Chapter 13

Maverick

After the door shuts behind me, I turn around and glare at it. I’m not mad. Disappointed? Maybe. Confused? Definitely. I thought Carys and I were on the same page. I thought our conversation earlier when she walked in on the tail end of my phone call with my father was an understanding between the two of us about what we’re doing. She seemed on-board and now, I don’t know.

All I know is that I could physically feel her putting up a barrier between us. So, I’ll give her some space. Shit, maybe it’s for the best.

Not for my dick, but maybe in the long run, because I really like Carys Matthews. I don’t know what that means or what I plan on doing about it. My plans lately haven’t stretched further than the next twenty-four hours. I haven’t thought a lot about leaving and going back to the real world. That was the plan when I came here—forget about work, forget about my father, gain some perspective and figure out what I’m going to do with my life for the next two years.

Carys was not in those plans.

Walking back toward the hotel, instead of going inside, I veer right and head down the alley that leads out to the street. I feel the need to clear my head and blow off some steam. One thing I know about New Orleans, there are plenty of opportunities for both.

I’m not feeling Bourbon Street, so I head toward Jackson Square.

With my head somewhere else, I nearly get run over by a horse and carriage. “Sorry,” I mutter, pausing long enough for them to pass and then I cross the street.

One of my favorite things about New Orleans, even when I was younger and I’d come here with my mom and dad, is the colors. It’s like a crayon box exploded. There’s nothing drab or boring. I firmly believe if you’re bored in New Orleans, you’re dead. There are too many things to do to keep your mind, body, and spirit fully engaged.

Jogging from one corner to the next, I officially enter Jackson Square and step out of the shadow of the cathedral.

My mom loved this place. I think it’s one of the reasons we came here so often. My dad was always looking for easy ways to keep my mother happy.

“Beignets for breakfast and dessert.” I can hear her voice so clearly in my mind when I’m at places we shared together.

“Come,” a deep female voice calls. “Let me read your palm.” Her face is warm and inviting, making it hard to turn her down, but I’m not in the mood for any of that voodoo shit. I did it once, on a dare, while I was here with some of my college friends for Mardi Gras one year. Honestly, I was so drunk I couldn’t even remember what the lady told me.

“No, thanks,” I tell her politely as I keep walking.

Artists are set up along the fence line, selling their works. Some of it is too eclectic for my taste, but some of it is really great. I’ve never bought any, though. Since I always fly here, I never want to mess with getting a big ass painting home.

Without thinking, letting my mind wander as I pass people and shops, I end up at the busiest corner, right across from Cafe Du Monde. My mom loved coming here and I think about stopping in, if for nothing else than sentimental reasons, but the place looks packed, so I pass it up and keep walking.

Once I’m on the other side of the square, the buildings are just in the right position to block some of the sun, giving me a slight reprieve, and a small sign catches my eye: Neutral Grounds. I remember Carys mentioning this place the night we had dinner at Lagniappe, so I stop. Opening the door, a bell chimes and a voice from behind the counter greets me. “Hello! Welcome to Neutral Grounds.”

A girl with brown hair tossed up on her head in a messy bun finally pops up and smiles at me. Well, not a girl, but a woman, probably mid to late twenties, Carys’ friend, I’m assuming.

“Hi,” I reply with a two-finger wave, checking the place out as I walk closer to the counter to peruse the menu.

“Any questions, just let me know.” She’s pretty in a girl-next-door, unassuming kind of way.

“I’ll, uh...” I pause, taking one more look before ordering. “I’ll have an iced americano.” I decide to go with my standard when I’m trying out a new place. It’s hard to mess up an americano, unless her espresso sucks, but I get the feeling it doesn’t.

“Sure,” she says, stashing a fresh sleeve of cups on the counter and scooting a box out of her way. “Sorry for the mess. I just got a delivery and if I don’t immediately put it away, it’ll drive me crazy.”

I laugh at her candor and nod. “I get it.”

“Are you visiting?” she asks over her shoulder as she starts pulling my shots of liquid gold.

