I groaned, “Why did I write that like I’m auditioning forWaiting to Exhale 2?”
Still, that might be a good one to tackle next. Something low-risk. Something that didn’t involve vomit or a questionable man who didn’t have great hygiene. I thought about the bartender from earlier—the one who made me that voodoo love potion. He definitely counted as a local, and he looked like he knew the city like the back of his hand. Either way, he probably knew people. Maybe he could help me find someone for that “tourist and local” thing.
Either way, my whole “just wing it” plan clearly wasn’t working. I’d been in the city for less than twelve hours and had already humiliated myself, ingested regret, and spiritually evacuated my soul on Bourbon Street. It was time to be strategic about the chaos.
“Okay, Lyrix,” I said, sitting up. “We winged it, we survived, and we learned. Now let’s be smart about being stupid.”
I shuffled off the bed, hair wild, edges on life support, and started digging through my purse. Receipts, gum, lip glosses, and one lonely eyelash fell out. I could still smell tequila on my breath. After a few seconds of rummaging, I found the crumpled bar receipt from earlier.
It was bent, a little sticky, and slightly damp, but there it was. His number was written in handwriting that looked like it belonged to a man.
I stared at it for a minute, chewing on my lip. Before I could talk myself out of it, I was already reaching for my phone. I hit call, silently praying he wouldn’t answer. But, of course, he did.
“Yeah?”
That voice. That deep New Orleans accent that made words sound like slow syrup.
I panicked. “Hi!”
A pause. “Hi…?”
Shit. What was his name again? M-something? Marcel? Malik? Micheal?
“Um, this is Lyrix,” I said quickly. “We met earlier. At a bar. You gave me a voodoo love potion shot.”
He laughed, the sound warm through the phone. “Oh yeah, I remember you. You must’ve forgot my name.”
I smiled, forcing a casual tone. “No, I didn’t forget your name.”
“Mm-hmm.” He sounded unconvinced. “So what is it, then?”
My brain blanked. Completely. I stared at the ceiling like the answer was up there somewhere between the popcorn texture and my dignity. “Anyway,” I said, way too fast, “how’s your night going?”
He laughed. “It’s alright, Lyrix. My name’s Maison.”
I snapped my fingers like I’d known it all along. “I knew that. I just wanted to hear you say it again. You know, for confirmation.”
“Uh-huh.” He laughed again, teasing. “So, are you in love yet? Or are you still in the bed recovering from your little vomit fest?”
My mouth fell open. “Wait—how do you—”
“Oh yeah,” he said, still laughing. “You were hard to miss, sweetheart. Whole bar cleared out like the fire alarm went off.”
I buried my face in my hand. “Oh my God.”
“It’s alright,” he said, still clearly amused. “Happens a lot around here.”
“People just… throw up in public like that?”
“Not usually with that kind of passion,” he teased. “You made it a performance. Ten outta ten commitment.”
I groaned. “I’m hanging up.”
He laughed. “Nah, don’t do that. I’m just messing with you. You good now?”
“Barely,” I said. “But yes. Alive and slightly traumatized.”
“Good. I was starting to feel bad.”
