In all the years that I’d lived in the French Quarter, Whiskey Bay must have been mentioned over a thousand times—and that was no exaggeration. It was a favorite among locals: the cocktails were good and the dancers even better. Over the years, as I’d closed out my readings with customers, they’d often pause, hands drifting back to their wallets and ask, “Do you by any chance know where I might be able to find Whiskey Bay?”

There were at least five on the map, all dotted throughout New Orleans, but only one that truly mattered.

The one that I was standing before now.

The one that I’d actually never visited . . . although all that was about to change.

The bouncer at the door stared at me, eyes all flinty as he barked, “ID.”

Already prepared, I stuck out my fake and made a little prayer that he wouldn’t question it. I had more than a few in case one was ever confiscated—though that rarely happened. I bought them off a guy on Basin Street, a tech wizard if there ever was one, and he had a hundred-percent customer return rate. To date, he’d created me a birth certificate and a Louisiana state ID. His true value came in with his hacking skills, which meant that “Avery Washington” existed in all the pertinent, state-wide databases.

I may not “exist” to the fullest extent of the word, but I came pretty damn close. Well, unless you stared a little too long at my records and realized that not everything lined up perfectly.

The bouncer passed my card back over. “Twenty bucks.”

Fishing through my purse, I pulled out the cash and gave it to him for the cover charge. At his finger twirl, I flipped my hand over and he stamped the back of it. Black ink, a treasure chest submerged in swampland. How . . . fitting.

I flashed him a bright smile. “Thanks for that.”

Grumbling beneath his breath, he motioned for me to duck under the leather cord keeping people out on the sidewalk.

And then I was in.

“Oh, wow.”

Blinking in surprise, I swiveled at the waist to look this way and that. I couldn’t help it; I said it again. “Oh, wow.”

So. Many. Hawaiian shirts.

It felt like I’d entered a frat party, and the feeling only intensified when someone threw up their hands at the bar and shouted, “Give me all the booze!”

“And tits!” his friend hollered back. “Booze and tits! Booze and tits!”

I swallowed—it was either swallow compulsively or bust a gut laughing, and I figured the former was probably the better option. You never knew who was watching.

The hipsters, I thought to myself, the hipsters are watching.

This was not at all what I’d envisioned after hearing all about Whiskey Bay’s notoriety. The red-and-black furnishings? One-hundred percent as expected. All the . . . I squinted, soaking up the scene before me to its fullest extent. Well, hell. There were more Birkenstocks sandals going on in this room than I’d ever seen in my life.

First impressions: this did not look like the sort of place Lincoln Asher would visit. Ever.

“You look a little lost, cherie.”

Startling at the sound of the female voice, I turned and—my jaw dropped. “Nat?” I sent a look over one shoulder and then the other. Just in case I was about to be pranked. Facing the tall brunette again, I shook my head. “What in the world are you doing here?”

My number one client smiled serenely, though one brow remained arched. “I could say the same to you. You’ve never visited Whiskey Bay before.”

And she knew that . . . how?

For the last number of years, Natalie Lauren had appeared at my table in Jackson Square at least once or twice per week. Always dressed demurely. Always a little shy as she sat opposite me, her gaze locked on my Thoth deck.

But this Nat looked entirely different—she wore a red, evening-length gown made of silk. Her gray-streaked hair was teased to sultry, voluminous heights, and her makeup . . . well, “vixen” would probably be the best word to use to describe it.

Forcing the words off my tongue, I asked the very lame, “Do you come here often?”

Dimples pierced her cheeks as her grin widened. “And here I thought you could see the unseen.”

“Just what’s presented to me in the cards.”

“Ah.”

This would probably be the best time to stop talking . . . just in case you haven’t put your foot in it enough already, and you ever want to eat again.

Biting my inner cheek, I tried to think of an appropriate response to her telling one-word syllable. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind and I was forced to awkwardly sway on my rarely used high heels.

“Are you meeting someone, cherie? You look . . .”

Oh, thank God, a question.

Fingers going to the hem of my black dress—okay, Katie’s dress—I tugged on the fabric and resituated it around my thighs. I hadn’t truly felt exposed until this moment but standing in front of Nat made me wish I had even a few napkins to hide my naked legs. Like, a good three dozen would do.

