“What now?” I ask, staring forward so hard I can't actually see anything. “Do we find out why they shot him?”
“No,” she answers, a little too quickly, in the same unsettling tone she used upon finding Charlie dead.
She exercises the ceded control, brings my eyes to hers with a single word. She establishes a firm connection and manly rise in my gut. She's too damn young to be so damn persuasive. I'd love to act like she's a naïve child, but I know she's a quick learner, a latent observer.
She says, “I don't care why they did it. I'm going to destroy them, that's why I told you all that I understand if you want out.”
I scoff at the ground. I can't keep my reaction in check like I told myself I should. She's playing such a dangerous game, toying with those closest to her.
“You know none us wants out. You knew it before you ever said those words,” I answer, my frustration making my voice climb in volume, bringing her eyes to light on me like some blessing, sweltering and irresistible.
Her lids are weighted, like maybe the thoughts that cross her mind are not of vengeance, but of sex. I know her well enough to know that it's a turn-on for her when men stand up to her, something Josh fails to do. Yet she still wants him.
“How would I know what any of you wants?” she asks softly. Her words could be innocent if it were anyone else saying them. She has to know at least one thing we all want from her.
I look away from her for anything that might be a distraction, and scoot just a little closer to the edge of the hood, in case I need to make a quick escape. I can't pretend the heat she lays on me doesn't make my testosterone surge. I let her see my rare reaction to her, something she recognizes and, I believe, relishes.
I say, “Just be careful with the forces you're fucking around with, don't turn your allies against one another.”
My tone is harder than she's used to from me. She's high. I can tell she is, because she lies back against the hood of the car she has inherited and takes a long breath. She props her arms behind her head, resting it in her palms, and I can almost see her mind wander away to a less tense moment. I wonder – inevitably – if she's thinking of me.
“I like you better when you're baked,” she says with wistful tone. “It's the only time you're really honest.”
For a hot second, I wish I were blitzed out of my mind. I wonder how many of my inhibitions I could send away, how much of my practical nature I could quell. I wonder how deeply her curiosity runs.
I turn to look at her, to make sure she fully understands the distress she has imposed upon me. If she never had a clue of the way her presence is like the NOLA air to me—a thick, heady, dark magic. There is no mistaking it in the look I pin to her now.
I say, “Don't betray the loyalties you have built, they don't repair well once they've been broken.”
Her eyes fire and she props herself up on her elbows, outline backlighted by greasy streetlight.
“I won't betray you,” she says like the breeze that suddenly finds us.
I turn away and propel myself off the car to get away from her.
“Don't worry about me,” I answer, looking up at the haze of the city. “Worry about you, Maria.”
And I walk away.
Chapter 8 The Deviance Blues
Joshua
I watch morosely as the last gaggle of regulars files out the glass door around 10:45 p.m., leaving some waves and an en round chorus of parting words in their wake. They've been here for a while, laughing and cutting up, reminding me that my emotional response system is dead.
I barely raise my head as Noah emerges from behind the bar to lock the door. He's skinny, heavily tattooed, and wearing a black tank and jeans. He's also one of the owners of this fine establishment.
“Hey! Don't lock the doors early!” his brother calls from the back.
“Fuck off!” Noah answers with a roll of his light brown eyes, so similar in color to Maria's that it makes me look away.
I still feel his bright smile as he saunters back behind his huge, black-lacquered bar. I pretend that I'm part of the scenery. I pretend not to notice that the cute blonde server with the impressive rack keeps checking me out as she cleans nearby.
I've been nursing a Killian's for a long stretch and shooting the shit with Noah, who has been forcing me to respond to him as he doles out liquid courage. The cool blue lighting above the bar is soothing, but everything still comes in dull waves. I can act like I'm alive, but I can't feel anything.
He deals out two rocks glasses like a pit boss, pouring two healthy shots of Pyrat Rum before coming back around, bar drawer in one hand and a beer in the other. He pushes one glass toward me and takes the adjacent stool.
“To old friends,” he says as he swipes up his shot.
I groan towards the rum. My nerves have always been enough to destroy my stomach's fortitude. It's been a rough day. The look on his face is somewhere between a goading challenge and disbelief as he demands my attention. He flicks the glass under my nose a couple times with a mischievous grin.
“C'mon. Pussy.”
I know he's only joking. This is an old ritual of cock
