Misconduct

by Penelope Douglas

  “I don’t want to start fires,” I assured him, staring at the Degas with the flute against my lips. “I just like standing in the middle of burning rooms.”

  Tipping back the glass, I finished off the champagne and turned to set it down, but he took the base of the flute, stopping me.

  “How long would you stay?” he inquired, his eyes thoughtful as he took the glass from my hand and set it down on the table. “Before you tried to escape, that is.”

  “Longer than anyone else.”

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “How about you?” I questioned. “Would you join the mayhem in the mad rush for the exit?”

  He turned back to the painting, smirking. “No,” he answered. “I’d already be outside, of course.”

  I narrowed my eyes, confused.

  He grinned at me and leaned in to whisper, “I set the fire, after all.”

  My jaw ached with a smile I refused to bestow on him. I didn’t like surprises, but he was interesting, and he looked me in the eye when he spoke to me.

  Of course, I wasn’t as interested in his answers as I was in his ability to keep the conversation going. I could indulge in small talk, but this was more fun.

  I let my eyes drift away from him.

  “I’m sorry you don’t like the artwork,” he said, regarding the piece on the wall.

  My thigh quivered with the vibration from my phone, but I ignored it.

  I cleared my throat. “Degas is a wonderful artist,” I went on. “I like him. He aimed to depict movement rather than stationary figures in many of his works.”

  “Except this one.” He nodded to the piece of the lonely woman sitting in a bar.

  “Yes, except this one,” I agreed, gesturing to L’absinthe. “He also tried to show humans in isolation. This one was called ugly and disgusting by critics when it was unveiled.”

  “But you love it,” he deduced.

  I turned, slowly moving along the wall, knowing he’d follow.

  “Yes, even when he is copied by bad artists,” I joked. “But luckily no one here will know the difference.”

  I heard his quiet laugh at my audacity, and he was probably wondering whether or not to be insulted. Either way, he struck me as the type of man who didn’t really care. My respect probably wasn’t what he was after.

  I felt his eyes wash over my back, following the lines of my body down to my hips. Other than my arms, my back was the only part of my body left bare by the fabric and crisscross work.

  Turning through the open French doors, I walked onto the wide, candlelit balcony. The music inside slowly became a faint echo behind us.

  “You don’t really care about Degas, do you?” I asked, turning my head only enough to see him out of the corner of my eye as I walked to the railing.

  “I couldn’t give a fuck less about Degas,” he stated without shame. “What’s your name?”

  “You don’t really care about that, either.”

  But then his hand grabbed mine, pulling me to a stop. I turned halfway, looking up at him.

  “I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answers to.” It sounded like a warning.

  I curled my fingers, feeling my heart skip a beat.

  While I’d gotten the impression this man had a playful side, I now understood he had other faces, too.

  “Easton,” I acquiesced.

  Turning back around, I pressed my hips against the railing and gripped the banister, feeling him behind me.

  I breathed in, the scent of magnolias from the ballroom filling my nose along with a tinge of the ever-present flavor indigenous only to the Quarter. Aged wood, stale liquor, old paper, and rain all combined to create a fragrance that was almost more delicious than food on a quiet morning walk down Bourbon in the fog.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know my name?” he asked.

  “I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answers to,” I replied quietly.

  I felt his smile even though I couldn’t see it.

  I stared out over the Quarter, nearly losing my breath at the sight.

  A sea of people covered Bourbon Street like a flood, with barely enough room to turn around or maneuver through the masses. It was a sight I’d rarely seen in the five years I’d lived here, preferring to avoid the French Quarter during Mardi Gras in favor of the local hangouts on Frenchmen Street.

  But it still had to be appreciated for the awe-inspiring sight it was.

  The streetlamps glowed in the late-evening air, but they served only as a decoration. The neon lights of the bars, jazz clubs, and restaurants – not to mention the throngs of beads flying through the air from the balconies and down to waiting hands – cast a colorful display full of light, music, excitement, and hunger.

  Anything went during Mardi Gras. Eat what you want. Drink your fill. Say anything, and – I blinked, feeling him move to my side – satiate all of your appetites.

  Mardi Gras was a free pass. One night when rules were taboo and you did whatever you wanted, because you’d wake up tomorrow – Ash Wednesday – ready to purge your sins and cleanse your soul for the next six weeks of Lent.

  I envied their carefree revelry, wishing for the courage to let go, stop looking over my shoulder, and laugh at things I wouldn’t remember in the morning.

  “Such chaos,” I commented, observing the crowds stretching as far as the eye could see down in the street. “I’ve never had a desire to be in the midst of all that.”

  I turned my head, meeting his eyes as I swept my long, dark brown hair over my shoulder.

  “But I like watching all the commotion from up here,” I told him.

  He narrowed his eyes. “That’s no good,” he scolded with a hint of a smile. “Everyone needs to experience the madness of the crowds down there at least once.”

  “As you sidestep the puddles of vomit, right?” I shot back.

  He shook his head, amused. Leaning his hands on the railing and cocking his head at me, he asked, “So what do you do?”

  “I finish my master’s degree in a couple of months,” I replied. “At Loyola.”

  A moment of apprehension crossed his eyes, and I cocked my head. Maybe he had thought I was older than I was.

  “Does that bother you?” I asked.

  “Why would it bother me?” he challenged.

