I turned, slowly moving along the wall, knowing he’d follow.
“Yes, even when he is copied by bad artists,” I joked. “But luckily no one here will know the difference.”
I heard his quiet laugh at my audacity, and he was probably wondering whether or not to be insulted. Either way, he struck me as the type of man who didn’t really care. My respect probably wasn’t what he was after.
I felt his eyes wash over my back, following the lines of my body down to my hips. Other than my arms, my back was the only part of my body left bare by the fabric and crisscross work.
Turning through the open French doors, I walked onto the wide, candlelit balcony. The music inside slowly became a faint echo behind us.
“You don’t really care about Degas, do you?” I asked, turning my head only enough to see him out of the corner of my eye as I walked to the railing.
“I couldn’t give a fuck less about Degas,” he stated without shame. “What’s your name?”
“You don’t really care about that, either.”
But then his hand grabbed mine, pulling me to a stop. I turned halfway, looking up at him.
“I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answers to.” It sounded like a warning.
I curled my fingers, feeling my heart skip a beat.
While I’d gotten the impression this man had a playful side, I now understood he had other faces, too.
“Easton,” I acquiesced.
Turning back around, I pressed my hips against the railing and gripped the banister, feeling him behind me.
I breathed in, the scent of magnolias from the ballroom filling my nose along with a tinge of the ever-present flavor indigenous only to the Quarter. Aged wood, stale liquor, old paper, and rain all combined to create a fragrance that was almost more delicious than food on a quiet morning walk down Bourbon in the fog.
“Wouldn’t you like to know my name?” he asked.
“I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answers to,” I replied quietly.
I felt his smile even though I couldn’t see it.
I stared out over the Quarter, nearly losing my breath at the sight.
A sea of people covered Bourbon Street like a flood, with barely enough room to turn around or maneuver through the masses. It was a sight I’d rarely seen in the five years I’d lived here, preferring to avoid the French Quarter during Mardi Gras in favor of the local hangouts on Frenchmen Street.
But it still had to be appreciated for the awe-inspiring sight it was.
The streetlamps glowed in the late-evening air, but they served only as a decoration. The neon lights of the bars, jazz clubs, and restaurants – not to mention the throngs of beads flying through the air from the balconies and down to waiting hands – cast a colorful display full of light, music, excitement, and hunger.
Anything went during Mardi Gras. Eat what you want. Drink your fill. Say anything, and – I blinked, feeling him move to my side – satiate all of your appetites.
Mardi Gras was a free pass. One night when rules were taboo and you did whatever you wanted, because you’d wake up tomorrow – Ash Wednesday – ready to purge your sins and cleanse your soul for the next six weeks of Lent.
I envied their carefree revelry, wishing for the courage to let go, stop looking over my shoulder, and laugh at things I wouldn’t remember in the morning.
“Such chaos,” I commented, observing the crowds stretching as far as the eye could see down in the street. “I’ve never had a desire to be in the midst of all that.”
I turned my head, meeting his eyes as I swept my long, dark brown hair over my shoulder.
“But I like watching all the commotion from up here,” I told him.
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s no good,” he scolded with a hint of a smile. “Everyone needs to experience the madness of the crowds down there at least once.”
“As you sidestep the puddles of vomit, right?” I shot back.
He shook his head, amused. Leaning his hands on the railing and cocking his head at me, he asked, “So what do you do?”
“I finish my master’s degree in a couple of months,” I replied. “At Loyola.”
A moment of apprehension crossed his eyes, and I cocked my head. Maybe he had thought I was older than I was.
“Does that bother you?” I asked.
“Why would it bother me?” he challenged.
I tilted the corner of my mouth in a smile at his game. “You didn’t follow me out here for the exercise,” I pointed out, both of us knowing damn well where the night between two consenting adults could lead. “I’m still in college, for a couple of months anyway. We might not have anything in common.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” he replied, sounding cocky. “You’ve held my interest this far.”
My eyes flared, and I looked away, tempted to either laugh or chastise him in anger.
“So what do you do, then?” I inquired, not really caring.
He stood up straight and slid his hands into his pockets as he turned to me. “Guess,” he commanded.
I peered up at him, also turning my body to face his.
Guess.