I’m disgusting. I’m despicable. I’m done for.
It was fucking dumb to sleep with someone else’s bride, a wounded woman. This was fucked on so many levels.
But she was spectacular. I wasn’t half bad either.
She collapsed on top of me, a grin carved into her face. Not a weak one like she’d forced all night either. A face-splitting, ear-to-ear grin. And I got off on putting it there.
In a matter of hours, this woman went from stranger to lover.
I watch Reagan sleep, her naked body clinging to me, her arms locked around my trunk. Her smooth legs tangle with mine. She’s dead to the world, her head on my chest. She snores. At least, when she drinks.
Her pale skin glows from the pre-morning moonlight streaming in the windows. Her raven hair is almost a midnight blue.
As tempting as staying here with her sounds, I have work and want to get a run in beforehand. I sneak out from the warmth of the sheets and her body to dress. I tiptoe around my room. Me, with my six-foot-two frame. I’m a bull in a china shop. She stirs once and then settles with a moan. She’s in a deep sleep and probably will be for hours. She passed out little more than an hour ago. I’m sure I’ll be back before she wakes, so I forgo leaving a note on my way out.
With Toadies blasting through my earbuds, I drown out the world around me with music. Nestled between rows of confined buildings, I run the comfortably cramped streets of the Quarter, the pounding of pavement under my feet. Each time they make contact gives me a sense of satisfaction. It’s one of the few times I’m able to forget everything plaguing my life. But today, my mind is racing right alongside me. Images of Reagan flicker behind my eyes.
I picture her now, sleeping, sprawled out naked, entangled in my sheets.
I think over the offer I made her earlier, while she was falling asleep in my arms, my fingers tracing the long line of her back. She never gave me an answer. The words died on her lips as sleep pulled her into darkness.
The morning air, damp with a dense mist, hits my face and rushes past me as I put distance between me and the Magnolia. The city is beginning to wake, only the odd person out, some, women doing the “walk of shame” back to their hotel after a night of depravity in the Big Easy.
Then, around Jackson Square, in the shadow of St. Louis Cathedral, I spot one that makes me stop in my tracks.
I wake with an overwhelming loneliness. My eyes burst open, and I spring out of the temporary bed like a pole-vaulter. I’m in a room I’ve never seen before. Not remembering what happened (or where I am), I reach out for Shaw, but he isn’t beside me. I peek out the windows to the view of hanging ferns and black wrought iron railing. I’m in the French Quarter, the early morning sun peeking over the rooftops. I’m atop a bar or restaurant or something.
Greier.
Greier’s apartment.
Sex with Greier.
Shit.
I dress in the sweats and shirt I wore last night and then collect my destroyed wedding dress wrinkled on the floor of the bathroom. Some of the buttons are missing and the fragile loops are snapped.
Did I do this to my dress? Or did he?
I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers from the closet in the main bedroom. They’re a size too big.
Ex-girlfriend.
Big boobs.
Big butt.
Big feet.
I’m plainly not the normal body type he prefers. Emphasis on the plain.
I place my ear to the door, listening for any movement beyond it. When there isn’t any, I open the door and make a dash for the stairs. It’s wrong to leave him like this, but last night was a mistake, a slip in judgement. He must agree. His absence speaks volumes.
Taking the steps two at a time, I slink out the door marked private. I need to disappear. If he comes back from wherever he’s gone this early in the morning, I would die of embarrassment. I’m grateful for the clean getaway. I have enough on my back without the awkward morning after talk, too.
I lock the main entrance to the restaurant from the inside and shut it behind me. I walk with a quick pace down the sidewalk, to nowhere in particular. It’s stupid to abandon the security of a job and a roof over my head, which he offered me after we fucked. There’s no other way to describe what we did last night. It was filthy, dirty, sweaty monkey love. As much as I want to take his proposal, it’s street-walkery to accept anything from him after I’ve given him my body.
I stride westward on Bourbon, my arms crossed in front of me, hugging my dress against my chest. It’s chillier than I expected it would be, the sun hidden by a thick layer of fog. I barely see the second story windows of the old French-Spanish buildings pressed snuggly against the road.
Except for the odd person, the Quarter is dead—and beautifully eerie.
Following St. Peters, I hit Jackson Square, gawking in awe at the towering cathedral, its clock face watching over the lazy Mississippi River. With a stroke of the big hand, the bells ring out from the mists surrounding the tower, an almost soulful sound. I shut my eyes and listen, breathing in the cool morning air. It actually settles my nerves, and for a fleeting moment, everything feels like it’ll be all right.
