On a vending machine full of chips and crackers, I press C40—not a true selection—and the wall behind it slides to offer access. I slip inside the shadowy tunnel, which is lit only by the trickling sunrays filtering inside from the exit and a few flickering sconces, and close myself inside. The passageway is narrow, weaving and ramping to take me up a whole level, but I could navigate it in my sleep.
It’s reminiscent of one of those sports underpasses that football players emerge from, where they go from hidden undergroundto either brilliant daylight or dazzling evening spotlight when they approach the arena. Arriving.
This is my playground.
When I emerge onto the covered rooftop, blinding halos spot my vision. Midday sun can be brutal up here, even with the overhang Axel installed. The April breeze is refreshing though. There’s nothing quite like a Louisiana spring. The city’s perfume gets trapped at this elevation, magnifying the aromas that enliven the spirit—cypress and moss and magnolia trees. Humid, salty air. And the mouthwatering flavor of Creole. It’s all here.
Jax is blowtorching a mural onto one of the high walls—encaustic art is done with wax and paint and heat. It’s his preferred mode of creativity. Anything with fire intrigues him.
The roofs are tiered. This is the second highest, so it has two walls the height of a single story and two that are merely a foot off the ground—parapets. Below those is another tier. It makes for stunning architecture and provides plenty of camouflaged spaces.
Once Jax catches sight of me, I launch into my thrilling high-noon tale. “I just had a Janis freaking Joplin experience.”
He chuckles, flips his safety goggles atop his head of blue hair, hits the joint resting in a tray beside him, and blows the smoke out with a lopsided grin—Jax’s responses are always on a delay, like a field reporter for the news. “By your enthusiasm, I’m going with ‘Me and Bobby McGee.’ ”
Within the lyrics of that song is a definition for freedom. I’ve leaned into various interpretations of freedom over the years, but this is among my favorites.
Nothing left to lose.
Sauntering toward him, I drop the food bag on the table near his ashtray and smile because he always gets me. “Yep. An epic, not-a-damn-thing-left-to-lose moment.”
“Fuck, girl. Spill.” He abandons the blowtorch and goggles, passes me the joint, and digs for his sandwich, beaming when hediscovers his favorite. “Cuban,” he drawls, and upon further inspection, he adds, “And extra pickles.”
That wins me a peck on the cheek.
The stench of the pot coils around me with the wafting smoke as we both settle into a shady spot against one of the small barrier walls. I’m not a huge substance user.Everything in moderationis my motto. Jax doesn’t live by the same mantra. But since he’s actively painting, this isn’t his into-the-couch stuff that knocks me on my ass for hours, paralyzed by weighty limbs and heavy thoughts. So, I’m game.
After a quick hit to celebrate my jackpot morning, I flash a cheesy grin and set the joint in the ashtray. “Ty Reynolds held my hand and ran his knuckles down my cheek—”
“The fuck?” The whites of his eyes—well, the pinks of his eyes—glow around the dark-blue rims of his golden-brown irises. “You were with Ty? Where?”
“High-rollers hallway,” I supply, crossing my fingers that he doesn’t ask if Ty was at Magie Noire. The thought of that was excruciating enough the first time. My stomach won’t tolerate discussing it.
He pauses with his Cuban halfway to his mouth while I shovel some fair-style fries into mine. “Just the two of you?”
“Yep. It gets better.” I brush the salt off my hands and reach into the bag for a napkin, too wound up to eat. “He was seriously untethered. But,good God, he was gaping at me like I was … lunch. Or dessert. Or, fuck … I don’t know. Far hungrier than your stoned ass is looking at that sub.”
Jax chuckles, chewing and popping open a can of Mountain Dew he had on the table.
“And …” I stall with a clap for dramatic effect. “He called me Little Moon.”
For some reason, that’s the information that stills him. He drops his sandwich and wipes his face with a napkin. “A nickname? That’s new.”
My hand smacks against my hammering heart, coaxing the beat to settle to a pace that is less deadly.Pointless.“I know, right? Seven freaking years to earn it, but—”
“Never gonna happen, sis.” He shakes his head, his face etched with concern.
Ahh. He thinks I’ve built this up in my head. That’s why the nickname was a big deal. That’s concrete. Everything else could be a figment of my imagination.
So, I elbow his colorfully tatted bicep, alerting him to the fact that I’m well aware he believes I’ve concocted a fictitious rendezvous. “Jax, I’m telling you, he was different. Unhinged. Andinterested.” I waggle my shoulders with a swanky you-know-what-I-mean pump. “Not the reserved Ty you know.”
Jax is unamused, maybe even sad. His gauge ear piercings droop with his mood, which has irritation bubbling inside me. I don’t get it. Ty is amazing. My brothers are intent on finding me someone to date who will be trustworthy with both me and our business. Ty is it. They should be pushing us together.
Jax lifts his Cuban again, folding it over to take a bite of the corner. “Reserved almost always means hiding something. Ty’s my bro. But that dude’s got some dark demons.”
He chews, and I seethe.
“Don’t we all?” I counter.
