“Scarlett.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, reading the tone of my voice.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. I just know something isn’t right with you.”
I sighed. “Later, Scarlett.”
She dallied and the light turned green. “I’m okay,” I said to reassure her.
“All right,” she sighed. “I’ll be home soon.”
As soon as we hung up, I took off again, following the river.
Brûler was a riverfront restaurant, sitting along the Cane. It reflected its Louisiana roots, with its brick foundation and wrought iron details. A wooden porch outside, with views of the water, held numerous people. Ferns danced in the breeze, and bulb lights crisscrossed over the patio, casting enough light to make out faces and shapes.
I knew her lines like I knew my name; she wasn’t outside.
She was inside, still picking at her food. Mahi-mahi topped with crabmeat. She lifted her head, took a sip of white wine, and then nodded in agreement to something Rosaria had leaned over and said to her.
Then her eyes lifted, scanned the area, picking up on my nearness. She hadn’t found me. I was good at watching her from the darkness, but no longer good at keeping my distance. She went to stand, and Nino pulled out her chair, prepared to escort her to wherever she planned to go.
She had showered and changed after the gym, readied for the night. Underneath her (my) black leather jacket was a white sweater, and she wore jeans that were shredded at the bottom. Leopard heels upped her height by at least three inches. The color of her hair in the restaurant’s dim lights seemed fiercer, making her eyes seem more intense, more feline than usual.
I grabbed her wrist before she could walk past. She gasped, even though she had felt me. A spark, the kind that comes from static electricity and moves between two people, shot between us.
“It’s later.” I gave Nino a nod, then took her by the hand and led her outside of the restaurant.
Grabbing the extra helmet from the handlebars, I secured it over her head and then slipped mine on. She knew the drill. I lifted my leg over the bike and then she did the same, scooting close behind me. Once she was settled, arms around my waist, palms against my chest, I took off. Her fingers caressed every so often, just a light touch against the fabric of my shirt, but I felt it bone deep.
Heading north, I followed the river to downtown Natchitoches. The little historic area was lit up, but the shops were closed for the night.
Scarlett’s statue stood across the street from the ballet studio. The lights from the fountain brightened her form and gave a sense of motion to her still pose.
Since all of the shops were closed, I bumped over the curb, coming to a halt directly in front of the studio. Natchitoches resembled New Orleans in its French and Spanish architecture, all of the brick, iron, and intricate wrought scrollwork, with hurricane shutters protecting long windows.
After she used my shoulders to aide her climb down from the bike, I set the kickstand and followed her. She handed me her helmet, fixing her hair, and I hung both from the handles.
“Are we going inside?” She used her chin to point to the studio, still attempting to fix her wild strands.
“We can.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’d rather not.”
“Good.” I put a hand to her lower back and directed her across the cobblestone street. “I’d rather walk.”
“Get it out in the open?” Her eyes rolled up to meet the star-studded sky.
“Yeah.”
She paused her steps after we had crossed the street, our feet meeting a patch of grass, and entwined our hands. Her eyes met mine.
“I’m glad you came for me.” She leaned up on her toes and gave me a quick kiss. I took her face in my hands, prolonging the moment, taking comfort in her quiet strength.
By unspoken agreement, we continued walking, past a rustling magnolia tree and an iron bench with matching chairs, until we reached a set of stairs that brought us to another street.
We crossed, our feet taking us closer to the river. Church Street Bridge crossed over the water there, a few cars coming and going every so often, headlights flaring in our direction.