Since there was absolutely nowhere to hide, I forced steel into my tone. When I sat at my table on the square, confidence bolstered my ego and I spoke with authority. Right now, it was a miracle I hadn’t turned tail and fled into the night.

Stepping out of your element could do that to you.

I met Nat’s kohl-lined eyes. “I am, actually. At ten.” The confidence dissipated a smidge when I once again noticed the clientele. “But, actually, looking around . . . I’m wondering if he meant a different Whiskey Bay. I don’t think this is quite his scene.”

Or Templeton was just screwing with you.

No doubt about it, if that was the case, I’d be storming the eighth district station first thing in the morning with the mother of all complaints.

“Not his scene, hmm?” One red-painted nail tapping her lip, Nat cast a glance around the space. “Do you have a name? I know everyone who comes and goes within these walls.”

It was official: I was confused.

Coughing awkwardly, I yanked on my dress again, already regretting asking Katie if I could wear it. As if I’d wanted to impress Asher or something. Which hadn’t been the case—not exactly. I’d simply wanted to fit in.

I just hadn’t anticipated that Hawaiian shirts would be a much better option than the cocktail dress I’d donned.

Figures.

“Nat,” I said slowly, “this is going to be an incredibly random question but do you—”

Her dark eyes lit with humor. “I own Whiskey Bay, cherie. This Whiskey Bay, at any rate. I wouldn’t touch the others in this city with a ten-foot pole.”

“Oh.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love to return the help you’ve given me for so many years now. Your readings . . .” Biting down on her nail, Nat only grinned. “Well, shall we say that your readings have been a highlight for me? Always so spot-on when it comes to the business.”

Odd as it was to hear someone praise me for what I did, I felt the most absurd urge to throw my arms around Nat and say thank you. Not for the compliment, but for the help she offered. It was something that friends would do to bolster each other up, and I couldn’t deny how it made me feel ten times lighter.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “Honestly, hearing that means a lot to me.”

Nat waved me off dismissively. “Now, this gentleman you’re looking for . . .” She glanced my way, eyes narrowed in speculation. “It is a man, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Cheeks burning, I almost put a finger over my mouth to keep from spilling my guts about Asher.

“And you haven’t seen him here yet?”

“No,” I said with a shake of my head, “honestly, it’s possible he stood me up. He didn’t know I was coming—an acquaintance of ours set this up tonight. Told me to be here at ten on the dot because that’s when Asher would be here too.”

Nat’s head jerked in my direction. “Asher, you said?”

“Yes.” Feeling a little thrown off by the undertone in which she’d uttered his name, I cocked my head. “Do you know him?”

Over the soulful blues blaring from the speakers, I heard her rough laugh. Heard, also, the over-saturated note in her voice when she said, “Oh, I absolutely know Lincoln Asher, cherie. I’ve known him for years.”

Years?

Sucking in a breath, the hem of my dress leapt up my legs again—and I yanked the damn thing back into place. The difference between Katie and me came down to top-heavy and bottom-heavy, and I fit solidly in the latter grouping.

“How do you know him?” I asked, which wasn’t at all what I wanted answers to. The real question that had haunted me on my entire way over had circulated around one common thing. . .

Can I trust him?

Sensing my unease, Nat patted my arm. “He and my asshole of an ex-husband are great friends.”

That’d probably be more useful knowledge if I had an idea of who her ex-husband was in the first place. I smiled like I knew what the hell she was talking about, and noncommittedly muttered, “Such an asshole.”

“See!” she exclaimed, like we weren’t the only two people engaged in this conversation, “I’m not the only one to think so! Instead, this entire city treats him like even his piss is liquid gold.”

I came up spluttering for air, my entire chest contracting as I choked back a laugh.

Nat gave me a pitying glance. “You’ll see one day.”

I hoped not, but I supposed that answered my question well enough. Bitterness radiated from her like a tangible force field, and it didn’t take a genius to recognize that Nat was far from over her divorce.

