what’s the real reason you’re not calling this guy?”
I cringed, because I couldn’t tell her the real reason. But I could give her at least part of the truth. “Because Simon is Simon Duchesne. Current city councilman, son of a former congressman, probably going to run for Congress?”
She tapped one perfectly manicured nail on the glass. “And?”
“And—well, look at me.” I gestured to my tattoos. They started at the tops of my shoulders and swirled down my arms and sides, stopping at my wrists and hips. I didn’t have a chest piece, or any on my hands, but still. I was a walking work of art. Not exactly prime arm candy material for a politician, even if I could risk the cameras. But it wasn’t like I wanted to be, or would ever allow myself to be, someone’s arm candy. “I’m not exactly his type.”
“He asked you out. So he thinks you are his type. Besides, that old rule about good girls liking bad boys—it cuts both ways, sugar. He’s a good boy, and you’re a pretty bad ass bad girl.” She paused. “I notice you didn’t say anything about not wanting to take him up on his offer because you weren’t attracted to him.”
I skimmed my hand along the rack of hanging shirts. “How could I not be? I mean, the man is gorgeous. I thought I was going to have to find a new pair of panties after he left.”
Yve shrugged. “So take him for a ride. Doesn’t mean you have to keep him. You get off, he gets his bad girl fix, and no one gets hurt.”
Goddammit. “I hate it when you make sense.”
“Then get out of here, girl. Go get your booty call. I’ll close up. It’s been a slow night anyway.”
So Huck and I went.
My hands were sweaty as I sifted through my junk drawer for his card. I can’t believe I’m even considering this. If it had just been about scratching an itch, I could’ve gone to Con. But it was more than that. It was something unique to Simon—he exuded this innate confidence, this I’m strong enough to handle anything you can throw at me vibe—and it drew me in.
Finding the crumpled piece of white cardstock, I scanned it for what seemed like the millionth time. I punched his cell number into my prepaid phone and buried a hand in Huck’s fur as it rang. I hadn’t been this nervous to call a guy since middle school. My stomach churned as it rang a second time, then a third, and a fourth. And then, Simon’s voice asked me to leave a message. Shit. I didn’t know what to say, but for some stupid reason I didn’t hang up. I mumbled something about being Charlie from Voodoo wanting to take him up on his offer and rattled off my number. I dropped my phone on the kitchen counter and scrubbed both hands over my face. How very anti-climactic.
Huck head-butted my thigh and padded to the door. He was right. It was a gorgeous late-May evening and perfect for sitting in the garden oasis. I uncorked a bottle of cheap red wine and grabbed a glass.
Setting myself up at the bistro table, I poured a generous serving, and cracked open the book I’d brought down.
Huck rolled in the grass, all four long legs in the air. His head arched to the side as he tried to bite his tail. Crazy mutt. I shoved the book aside and dropped onto the ground beside him, scratching his chest and belly as I polished off my first glass of wine.
I was lying next to Huck when I heard one of my most favorite sounds of the Quarter—the sousaphone, drums, and brass band that signaled a wedding parade. It was quiet at first, the beats rumbling through the still evening, and it grew louder and louder. I actually felt giddy when I realized they were coming down my street. I pushed off the ground and ran up to my apartment to get my keys for the gate. Pausing by the table, I splashed more wine in my glass.
I wanted to watch like a goddamn tourist.
I slipped down the narrow brick walkway that led to the gate with Huck on my heels. I squeezed out, locking him inside. He growled his displeasure, but I was already entranced by the large crowd of wedding guests marching and dancing down the street toward me. Neighbors and tourists lined the sidewalks, snapping pictures and cheering on the crowd. The bride’s parasol bounced in the air, delicate white feathers floating from the edges. The band stopped and broke into a raucous tune. The wedding party and guests grabbed partners and danced with abandon, handkerchiefs flying. The groom swept the bride up in his arms and spun her in dizzying circles.
It was my own secret fantasy—one that I’d never admit. I swallowed back the regret for what would never be and focused on the happy couple. The groom … he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I sipped my wine and tried to recall where I’d seen him before. It hit me as soon as I saw him.
Simon.
He was leading a gray-haired woman in a jaunty waltz in the middle of the street, dressed in a black tux tailored to perfection. Gone were the jeans and simple T-shirt that he’d worn the last time I’d seen him. He looked every inch the Southern gentlemen-politician in black tie. Several women in matching seafoam green dresses watched him like he was last Versace dress in creation designed by Gianni himself. Bridesmaids. A surge of jealousy ripped through me to think about Simon as the stereotypical groomsman who would, by the end of the night, undoubtedly have the opportunity to nail one—or more—of them. I suddenly felt ridiculous. I looked down at the nine dollar wine in my glass, my wife beater, tight, pale gray skinny jeans, and two dollar flip-flops. For a split second I wished I still had some of the wardrobe that would put those bitches to shame. I gave myself a mental shake. No. That’s not me. And it’ll never be me again.
I shouldn’t have called him. Shouldn’t have left that stupid message. I’d never belong in his world. And what’s more, I didn’t want to belong there. I didn’t.
I turned away from the parade, spirits doused, and struggled to fit my key into the lock. My hand shook, and I kept missing the tiny keyhole. A large, tanned hand closed over mine. A second h
and gripped the bars and trapped me in the circle of his arms.
I stared down at the white dress shirt and monogrammed silver cufflink peeking out from the sleeve of his black jacket.
He spoke into my ear, his voice low and gravelly. “If I keep seeing you, I’m going to take it as a sign.”
I swallowed and squeezed my eyes shut. Huck growled, but I reached out a hand and patted his head through the bars. He quieted and lay down against the gate. I turned in Simon’s arms, careful to avoid spilling my wine, and stared up at him. At five-four, I wasn’t exactly short, but he dwarfed me, especially when we were this close. He had to be almost a foot taller than me, and with his broad shoulders filling my view, I couldn’t see anything but him.
Rather than his face, I focused on the black studs in his pristine white tux shirt, and cleared my throat.
“A sign of what exactly?”
He released the bars of the gate and tilted my chin up so I was forced to meet his eyes.
“I’m not sure. Maybe just my own good luck because I wanted to see you again.” He paused before adding, “Have dinner with me.”
I forced a humorless laugh. “I think you’re a little busy right now.” The crowd had started to move again, although slowly, but he was going to be left behind if he didn’t rejoin the wedding party.
He glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “Later. After the reception. Meet me somewhere.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Charlie—”
His words were cut off when someone yelled, “Duchesne, let’s go!”
I spun and shoved my key into the lock. Simon’s heat melted away as he stepped back.
“I’m guessing, based on the monster dog, this is where you live?”
I didn’t reply. I pulled the gate open and slipped inside. Simon didn’t try to stop me as I maneuvered around Huck and shut the gate in his face.
From behind the safety of my iron bars, I finally found the courage to look up at him again. His hazel eyes burned into me.