Twenty minutes later, I stroll up Bourbon to the shadowy, exposed-brick building. The French doorways are dark, because the place doesn’t have electric lights.
Music pours from the speakers, and the crowd either hangs around the bar area or sits at low tables throughout the dim space, or they’re clustered in the corners.
It feels covert and mysterious, and I still haven’t looked at my phone.
“Purple drink,” I order at the bar.
Mom makes this recipe at home in Newhope for parties or pretty much any time we’re feeling festive. It’s basically a frozen daiquiri made of purple Kool-Aid and Everclear.
Kimmie has modified the recipe to replace the Everclear with vodka.
“Trying to get fucked up?” Fonz waltzes into the ancient establishment with Baker at his side.
They order bottles of Abita Amber, and I take another long pull of frozen nostalgia as we make our way to the small tables near the open doors.
Hurricane lanterns are scattered around with battery-powered “candles” in them, and the vibe is not exactly what I’m after. But the night’s young.
“Who cares what she says, right?” Baker pushes my arm. “We made some killer plays this afternoon. I caught that forty-yarder. Most of all, we won the game.”
It’s irritating my mind, so I finally ask. “What did she say?”
Fonz shifts, clearing his throat. “Nothing interesting. Something about GPS, but I don’t know. She’s losing her edge if you ask me.”
My brows quirk, and my curiosity spikes. Is this lack of edge because of me? Would I be able to tell?
“Show me.” His eyes flicker to our friend, and they exchange a worried look. “Ah, fuck it.”
I pull out my phone and type in the URL for the TMI website. There it is, in their signature style “K-BRAD ADRIFT IN MIAMI!!!!”
The pull quote from Melody’s pod hits me right in the stomach.Ever miss your exit because your GPS froze? That’s K-Brad in the red zone today—late read, late throw, and suddenly you’re ten yards back wondering what just happened.
“She must be reading from her personal diary now,” I grumble. “She doesn’t even know how to get to the airport.”
“What?” Baker leans forward, speaking over the music. “What’d I miss?”
I’m not getting into it.
I bump his arm, nodding at the open doors. “Let’s get out of here.”
We all stand, stepping out to the flagstone sidewalk and walking up the street in the direction of the rowdier bars. Devin said he found her at Tropical Isle last time. Too bad there’s only five Tropical Isles on Bourbon Street.
Music and neon lights spill out of Oz, along with oiled men dressed in black leather speedos. I squint into the club, but all I see is a packed crowd of guys. I don’t think she’d be in there tonight, although a lot of chicks go to Oz to dance.
We keep walking. A lime-green Tropical Isle comes up next, but it’s small enough to give the place a sweep. It’s pretty empty, and the band is playing Creedence.
“Razoo’s!” Fonz yells, pulling my arm and jogging across the street.
He disappears into the crowded dance hall where a live band is playing, complete with brass and drums. The voodoo daiquiri I’m drinking fast is hitting me, cooling the burn in my chest a bit.
I’m at the back, close to the wall and semi-obscured in the darkness. Rainbow lights flash around, and somebody must’ve spotted the guys. The band breaks into a raucous version of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and everybody starts hooting and strut-dancing. One lady twirls a handkerchief.
We don’t get hassled much when we’re out, thankfully. People will give us high-fives or shake our hands, but that’s about the extent of it. Occasionally, someone will ask for a picture, but usually everyone’s drunk and living in their own world.
What’s happening now makes me laugh, because even with as much complaining as we see online, we’re winning.That’s what matters most. We’re on a streak, and if we go all the way, all will be forgiven.
Baker puts a shot glass in my hand, and we clink before I throw back what turns out to be Fireball.
“Shit,” I cough, reaching for the ice water.
