Nocturnes (23 page)

We wrap our session well after midnight. Toombs wanders over while everyone else packs up. “Good day,” he says.

“Yeah. Good day,” I lie.

“A few more like this, and we’ll be done.”

I nod. “I’m ready to get out of here. Maybe hit the road again if Jillian can hook us up for another tour.”

“Didn’t work out with…?”

My gaze falls to the gaping wound tattooed across Toombs’s throat, and my chest tightens. “Lola. No. Didn’t work out. But there are plenty of other tunas in the sea, right?” I slap the back of his arm and grin. I’d rather be sprawled over the bathroom tiles, praying to the porcelain god than having this conversation, which is exactly where I’m heading if I don’t get home to the bottle hidden in my room soon.

Toombs stares at me for a moment. We’ve been through enough together to know what the other’s thinking. Being friends and lovers for so long tunes you into things no one else picks up on. Toombs absolutely knows I’m still drinking. No doubt in my mind. He also knows that I know he knows. Like so much of what defined our relationship, neither of us is saying dick.

“Let’s go home,” he says and walks to the door.

Yeah. I’m ready to go home.

Side B: “When the Levee Breaks”

“You wanted to see me?”

I stand in the doorway to Rico’s office, jittery, petrified, dreading what he’s going to say. He looks up from his desk and grins. Not the dead-eyed smile of a shark, but the lukewarm one of a magnanimous boss about to give his employee a bonus.

The same lilting night music that always plays in Hell drifts from tiny speakers mounted to the wall behind him. My imagination paints long, spiraling devil horns above the peaks of his brows while my stomach ties itself into an unbreakable knot.

Rico leans into his seat and spreads his arms wide. “Lola. Long time, no see. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Visions of Pinocchio’s growing nose niggle the recesses in my mind. It’s been a week since Rax and I parted, and aside from my parents’ deaths, I’ve never been more miserable.

Naturally, I sleep like a baby every night and haven’t seen so much as a snapshot of Mama’s or Papa’s bloody faces in my dreams. Maybe their ghosts approve of me ditching Rax, and they’ve forgiven me for losing the wedding band.

“A client wants to see you in Heaven tomorrow.” Rico slides his gaze down to my neck and stops there. “Will you be able to pass inspection then?”

I swallow. I knew this was coming. And truth be told, I need it. The only way I’m getting out of this hole I’ve dug for myself is to keep digging until I pop up on the other side of the world. The way I see it, fucking a stranger for ten thousand bucks is a great way to reclaim my future. My dream. The one I told Rax he was in the way of.

God, of all the things I regret saying to him, that was number one.

But it needed to be said for both our sakes.

Reclaiming some of the confidence I lost on the morning I said goodbye to Rax—or at least pretending to—I shake out my hair and casually study my nails. “Inspection won’t be a problem. What time tomorrow?”

“Eleven. The client wants full dungeon play, so we’ll have it stocked before you arrive. Your role will be Domme. Should be right up your alley, huh?” There’s that fucking smile again, tinged with a side of I-know-something-you-don’t. A sudden chill disrupts my internal heating and cooling system.

After my conversation with Charlie, I expected Rico to go full-on nut job in retaliation for running my mouth about him. I’m surprised I didn’t get called in before now to pose for another cum shot behind his desk. Or worse. But Rico never said a word. He smiled at me from across Nocturnes once or twice this week as he made his rounds, and that was it.

Something’s not right with him.

“Yeah, Domme works for me.”

“Anything else I can do for you?”

Yeah, lose the overly helpful, fake line of bullshit.
“No. I’ll be there at 10:45.” I leave before he has a chance to reply and hurry through Nocturnes toward the fire door leading into the alley.

What sort of nightmare awaits me tomorrow? He said I’d be Domme, which usually means hell for the other person. But Rico’s sneaky. Maybe the client wants something really sick and twisted. When I first arrived at Nocturnes, I heard a rumor that a client peed in an angel’s mouth—like, filled her to the brim with piss—and forced her to swallow it. The angel in question left shortly after, so no one was able to verify the story.

I wouldn’t put it past Rico to find a client who’d force me to give or receive something like that. I could also totally see him prepping me to be a Domme, and then surprising me at the last moment with a role reversal before I have a chance to decline.