From my periphery, I watched as an unknown man tapped her on the shoulder and then leaned in to whisper something in her ear. Her dark eyes flicked over to me, sliding down the length of my body, before flitting over to something else. Her response came in a language I didn’t recognize, and I didn’t bother straining my ears to understand any of it.

Stepping back, the man gave me a single, polite nod before heading off in the opposite direction from where he’d approached.

“I thought you were French?” I asked casually, my gaze still locked on the man’s back. For whatever reason, he seemed . . . familiar. The broad nose, the mole on the right side of his temple. He turned, and I noticed it then.

“He has a limp.”

“Injured in Ramada in the early 2000’s,” Nat murmured as though my observation weren’t completely rude, which it had been. But I couldn’t shake the notion that I’d seen him before . . . that limp, that mole that was shaped like the state of Texas.

Aware that Nat was still talking, and I’d completely shut her out, I gave a quick shake of my head. Be in the present. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t catch anything you just said.”

Unlike the first smile she’d given me upon spotting me in her club, this one was small and strained. “No worries, cherie. You don’t need to hear about my parents’ immigration from Hungary.” She clapped her hands together, the sound like a shock to my system. “Now, let’s return to the reason why you’ve come to Whiskey Bay in the first place, shall we? Follow me, please.”

Taking the skirts of her dress in hand, Nat whisked around, the silk billowing with elegance. Despite the fact that the dancers were scantily clad—if “clad” at all—heads swiveled to watch Nat as she moved.

With my back straight and my feet aching from the stilettos, I followed right on her heel. If I gave her anymore of a lead, I’d lose her in the crowd. Following her in silence gave me time to think, too, which probably wasn’t a good thing.

What had she meant that I’d see one day? If we’d been anywhere else, I’d have asked about her ex-husband. As it was, I made a mental note to do a little research when I went back home tonight. Nat would be easy to find as the owner of Whiskey Bay, even if she’d never given me her surname. And if her ex was as notorious of an asshole as she claimed him to be, then there was no telling what I’d find about him on the internet, as well.

“This way, cherie,” Nat murmured, inserting a key into a lock at the end of the hallway. “Asher arrived not so long before you. He’ll be just thrilled to see you . . . although, we did chat a little too long for you to technically be on time.”

Considering he had no idea I was even here, I figured the lapse in time was a no-problem-type deal. “I always love chatting with you, Nat,” I said when she encouraged me to take the stairs. It was true, too. She was one of my favorite customers, and it had nothing to do with the size of the tips she left me.

In a world that often looked at me like I’d spawned horns mid-conversation, Nat had always treated me—and the other readers in the square—as though I had something incredibly special to share.

Behind me, her voice floated up the narrow, industrial stairwell. “Me too, cherie, me too.”

Planting the heel of my stiletto on the last stair rung, I stepped up onto the landing of the second floor . . . and promptly felt the blood in my body rush everywhere all at once.

“Shocking, is it not?” murmured Nat by my ear as she swept past me. With my heart in my throat, I watched with wide eyes as she tossed her hair over one shoulder and skimmed a quick glance over the room before her, as though observing her kingdom. “Your Asher, cherie,” she said, “is not a man of simple tastes.”

No . . . it would seem not.

It suddenly felt too hard to breathe, like no matter how many times I opened my mouth to suck in air, I only ended up gasping. Or maybe I was simply panting—everything on this floor was a sure-fire reason to be short of breath.

Because, no matter which way I diverted my attention to, couples were engaged in hard, loud sex.

On top of the gaming tables.

On circular stages elevated some four feet off the ground.

On the bar itself.

And all around them were onlookers, their faces completely blacked out by the darkness as only the couples engaged in sex had any kind of spotlight on them.

Awareness prickled like a tangible touch as it danced its way down my arms and up my spine. When the hem of my dress inched dangerously close to riding up my butt, I didn’t even bother to fix it.

Compared to the women being fucked openly in this room, one panty-sighting wasn’t going to be much of a jaw-dropper.

A bare shoulder brushing mine had me flinching, but at Nat’s smooth, accented voice, my shoulders released their tension.

“Live sex shows have always been popular for as long as the French Quarter has existed, but with the city council and the NOPD shutting down long-time establishments for dancers just stripping . . . it seemed like the right decision to pick up and go elsewhere.”

