Michelle sat alone at the bar, nursing her drink and thinking about the enigma in her life, Remi Bellerive. His brooding face rose in her mind, and she sighed, as she raised her glass for another sip. He had given her the night off, like she was an employee rather than his lover.

She recalled him saying, “Go out and have a good time. Call a friend and go dancing or something. You could use some time away from me.”

What does that even mean? I want to be with him, and he knows that.

The house band was playing a slow, sad melody that made her want to bury her head in her hands and cry. Remi had warned her not to fall in love with him, but she couldn’t help herself. Her heart ached, knowing that her feelings for him were unrequited.

She found the confidence with which he carried himself and the way other men looked at him—with a mix of jealousy and respect—terribly attractive. She loved how his hair fell over his face, those small curves of black bouncing when he was fucking her, and even more, the way he held her tenderly afterwards. To her, his entire persona was the ultimate aphrodisiac, and she had tumbled head over heels for him.

During the months since she’d been living with him, she realized there was no hope that he’d ever feel the same for her. But she couldn’t tear herself away. The small glimmer of optimism, that maybe one night he’d recognize he loved her, refused to be doused. She was as addicted to him as he was to his cards.

After signaling the bartender Marcel for another of whatever she was drinking, the night’s special, she eased off the stool and meandered to a dark booth by a window, where she could see what the rest of Bourbon Street was doing.

Getting wasted... just like me.

Suddenly, there was a commotion outside, and she stirred the ice in her drink with her swizzle stick while she watched. Men were yelling and chasing a raven-haired woman who was running as if her life depended on it.

“Stop, Sophie! Come back the easy way! You don’t want this to get ugly!”

“Help!” the woman screamed to those around her, but no one stepped in to aid her. “They’re going to kill me!”

Michelle moved to the doorway and lifted her drink to her mouth again. The guys chasing the female were a good ways away from her yet but gaining fast. It looked like she was headed straight to where Michelle stood.

“What’s goin’ on out there?” the bartender asked, looking out the door. “Why they chasin’ her?”

“Not sure, Marcel. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

“Gettin’ my shotgun.” He then walked away. “Damn dealers, pimps, or traffickers after that little thing. I guarantee it.”

When he returned, he waved his weapon in the air, yelling, “Y’all, help her! She ain’t gonna stand a chance against ‘em! It’s ten to one, and they’ve got a vamp with ‘em!” To Sophie, he shouted, “Over here, girl! Get your ass in here! Now!”

As if his call were a command, the crowd surged towards her, making a wall with their bodies, blocking her assailants from following after she slipped through. Fights broke out between them and her aggressors, the forms of the men and women obscuring hers as she sped forward.

“You can run, but you can’t hide, Sophie! Gregor’s gonna find you! He’s gonna make you pay for leaving him, bitch!”

Perspiration poured down Sophie’s face, and she pumped her arms, sprinting, favoring one leg.

As she neared, Marcel pushed Michelle to the side, shouting, “Move!” and then, “Sophie! Straight to the back, girl! Go! Lock yourself in!”

She soared over the threshold, bringing a breeze with her, clutching her backpack in a death grip. She didn’t slow a bit, and a moment later, Michelle heard a door slam at the rear of the building.

“Go check on her. Get her somethin’ to drink.”

“Sure, Marcel.”

Michelle, tipsy and tripping over her feet but certain Marcel hadn’t meant for her to make Sophie a hurricane, went behind the bar, grabbed a glass, and raised the nozzle that had a bunch of buttons on it.

“Which one is for water?”

“The clear one with a big W.”

“Oh.”

She pressed it and looked up to see that the crowd had parted, but Marcel hadn’t moved from his place on the stained wood of the entryway.

A man, larger than any Michelle had ever seen, emerged from the crowd, stalking his way towards the bar.

“Um, Marcel? Should I call the police?”

“They won’t do anything. I got this.”

The guy came closer and closer, and Marcel didn’t budge. Water streamed over the rim of the tumbler, onto Michelle’s hand, and she lifted her finger to stop the flow.

“Go get her and bring her to me, old man,” said the immense tower of a being.

Hearing his voice and seeing his eyes filled with fire, Michelle came out of the alcohol haze she was in, her senses on high alert at the vamp trying to influence Marcel.

“You can’t come in, vampire, and you can’t make me do nuthin’! None of your kind can. Never have been. Never will be. Wanna live to see another night? Get the fuck away from my bar, or I’ll fill you full of silver.”

His eyes returned to normal, and he sneered, “Do you know who you’re hiding her from? She’s Gregor’s property.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass who you say owns her.” Marcel pumped a round into the chamber. “She’s free now.”

“Sure, she is.” The guy smirked, turned around, and took a step away before looking back over his shoulder. “Tell Sophie Hans sends his regards.”

“Go fuck yourself.”