Clutching my purse under my armpit, I shove open the fire door with the heel of my palm. The usual sights, sounds, and smells of New Orleans accost my senses: darkness, distant music, and piss.

Home sweet home.

The door closes behind me, and movement draws my eyes left. Someone steps out of the shadows. Someone big. My heart trips over itself and stalls out for a split second. From my right, another person joins the first. I gasp, try to swallow, but my throat is suddenly parched. Oh my God.

The two hulking men are dressed all in black. Ski masks obscure their features. The first one shoves me into the other’s arms. I scream as loud as I can. A thick-gloved hand clamps over my mouth and nose from behind, cutting off my shrill plea for help. I bite down with 100 pounds of force, but he doesn’t even flinch. I’m sandwiched between them, pulse racing, breath lost.

Instinct kicks in, and my kickboxing classes pay off. Putting every bit of energy I’ve got into it, I plunge my knee into the crotch of the guy in front of me. He lurches as I stomp a stiletto-heeled shoe onto the other one’s foot. He grunts, and I lose my balance as the frail heel snaps in half, twisting my ankle. Leather muffles my screams. I bite again, but the thick glove protects my attacker’s hand. I’m losing access to the corners of my vision, thanks to a failed attempt at hyperventilation and adrenaline’s demands on my galloping heart. I blindly twist and swing and elbow. I punt the first guy again, but the second one’s paws restrain me with the strength of steel bands.

“No!” I shriek soundlessly. “No!”

I can’t breathe. My nostrils are pinched tightly. Slobber ekes from my mouth. Slime and snot coat the black glove. The light grows dimmer by the second, but I refuse to give up fighting.

The one holding me from behind jerks my head upward, baring my neck. I manage to steal a quick shot of air through my nose as the guy readjusts his hold, and a distinctive cologne rattles my memory banks: Eternity for Men.
Duane?

Before me, a long silver glint of metal demands my undivided attention.

A hilt. A blade. A death sentence.

My eyes bug, and another wave of frenzy seizes me. I thrash like a wild animal, kick with my other foot, using the remaining spiked heel as a weapon. All it does is piss Duane off. He puts some muscle into keeping me still. It works.

Out of breath and on the verge of passing out, I notice the Nocturnes security camera on the wall above and make one last desperate flail. My arm slips free of Duane’s brutal embrace long enough to wave once at the lens, and then it goes down under the weight of forceful, angry sinew.

The other guy kisses the knife to my cheek, just under my eye. Duane’s grip chokes me into complete submission.

Dear God, I’m going to die. I’m going to fucking die in an alley. Alone.

“Please,” I beg. “I have money.” They can’t understand me, and even if they did, they don’t care. Tears fall on the blade. “Please…”

Though I can’t see his mouth through the mask, I’m certain the one with the knife smiles. Duane moves his hand to my hair, grabs a clump of it, and holds me against his shoulder. As my lungs struggle to get back in business, the
snick
of sharp metal opening soft skin dances on the urine-tinged breeze. Vague pain shoots from my cheek in a hard slash curving around the jut of my chin, down my throat. Ridiculously, I focus on the Duane’s scent and hold on to it for strength. If I live, I have to remember who tried to kill me.

The pulse beating in my ears steals my attention.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
The faster the blood flows, the slower the world around me creeps. The pumping red knocks out one sense at a time until there’s nothing left but memories.

Mama and Papa tossing me from a blanket into the air in our backyard, laughing as they catch me. Mama holding my finger above my head as I spin, spin, spin. Papa kissing me goodnight.

Танцевать.

Soon your little girl will be dancing with you Mamochka and Papochka…

Not yet, Kukolka,
Papa says. He looks past me.

“Get your motherfucking hands off her!” A slurred voice shouts. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

Papa?

No.

Another special man.

The warm body holding me jerks, and the sound of shattering glass, followed by the clang of steel skittering across pavement stops me from stepping through the door to deathly sleep. I slide to the ground.

