Finally, he turns and makes a pronouncement. “Lara needs to recover. She can take a few days off. In the meantime, we’ll repair the damage and get that swing working for tomorrow night’s show. Use a different girl until Lara’s able to resume her role.”
Roland jumps in at that. “Another girl can’t sing my songs—”
“You’re not the one who gets to decide, are you?” Gavin’s eyes level on him, and the younger man backs down. “It was an accident. I’m glad she wasn’t hurt… now let’s make the best of this. We’re the talk of the Quarter. Make it count.”
My stomach turns at the idea he wants to capitalize on Lara’s near-death experience, but from what I understand this place runs on a deficit. I don’t understand why, since the audience is always full, and he isn’t spending much on salaries. I suspect mismanagement of funds, but I haven’t been here long enough to know anything.
“You!” I look up and realize Gavin is walking to me. “What’s your name?”
I stand a little straighter, putting us at eye level with one another. “Mark Fitzhugh.”
That stops him, his brow clutches and his pale eyes look me up and down. “Fitzhugh?” I watch as he thinks. “That’s an unusual name. You related to Rick?”
Unease tightens my chest. “He was my uncle.”
“Was?”
“He’s no longer—he passed away.”
Gavin’s gaze holds mine, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “I’m sorry.”
“We weren’t very close.”
A brief pause, and he continues. “Darby tells me you’re a dependable worker. How would you like a better job? Something inside, that requires more… confidence.”
The unease in my chest grows stronger. Everything I’ve seen about this place tells me to beware, especially since Gavin clearly knew my uncle. “I don’t mind construction.”
“What I’m offering will double your pay.”
“I don’t have time to spend what I make now.”
“It’s steady work. Not seasonal.”
I don’t understand what he means by seasonal. Hell, I don’t know what he means by requiring confidence, but my instincts tell me to be careful. I don’t want to arouse any suspicion I might have been involved in my uncle’s dealings.
I shove my hands in my pockets and look down at my boots. “I don’t know what my plans are just yet.”
His eyes narrow a moment, then he nods. “You think about it and get back to me. I’ll hold a place on Monday.”
He takes a step back, and Terrence nudges my arm. “You ready?”
I glance to the back passage one last time wishing I could see her. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
We slam out the back door and trudge down to the flagstone sidewalk. Terrence trots ahead with both hands in his pockets, but I take a slower pace, allowing my eyes to trace the side of the building, counting the windows and wondering which one might be hers. We take a quick right onto Royal, then we’re heading up Orleans in the direction of Bourbon Street and the Marigny.
“Stop in here for a drink.”
I glance up just in time to see him duck into a small bar with a flashing Jazz sign and a pair of legs swinging out. We go to the shiny wooden bar, and he slaps a twenty in between us. “Two car bombs straight up!”
I climb onto a red vinyl-covered stool and glance at the women in booths behind the bar. They’re wearing beaded bras and panties, and they’re twisting and shaking their hips and shoulders in time to the house music. Their expressions are bored, and my eyes return to my hands. My mind returns to what I saw tonight high above the stage floor. The most beautiful thing…
The drinks are shoved in front of us—two pints of Bass with whiskey shots on the side. Terrence raises his shot glass and drops it into the beer then lifts the whole thing to his mouth and shoots it, drinking for several seconds.
“Ahh!” he growls, slamming the pint onto the bar. “Now bring me a Guinness!”
I lift the whiskey and sip it. It burns my throat, but the heat eases the adrenaline still buzzing in my chest. Too many fucking flashbacks for one night.
“To the hero!” Terrence raises his pint and gives me a nod.
“I’m not a hero.” I finish off the whiskey and move to the pint. “I did what you’d have done. What we’re paid to do.”
My bandaged hand is around the pint of beer, and I wince when I remember the slice of the rope cutting into my palms.
“I would not have done what you did.” He shudders into his drink and mutters. “Fuck.”
I lean back, scowling at him. “You’d have let her fall? You’d have stood there and let her hit the stage without even trying to stop it?”
His lips poke out, and he takes a moment to light up. “I don’t know.”
“That’s more like it.” Leaning against the bar again, I take a drink. I’m leaning on my elbows, looking into the amber, but my vision is far away on her silky skin, her bright blue eyes, her shiny brown hair.
“Don’t fall in love with a stripper,” Terrence growls in my ear. “It will end. Badly.”
“What the fuck? I hardly even know her.”
“Shit. You’re already gone for her. Admit it!”
Shaking my head, I lift the pint glass and take a long pull. Then I slam it on the bar. “Thanks for the drink.”
I’m out the door and headed back to our place with him yelling after me not to be mad. Whatever. I don’t know how the fuck I expect to get inside. Terrence has the only key, but I’ll be damned if I sit there and let him ride me.
I’m still trying to figure my shit out. I’m not in love with anybody, and I’m not a hero. At least not yet. He’s full of shit when he says he wouldn’t have tried to catch her. He’d have grabbed the rope same as I did, or he’d have done something else.
I reach the apartment, and I sit on the stoop like he was the first night I came here. People are herding up and down Bourbon like always, like nothing ever changes and nothing happens outside this short strip of real estate.
Tonight I’m not being hounded by ghosts. I’m waiting for a bed, then I’ll get up and do it all again tomorrow.
Lara
When I open my eyes, it’s dark. My lamp is lit, and my breath catches at the sight of my nurse. Evie sits with her back leaned against the bedside holding one of Rosa’s books.
I haven’t seen her since her birthday, and I’ve been so worried.
“Hey, she’s awake.” Her voice is warm, and her smile kind. It breaks my heart. “How are you feeling now?”
I ease myself into a sitting position. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Oh, since yesterday. Doc gave you more Vicodin for the pain and said you should sleep it off.”
I pull up the thin white tank I’m wearing to reveal a hideous purple and black band around my torso.
Evie gasps. “Oh, Lara!”
“Better than being dead, I guess,” I try to joke.
“Are you in pain?”
“Only when I move.” I lean gingerly against the pillows, trying to be still.
My old friend slides her fingers under my hand. With her other she pats the top of it. We’re quiet several minutes, and all I can think about is not asking where she’s been or what happened to her. She doesn’t meet my gaze, and I wonder if she knows what I’m thinking. A tap at the door breaks the silence, and Roland peeks his head in.
“How is she?” he whispers.