“Uh, yeah...I’ve been here a little over a week, but I guess I’m still classified as a visitor.” I laugh again, kind of disbelieving I’ve really stayed here that long already. I mean, I intended to when I left home, but I don’t know if I really thought I’d go through with it. I assumed I’d be here for a long weekend and then head back home, letting guilt get the best of me.

“Oh, well, you’re one of us now. After a few days, we claim as for our own.” She smiles, filling the cup up with ice and securing it with a lid. “Anything else?”

“That’ll be it.”

As she’s ringing me up, she continues with her questioning. “So, where are you staying?”

“Blue Bayou,” I tell her, pointing over my shoulder.

Her eyes light up. “Really? My friend Carys runs the Bayou. Great place,” she adds as she takes my money and makes change.

“She mentioned this place, that’s what made me stop.”

“Sweet, I’ll have to thank her with free coffee.” She smiles again as I stuff her tip jar with my change. “CeCe,” she says, sticking her hand across the counter for me to shake.

“Maverick,” I counter, appreciating her firm, no-nonsense grip.

“Nice to meet you. Don’t be a stranger, and if you see Carys, tell her I said hello.”

I nod. “I will.”

“Feel free to stay awhile. Soak up all the free A/C you want.”

“Thanks.”

I walk around the shop, admiring the artwork on display. There are pottery and ceramic pieces placed among the various bags of coffee beans, mugs, and store merchandise, as well as beautiful, eclectic paintings on the walls. I assume every piece was created by a local artist and I think it’s very cool for CeCe to promote them in her shop.

“I really like this one,” I say, pointing up to a painting hanging over a shelf.

“It’s my favorite too, painted by a good friend of mine who’s really made a name for herself. She started out right here in the Quarter, though. Camille Benoit-Landry? Have you heard of her?”

A small pebble of recognition rolls around in my brain until I remember where I heard it. “Right, somehow related to the owner of Lagniappe?”

“Yes,” CeCe says with a pleased smile. “See, you are becoming one of us. You already know the locals. Micah, the owner of Lagniappe, is Cami’s brother-in-law. Well, she’s opening an art studio across the square. You probably passed right by it on your way here, but it’s not open yet.” Her openness and willingness to share information and open her doors is something that reminds me of Carys. Actually, those are characteristics of a lot of people who live and work in this city. It’s refreshing.

“He mentioned that when Carys and I had dinner there the other night.”

“So, you and Carys had dinner, huh?” she asks, lifting her tone and eyebrows suggestively.

“Yeah, we did,” I admit, realizing a little too late that Carys might not want me telling her friends about our time together.

“Well,” CeCe says, suddenly becoming tight-lipped. I can see her mind churning as she looks at me with new interest, like I’ve become an item on her shelf and she’s taking inventory.

“I, uh, fixed something for her and she wanted to thank me.” Of course, it was me who requested the dinner, but CeCe doesn’t need to know that.

CeCe nods. “I see.”

Now it’s my turn to nod and take a large drink of my americano.

“Carys is good people,” CeCe adds, under the ruse of praising Carys for her hospitality and graciousness, but I’m good at reading between the lines. There’s a warning—a friend looking out for a friend, telling a virtual stranger that he should tread carefully.

“She is,” I agree, but with my own hidden message: I know how good Carys is, and I’m not here to take advantage of her.

“I’m sure she appreciates your help. The last year or so has been tough.”

I nod again, wondering how much I should say. CeCe could be testing me, waiting for me to mess up or tell her how much I know. I won’t be doing either.

“She seems to have it all under control,” I tell her. “The hotel is great. I’ve really enjoyed my stay there. It’s a nice change from big name hotels, you know?”

“That’s why I send everyone I know there,” CeCe says, finishing her restocking of shelves and retreating back behind the counter, dusting off her hands on her apron.

“Well, just know Carys returns the favor. She tells everyone about this place.”

“We’ve gotta stick together. It’s getting harder and harder to fend off commercial investors from buying up all of the property. They see it as a cash cow, but I hate to break it to them. People come here for the history and authenticity. If they come in here with their shiny, new buildings and chain restaurants and stores, they’ll kill business, and none of us will be making a living.”