I’ve always wanted to come here and visit this place. After all the weeks I’ve been here, helping put the finishing touches on the wedding and training to be the perfect Southern wife, I never got the chance to see any of the city, to explore the place I was supposed to call home. I saw the inside of cars and wedding boutiques and the opulent manors of the Garden District. Now, here I am. Alone, broke, and scared, but able to enjoy this experience.
I open my eyes and quietly admire everything, the bells fading away in the background, when a deep male voice calls my name, “Reagan!”
My initial instinct screams to flee, but I’m crippled by the fear I’ve been discovered by my former fiancé. Taking a brief second, I recognize the voice lacks the molasses-like twang. One other man in this city knows my name, knows I am in the Quarter.
“Greier,” I utter, barely a whisper under my breath.
Looks like we’ll be having the talk after all.
I face him. He jogs to me in a hooded sweatshirt and black running pants.
“Why aren’t you in my bed?” he asks.
The intimacy of his question makes me cringe. Not outwardly. I’m not looking to bruise his ego. But I only remember bits and pieces of our night together. After the first drink, things start to bleed together. He’s still very much a stranger to me.
“Listen.” I tuck an unkempt chunk of hair behind the shell of my ear and continue walking. “I appreciate last night, but I shouldn’t stick around.”
He catches up and keeps pace with mine. “What about last night do you appreciate exactly?” I glance over at him, his lips stretched across his perfect teeth in a charmingly arrogant smile.
“Everything.” I face forward again. “It isn’t right to drag you into my problems, Greier. I’ve been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours, and I need to figure out my next step. I’m sorry.”
I quicken my gait, but his hand catches mine and keeps me from creating distance between us. He steps in front of me and walks backwards.
“And where will you go, Rae?” Rae? “You have no money. Even if you get a job in the next few days, which I doubt since you only have pajamas and that torn wedding dress to wear, how will you pay for a place to live?”
He’s right.
I didn’t even have money to pay him for the drinks last night.
I can’t call my parents or Shaw.
My wallet and cards are at the LeBlanc’s estate. Even if I could get my hands on them, if I used my debit card or accounts, they’d find me, track me down. My parents are in charge of my money. Every cent is theirs. I’ll have to face them eventually, but not today. I need time. I need money. I need a miracle.
Here, Greier is throwing me a life preserver in alligator-infested waters, and I’m taking a leisure swim. Without him, I’m fucked. To put it mildly.
When we hit the end of Jackson Square, he stops me.
“Let me help you,” he says, attracting my attention from the thoughts beating my head. “I need a waitress. It’s fixin’ to get busy for us with Carnival. You could use the employment, and I could use you.”
Use me.
I flinch at the fragmented memory forcing itself to the front of my mind.
“You’d really give me a job? You don’t even know if I’m capable.”
“Aren’t you?” he asks.
Am I? I’ve never had a job a day in my life. Well, maybe that’s not entirely accurate. I’ve worked my ass off every day since the day I was born, making my parents look good. I stood beside them during my father’s campaigns and speeches, attended dull galas to raise funds, met with other senators and their whitewashed families, posed for well-planned photo ops, kept a 4.0 GPA throughout my collegiate career, involved myself in many charities. I actually loved that part. I would’ve done it even if it wasn’t expected of me. Hell, I was ready to devote myself to a man I didn’t even love—for them. Sometimes I wonder if the reason they had me was for political gain. A family man is more trustworthy, more relatable.
I may not have had what most would consider a normal nine to five. But I worked twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five a year.
When I realize I’ve left him hanging, I inquire, “What does it entail?”
“Taking orders, serving food and drinks, and handling the drunks. They get rowdy. But you’ll be watched after and could make great tips. It doesn’t have to be a permanent situation, just through Mardi Gras, then we figure out where to go from there.”
Leasing with the option to buy, a tempting offer—especially since it’s the only one I’ve got.
“That’s generous, Greier. Truly. Too generous. I’ve already stolen your room, your booze, your food, it wouldn’t be right to take this from you, too.”
“You’d be doing me a huge favor. I need the help, and you need the money. It’s win-win.” He uses my words from the night before against me.
My lips crack into a smirk.
This man has no idea who I am, he has no connection or attachment to me, yet he’s bending over backwards to rescue me, a less than perfect stranger.
Even though I’m beyond grateful for his offer, I’m curious what’s in it for him. Why does he feel the need to come to my rescue? People don’t help others unless they have an ulterior motive. Growing up in politics, in my family, has shown me that sad fact time and time again. Maybe it’s rude to question someone’s motives, but I have to know.
“Why are you hell-bent on saving me?”
“It’s my blessing and my burden,” he answers with an empty tone. “Are all Northern girls so suspicious?”