Thuds, growls, and curses pinball around me. I’m too tired. Can’t move. Must sleep…

No, wait. I have to tell St. Peter who came to my rescue in case he needs a favor when his time comes. I peel open my eyes once more in search of my savior. Heavy footfalls fade into the distance, and my gaze falls on the top-knotted man chasing awkwardly after the black-clad ones. He loses his balance, careens into a wall, and hits the ground. He lands in a heap, moaning.

I keep bleeding.

He crawls toward me. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”

Rax. Good-intentioned, drunk Rax.

I close my eyes. On the screen behind my lids, a familiar movie blares in high definition. It’s the horror film featuring gruesomely twisted bodies, a steaming car radiator, and the thin white arm of a little girl reaching for her broken father. The drunk driver who killed my parents with a belly full of booze and a vehicle he couldn’t control blubbers on the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”

His voice from the past and Rax’s in the present blend together. Same words. Same cause. Same deadly effect.

The picture slows, bubbles, and fades into nothing.

Sleep now, Eve. Sleep…

Side A: “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”

If I could gargle with vodka, I would.

Actually…

I tip up the brown-bagged bottle in my hand, knock my head back, swig, and swish. “Gugugugugugug…” Ha ha! Except I’m not spitting this shit out. Nope. I don’t waste liquor. Ever.

Gulp.
“Ahh.” I wipe my mouth and stagger down Royal Street once more for shits and giggles. Now that the Killer Buzz Float album is wrapped and we’re gonna be millionaires soon, tomorrow I’m heading back to good ol’ Athens, G-A for some rest and re-Raxation. Who knows, maybe I’ll even find a chick to bang when I get there.

I snort.
Right.

Okay, maybe I’ll just keep hitting this bottle instead. Got no reason to quit. In fact, I’ve got a hell of a lot of reasons to cling to this addiction until it puts me in the goddamn ground.

My guitar skills have actually improved since I returned to full-time alcoholic status, and I’ve found that booze not only effectively numbs the pain of loss, but it also makes you forget whatever the fuck it was you lost in the first place.

Seems like it was a girl, but I can’t be certain. I laugh at myself. Passing tourists stare.

“Fuck you,” I mumble.

Pausing at the corner to wait for the light—I’m supposed to stop at the red light, right?—I lift my head and something hits it. Not like bird shit, but like, an idea. Or a memory. I squint. Yeah, this intersection looks familiar. By George, I’ve made my way back to the one place I need to stay away from. Nocturnes. Straight ahead. I point. More strange looks from passersby.

Haven’t these fuckblobs ever seen a drunken rock god before? “Where the fuck are you people from?” I shout. “Go back to your pantries and tablecloths and silos and eat some…grains or something.”

In the few seconds my rant spans, every human being within twenty feet scatters like the good little worker ants they are. I shoo them away with floppy arms, and laugh again. Idiots.

I continue across the street, and some asshole careening around the corner lays into his horn, making me jump. “What’s your fucking problem?” I yell and flip a bird at the fist-shaking driver. “Jeez, pay attention, dickweed.” I dodge another car and mount the curb.

Wonder if Lola’s working tonight? Not that Duane would let me in if she is.

The bottle comes out, and more clear gold runs down my gullet, hitting the jackpot on my million-dollar sobriety giveaway. I search the bag for the cap, but it’s gone. That would explain the sloshing I heard earlier, the wet spot under my arm, and the delectable aroma of my favorite sin bathing my skin.

Ah, good old Grey Goose. What would I do without you?
I kiss the bottle.

The neon sign comes closer, and my guard meets it, poised for a tussle. I should turn around and go the other way. No need to dredge up painful memories on the eve before I blow this town.

Eve.

I stop on the sidewalk and rub my forehead. Goddamn it.

Vines of dread burrow into my flesh, spawning shivers and itchies and
I-don’t- fucking-want-to’s
.

The truth is, I don’t want to do
any
of this—Nocturnes, planes, or responsibility. My life was peachy keen up until
she
danced into my life.

Ah, fuck.

I drop my ass to the stoop of a closed-for-renovations restaurant and turn my head toward the glowing sign a few doors down.

Everything that’s wrong with me is Lola’s fault. If she hadn’t blown me off in Jacksonville all those months ago, I wouldn’t have drunk too much and ended up with alcohol poisoning. And she wouldn’t have haunted my dreams almost every night after that, forcing me to drink more to make her go away.