As much as I wanted to shut my eyes, I couldn’t look away from the nearest couple. Hoisted up on a mini stage, the woman was on all fours, a black blindfold neatly tied around her eyes, a large man behind her. He stood, imposing in his stature—especially when compared to the woman—and trailed what looked like a crop up the gentle slope of her back. Up that strip of leather went, to the space between her shoulder blades, then down, down, down, until the tip rested on the curve of her ass.

When the man brought that strip of leather down on her behind with a thwack! I jumped as though Nat had clapped her hands all over again. A female whimper cut through the air, and I’d be dead before I ever admitted it, but even my own ass clenched as though I’d been the one to take the licking. Heat saturating my limbs, I shifted my weight on my heels.

Nat’s hand found my back, and she gently brushed back my hair. “We like to be all-inclusive here, as it’s one of the few places in the city you can still find such performances. Whether our clients are looking for some BDSM, missionary, men on men, or threesomes, we cater to all.”

Lips dry, I wet them—and then wished I had a few ice cubes to toss down the front of my dress . . . and probably in my damn underwear, too.

“And downstairs?” I asked breathlessly as I spotted a new group off to my left. Positioned on a bed up on a circular stage, a woman and a man hovered over a second man, who was sprawled across the rumpled sheets. Through the crowd, I couldn’t see much of the second man’s face. But I saw his cock, erect and proud, and there was no mistaking it when the first man leaned down to swipe his tongue along that hard length, from base to crown.

My core tightened at the sight, and there was nothing—nothing—I could do to stop watching the scene unfold before me.

“Downstairs, cherie, there is a wait list for those who would die to ascend those steps. But they’ll have to wait to join our little club.” Bitterly, she tacked on, “We’re prone to police raids though we do our best to stay off the radar. No one enters this space who hasn’t already been checked extensively.”

Tearing my gaze from the threesome, I refocused on Nat. “You didn’t do a check on me.”

She didn’t even blink. “Ah, but you don’t truly exist, do you, Miss Washington?”

Like earlier tonight when I’d run into my stepfather, Nat’s offhand comment was like a douse of cold water over the head. My lust cooled instantaneously, my brain working overtime to think of something to say that would throw her off. Had the bouncer downstairs told her that my ID was a fake? That had to be it. Relief hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest, the built-up air filtering out as I exhaled again and again and again.

“Look how pale you are!” Pressing a hand to my forehead, Nat eclipsed my hands between hers and rubbed them together. “It was only a joke, cherie,” she said, brows wrinkled in concern. “After all these years of you helping me, you are welcome here whenever you want.” She paused, and I glanced up to meet her gaze. “I find it necessary to warn you, though, about your little crush on Lincoln Asher.”

“What about it?” I asked, more sharply than I’d intended.

“It’s nothing, nothing.” Beneath her breath she muttered something, probably in Hungarian, and then piped up again. “I just . . . you ought to be warned that he is more likely to ruin you than to love you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Feeling the need to defend myself, I bit out, “I’m not looking for love. That’s not why I’m here.”

Why are you here, then?

Tom Townsend.

Tabby.

“Nat, I need to ask you—”

She cut me off, finger to her lips in the universal move for me to keep quiet. Behind that finger, her mouth moved, her voice cutting through the moans and whimpers and cries of the activity behind us: “If it has nothing to do with love, then I would like to introduce you to someone. Or, shall I say, someones. Come along.”

Leaving me no choice but to follow, we wound our way through groups of people until we reached the very back of the second floor. In comparison to the rest of the space, it was quiet here, almost deathly so. Shadows hugged the walls, and though I was aware of other people sitting and whispering to each other, their identities remained anonymous with the light trained only on the stage.

“Sit, cherie,” she said, gently pushing on my shoulders until my knees gave up their protest and my butt landed on the velvet settee with a bounce. “They are about to begin.”

Who was about to begin?

“Nat—”

Her silk skirts skimmed my swollen feet as she turned away. “I shall send him to you. Enjoy the performance, Miss Washington. You won’t soon forget it.”