I think about it and then shrug. “It’s a defense mechanism.”
He sighs, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and shifting his focus onto nothing in particular to his right. When he acknowledges me again, his face is a blank slate. But his eyes have something subtle in them.
“If I could explain it, I would, but I can’t. I can’t allow you to walk away without knowing you’ll be alright.”
“You aren’t going to stop following me until you do, are you?”
“No,” he laughs, “I can’t.”
“Well, shit,” I breathe out.
I’m not a hundred percent sure I’ll stay in New Orleans. It sounds infantile and ungrateful not to jump at his proposition. But I’ve never been independent. I’ve always relied on someone one way or another. Whether it was my parents or a boyfriend or Shaw. I’ve never been alone. I’ve moved from relationship to relationship. I’ve always had someone paying my way, which, in turn, led them to believe they had control over me and my decisions. This is my chance to finally be responsible for me, take my own path, make my own way.
However, even though I’m done depending on others, you gotta pay to play. Hard to be independent without a dime. But what kind of woman takes employment from a man she slept with the night before? I believe they call them prostitutes.
He’s my only option. And he isn’t a bad one.
“Well,” I mutter, “since you insist on saving me. I guess I’ll let you.”
“So.” He claps his hands together, startling me, and then rubs them rapidly. “You’ll stay with me until your next move. I could use a roommate since the ex-monster left my dick hanging in the wind.” He pauses. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
I smirk at him. He smirks back. It’s sincere.
I shiver.
Without warning, he rips the gown from my hands and chucks it aside.
“Hey,” I whine.
“What?” he asks. “Did you plan to wear that again?”
I shrug. “Not likely.”
He strips his sweatshirt off.
“Hold your arms up.”
I stretch them high into the air, and he slides it over my head. It’s oversized but warm. The scent of sweat and Irish Spring soap woven into its soft fibers.
Greier reaches out for me. At first, it takes me by surprise, until I grasp what he’s doing. He removes my morning hair out from the collar of the sweatshirt, careful not to tug on it roughly, and sweeps it over my right shoulder.
From what I can remember, he was anything but ginger with me this morning.
If I do this, we need to set some ground rules first, we have to draw a clear line in the sand.
Stepping over the wedding dress on the ground, we start walking toward the riverfront again. As we turn onto Decatur, running parallel to the river, I murmur his name, “Greier.”
“Yeah?” he responds, keeping his eyes forward.
“You don’t expect me to fill the role of your girlfriend, do you?”
Stride faltering, he rotates his body toward me slowly, his face twisted.
“What?”
“The titles I’m taking are roommate and employee, right? You don’t expect me to act like your girlfriend, too.”
“No,” he laughs, “that’s not a requirement.”
My ego dies a little.
Judging by his girlfriend’s clothes, I’m not his type. Not that I’m thinking about whether or not I am. I’m not. I have too much in the air to entertain the fantasy of this man and myself. And I’m unavailable.
“There needs to be lines drawn. We can’t allow last night to happen again. That’s all I’m saying. We need to keep this arrangement platonic and professional.”
“You regret last night.”
“My head does.”
In more ways than one.
“And your body, does it regret having me inside it?” He steps closer, his breath visible in the air. It’s heavy and slow.
“No.”
And that’s the problem. I’m undeniably attracted to Greier. He’s more devastating than my hazy mind did him justice. But I can’t give into my attraction.
“I won’t force myself on you, Reagan. Not unless you ask me to.” Unless I ask him? A smirk plays across his face. “And when we do fuck again, it’ll be because you want it. Not to pay me for room and board.”
I clench my thighs together to relieve the ache radiating from between them.
“Then, what are your expectations?”
“For you to pay a portion of the groceries and bills, but never with your body. You’ll give that to me freely.”
I swallow down the knot in my throat.
“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
The carnality coming from him is like gravity, luring me into him. In a need to distance myself, I take a step back.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I just know how to read you, Rae.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I want to though.” He takes my hand and runs his thumb over the back. This all feels too intimate for me. “We both need things the other can provide. You need my help. I need yours. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
A little more than less.
“Alright,” I agree.
“Come on.” He nods his head down Decatur. “I’ll buy you breakfast before work. Ever had a beignet?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“It’s our version of a doughnut, except tastier and much worse for you. There’s this place down the street, Café Du Monde.” He points to a restaurant with a striped green and white awning. “It’s the best. And they have coffee.”
“Well, if they’re the best,” I joke.
He shoves his hands in his pants’ pockets, maybe to keep them to himself. I’m grateful. Because I’m already missing the way they felt on my body. And that’s a deadly thought.