Her words hit a nerve and send my hackles up.

“We can’t let that happen,” I tell her with casualness and fake levity, because I bet I can guess who one of those commercial investors is who’s been knocking, trying to buy out the locals. That has Kensington Properties written all over it.

“No, we can’t,” CeCe agrees, her eyes on mine, like she’s still trying to figure me out, but she’s going to be keeping a close eye on me until she does.

“Thanks for the great cup of coffee,” I tell her, dipping my chin. “It was nice meeting you.”

For the next few hours, I walk the streets of the French Quarter, passing street performers galore, stopping to be entertained by a few. My favorites are the bands and singers, playing for pennies and dollars, but sounding soulful enough to be in the best jazz bars.

Well, not all of them. There’s the guy standing on the corner of Chartres and St. Louis singing horrible renditions of 80’s ballads. I gave him twenty bucks to not sing until I was far enough gone he could no longer see me. By the time I got to St. Peter, he was bellowing The Greatest Love of All.

When I turn the corner toward the Blue Bayou, the sun has set and it’s not an embarrassing time to turn in for the night, but I still feel wound up. Even though my feet are tired, my body is still firing on all cylinders. Carys has me so twisted I can’t think straight, and the last thing I want to do is walk back into the hotel and be surrounded by her—her scent, her presence—but I also don’t want to be alone.

Walking up the sidewalk, I see a familiar face leaving the hotel.

“Dreamboat,” Jules greets.

“Jules.” I nod, smirking at the nickname he’s given me.

“Why so forlorn?” he asks, full of dramatics.

“I’m not, just tired. I’ve been walking for the past few hours, checking out the Quarter.”

Jules frowns, inspecting me from head to toe. “That’s no fun.” He pauses for a second, obviously contemplating. “But, you know what is?”

“I’m guessing you’re going to tell me.” I chuckle, scratching the scruff on my chin.

“You. Me. Revelry,” he says, gripping my shoulder and waving his hand in the air with dramatic flair. “Come, the girls are gonna love you.”

It takes longer than I’d like to admit for me to learn that when Jules says “girls”, he does not, in fact, mean actual females. He uses the term to refer to his drag queen friends, and well, everyone else he introduces me to at Club Revelry. Not that I was hoping to meet other women, but a little heads up would’ve been nice.

My first trip to the bathroom was an eye-opening experience. Let’s just leave it at that.

Jules, it turns out, is a multi-faceted person. Not only does he work at the Blue Bayou, but he also tends bar here and dabbles in drag, all while attending law school. I’m absolutely fascinated by his tenacity and work ethic, plus he’s a fun guy. I can also tell how much he likes and admires Carys, which earns him bonus points in my book.

“Oh, Mav-y, I need you!” Jules claps his hands excitedly as he walks up to where I’m sitting at the table we procured when we arrived.

“What’s up, uh, Jules-y?” Yeah, I’m well on my way to drunk town, also trying to fit in with my new friends.

“It’s my turn for karaoke and I need a partner.” He tugs on my arm, but I’m still not following what he’s implying.

“Well, have you asked, um, Cherry Bomb or Emma Stoned yet?”

“No, I want you. Come sing with me.” Jules pulls my arm hard enough that I stumble off the bar stool. I’m sure the alcohol I’ve been ingesting for the past two hours helped.

“I don’t sing, Jules. You need to find someone else.”

“Listen, it’ll be a piece of cake. I’m Elton and you’re my Kiki Dee, so just follow along.”

He doesn’t give me another chance to protest. He drags me over to a dark corner and places a feather boa around my neck and then covers his eyes with huge sunglasses. Before I can register what I’m about to do, I find myself on stage with a mic in my hand, lights blinding me. A song I haven’t heard since I was a kid starts playing, and when Jules starts to sing, I realize I’m supposed to follow his lead.

