When he frowns thoughtfully, his expression is as familiar to me as the scar above my left temple. The scar is new, just a few months old, and yet I’ve studied it enough to memorize its exact shape and color. But I’ve been seeing this particular expression of his since I befriended the bastard in a rare moment of pity. Most pathetic thing I ever witnessed was Lucien Dubois that day in the school lunchroom, sitting by himself in the corner while the jocks on the football team hurled filthy names likeson of a whoreandprostitute progenyat his head.
Speaking of heads…
Mine’s killing me.
We resume our journey up Maggie’s street, and I pluck my flask from my back pocket. Unscrewing the cap, I take a deep pull. The whiskey slides down my throat and hits my belly like a firebomb. I welcome the burn, knowing it’ll take the edge off of the knife skewering my skull.
“You’re not doing yourself any favors swilling that stuff.” Luc glowers.
The liquor sours in my stomach. “When you get blown to hell by a suicide bomber, feel free to hand out advice. Until then, mind your own shit.”
I can tell he wants to argue, but doesn’t. Loyal, slow to anger, and…most important…kind.That’s Luc for you. The cool-headed yin to my hot-tempered yang. Probably why we’ve made such a good team all these years.
Undoubtedly why we’re both still alive.
“So how d’ya wanna play this?” he asks.
He’s a typical Southerner with a typical slowness to the cadence of his speech. But he has a way of smashing his words together to make up for lost time.
“It’s Maggie. We don’t have toplayit any way.”
“You didn’t exactly leave things with her on good terms. You might wanna start with an apology and work your way up from there.”
The memory of that awful day tries to claw its way to the surface. I punch it in the face until it retreats. “You know how it was for me,” I say irritably. “I was too ashamed to tell her what I almost did. And if I’d seen her again, I wouldn’t have been able to leave. You and I both know Ihadto leave.”
He shrugs. “But that was then and this is now.”
“Right.” I take another fortifying slug of whiskey before screwing the cap on my flask and shoving it into my back pocket. “AndnowI have a plan.”The Plan.
I step off the curb when a bachelorette party comes our way.
How do I know it’s a bachelorette party? The plastic penis necklaces the women are wearing are my first clue. My second is that one of them has on a white tank top that reads, “I’m getting married.” While her entourage is wearing black tank tops that read, “So we’re getting drunk!”
Their necklines are low. Their boobs are sky-high. And the looks on their faces as they stare at Luc can be described with only one word:predatory. Their eyes flit over him like flies around cake.
Not that I’m dog food or anything. I get my fair share of female attention too. Some might saymorethan my fair share. But back when I first met Luc, it wasmewho knew how to charm all the girls. Or…one girl in particular.
Sometime during the last decade, however, Luc went and grew into himself. Realized it a few years back when one of the female support personnel for our twelve-man commando unit leaned over to me during a sitrep—that’s short forsituation reportfor all you nonmilitary types—and whispered, “I swear he walks into the room and I spontaneously ovulate.”
I wink at one of the ladies who’s sizing me up and then grin when she blushes.
Luc frowns as they pass, and we’re engulfed in a choking cloud of perfume. “Thought you came back here to reconnect with Maggie May.” The censure in his voice is unmistakable.
“I came back so we canbothreconnect with her. And because, for better or worse, New Orleans is home.”Home.That one simple, yet complicated, word takes root in my heart and sends up spindly shoots that flower and bloom, filling my chest. “I want to spend the rest of my life eating beignets and walking these crumbling streets,” I add.
“We shoulda brought her flowers.”
That makes me snort. “Yeah, sure. I can see it now. ‘Here, Maggie. Here are some tulips to make up for running away and not bothering to contact you for ten years.’”
I look both ways before crossing the street and stepping onto the opposite curb. Fedora is still leaning against Maggie’s balcony railing, not hiding his curious stare. I snap him a quick salute. He touches a finger to the brim of his hat.
Raising my voice, I take a chance she’s home and yell, “Magnolia May Carter! Get your sweet ass out here! I’ve missed your pretty face!”
Probably not the most circumspect way to let her know I’m back, but I’ve never been one to pussyfoot around.
Fedora looks over his shoulder, and that’s when I spot Maggie pressed against the wall between the two open windows. My heart pounds hard enough to burst through my chest as she edges toward the railing. The evening is so soft and feathery that for a moment her profile is cameoed against the pale light streaming between the buildings.
I don’t know if I want to shout with joy or crumble into a heap of sorrow because…