It’s a rough start for me, but the crowd is encouraging, and soon, I’m loosened up enough to start having fun. Jules and I make a great team, or should I say me, Jules, and Johnnie—Walker, that is...red, black...hell, I don’t care. I’m friends with all of them. We’re really getting into our performance when Jules moves to smack my ass. I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s the booze or maybe it’s the bright lights and energetic crowd? Probably the booze, but regardless, I bend over, offering up my backside on a silver platter, making the people go wild.

By the time our song ends, the audience is on their feet, dancing and cheering, begging us for more. We bow, Jules much more graceful than I, and I’m completely caught off guard when he spins me around and dips me before pulling me up and kissing me on the cheek.

After they realize we’re not giving an encore, they start to boo us and call for the next performance. Jules helps me off the stage, and the fact I now need assistance to walk tells me it’s time to call it a night.

“Jules, I gotta go. It’s been fun and all,” I slur. “But I’d like to make an exit while I’m at my peak. That’s what’s wrong with people...they always want to milk their fifteen minutes for more than it’s worth. Like Kenny Rogers said, you gotta know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.”

As we approach the table I’ve commandeered all night, I’m leaning heavily on Jules as the room spins around me. He grips my sides, turning me to look him square in the eyes, but when I try, there are two of him. And I tell him so.

“Okay, dreamboat, let’s go,” he concedes, leading me to the door and then outside. Even though it’s late, it’s still humid as fuck, and I’m thankful for the slight breeze. I welcome it, turning my face up and letting it cool my heated skin.

“I’m fine, Jules. You don’t have to end your evening for me.”

“I’ll come back, don’t worry your pretty little head, but there is no way I’m sending your drunk ass back to the Bayou all by yourself. Carys would kill me if anything happened to you.”

The sound of her name sobers me up a little. “Why would she do that?”

“Because she likes you, duh.” He says it like it’s so obvious, but I’m not convinced. “You’re her friend and after that performance back there, you’re officially my friend too, and we take care of our own.” He pauses while we cross the street and then continues. “Now, tell me your intentions with my boss. You’re too drunk to lie, so don’t even try.”

Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, I force my eyes to focus until his face isn’t blurry and I can tell he’s serious. I think on it for a minute, but don’t really know what to say, so I shrug my shoulders instead. At least, I think I do.

Jules loops his arm through mine and continues walking, leaving me no choice but to follow. “You like her, right?” he asks.

“Of course, I do. She’s amazing.” My words feel thick as they leave my mouth.

“So, what’s the problem?” Jules asks, saving me from face planting when my foot hits an uneven part of the sidewalk.

“What makes you think there’s a problem?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’re out with me instead of there with her. Now, I know you had fun tonight, but I’m not stupid enough to believe, if given the choice, you’d rather be here than in her pants right now.”

“Why would I want to wear her pants?” I ask, completely confused.

“For the love of Cher!” he exclaims with a laugh. “One night at a gay bar and you think I’m asking if you want to wear Carys’ pants! I said, you want in her pants, Maverick. In. You know what I mean by that, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” I say, trying to sound annoyed, but my ability to display the correct emotion is eluding me, along with my ability to think straight or talk right. Fuck, I’m drunk. “Yes, I know what you mean. But I’m too drunk to have this conversation, so stop talking to me.”

“Answer my question and I’ll drop it. For now, anyway.”

I stop walking as we approach the Blue Bayou and run my fingers through my hair, taking a sobering breath. I’m sweating my ass off, so I’m sure my hair is a wild mess. I also still have this fucking boa around my neck, its feathers sticking to my skin.

“I’m waiting.” Jules has his hands on his hips and he’s tapping his toes, a clear sign he’s not letting this go until I answer.

“Fine, yes. Yes, I want her, but I also don’t want to hurt her. I’m not here for much longer, so I’m just trying to follow her lead. You know? She seemed like she wanted me, but then today she threw on the brakes, and if I’m being honest, it threw me for a loop. So, I don’t know, Jules. Whatever Carys wants from me, that’s what I’ll give her. Is that a good enough answer for you?”

He watches my face for a few seconds before he’s satisfied with my response. Smiling, he turns me around and pushes me through a door.