  I tilted the corner of my mouth in a smile at his game. “You didn’t follow me out here for the exercise,” I pointed out, both of us knowing damn well where the night between two consenting adults could lead. “I’m still in college, for a couple of months anyway. We might not have anything in common.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” he replied, sounding cocky. “You’ve held my interest this far.”

  My eyes flared, and I looked away, tempted to either laugh or chastise him in anger.

  “So what do you do, then?” I inquired, not really caring.

  He stood up straight and slid his hands into his pockets as he turned to me. “Guess,” he commanded.

  I peered up at him, also turning my body to face his.

  Guess.

  Okay…

  Letting my eyes fall down his neck and chest, I took in the black three-piece tux with the silk necktie fitted around the collar of his white shirt.

  Every hair was in place, and his statuesque face gleamed alabaster in the candlelight.

  His shoes were shiny and unmarred, and the face of his Rolex, with its black alligator-skin strap, reflected the colorful glow of the Christmas lights across the street, which probably remained up all year.

  It was virtually impossible to tell exactly what he did for a living, but I could venture a guess.

  Stepping up, I reached out with soft hands and slowly opened his jacket at the waist, seeing his arms fall to his sides as he probably wondered what the hell I was doing.

  Looking up at him, I tried to keep my breathing steady, but the heat in his eyes as he looked down at me made it difficult.

  I inched forward, my body nearly touching h
is, and then I licked my lips and let my eyes drop to his waist.

  “Well,” I played, “I was going to say junior partner, but that’s a Ferragamo belt.”

  His chest moved with his suddenly shallow breaths. “And?”

  I looked up, meeting his mischievous eyes again. “And usually it’s BOSS or Versace for this set.” I nodded toward the ballroom, indicating the gentlemen inside. “But if you can spend four hundred dollars for a belt,” I clarified to him, “I’m going to say senior partner instead.”

  He snorted but made no move to take my hands away.

  “You’re a lawyer,” I finally stated.

  He squinted his eyes, regarding me. “You seem to know a lot about men’s belts,” he observed, “and how to spot money.”

  I almost rolled my eyes. He either thought I was a debutante, used to expensive things, or a woman on the prowl for a rich man.

  I was neither.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him, leaning back against the railing. “If you’re lucky enough to get anything out of me, it will come free.”

  His body tensed, and he tilted his chin up, looking at me like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with me. I dropped my eyes, grinding my fingers into my palms and trying to calm my nerves.

  Why did I say that?

  We weren’t in a bar, where it would be assumed that if we got along we might go home together. He was flirting, and I was flirting, but I shouldn’t have been so forward.

  Even if it was what I wanted.

  I may not do relationships, but that didn’t mean I didn’t like to lose myself in someone for a night. And it had been too long.

  He stepped up, and my breath caught when he positioned himself in front of me, planting his hands on the railing at my sides.

  Leaning down into my space, he spoke softly. “For such a young woman, you have quite a mouth on you.”

  And then his eyes fell to my lips, and my knees nearly buckled.

  “I can stop if you want,” I taunted in a quiet voice.

  But he grinned. “Now, what fun would that be?” he shot back, still staring at my mouth.

  I inhaled, bringing the scent of him into my lungs as my brain turned fuzzy with the aromas of spice and sandalwood.

  “Tell me,” he started, “if I’m a lawyer, how do you know that?”

  “Well.” I straightened. “Your nails are clean, so you don’t work in labor,” I pointed out, nudging my way out of his hold and walking past him to the stone vase filled with flowers. “Your clothes are designer and tailored, so you make money.” I looked him up and down, taking in his appearance. “And it’s New Orleans. You can’t walk two feet without bumping into a lawyer or a law student.”

  I drew the flower petals between my fingers, feeling their silky softness as I sensed him approach my side.

  “Keep going,” he insisted. “What brought me here tonight, then?”

  My jaw tingled with a smile. He liked to play.

  That was odd, actually. I wasn’t used to men who knew how to keep my attention.

  “You were forced,” I answered, thinking about the man I wanted him to be. Not one of those stuffy men inside, smoking cigars and patting themselves on the back. I wanted him to be different.

  I went on. “You don’t really know any of these people, and they don’t know you, do they?” I ventured. “You felt obligated to attend tonight due to family pressure or maybe by your boss’s request.”

  He watched me, a hint of something I couldn’t place in his eyes.

  “You’re just waiting,” I continued, “trying to determine when you can politely abandon the uptight political conversations, bad food, and roomful of people you can’t stand.”

  He leaned against the railing again, regarding me as he listened.

  “You’re restless,” I stated. “There are other things you wish you could be doing right now, but you’re not sure you should or you’re not sure they’re things you can have.” I raised my eyes, meeting his.

  He stared back in silence, and I desperately wanted to know what he was thinking.

  Of course, I’d been describing myself this whole time, but his gaze was locked on me, never breaking eye contact.

  I moved closer to him, the February chill finally catching up with me.

  “What will I do when I leave tonight?” he asked.

  “You won’t leave alone,” I determined. “A man like you probably didn’t arrive alone.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, challenging me, but he didn’t deny it.

  I stared at him, waiting for his admission. Was he here with someone? Was he bold enough to come on to me with another woman around?

  He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t attached.

  “And you?” He reached out and took a lock of my hair between his fingers. “Who are you here with?”

  I thought about my brother, who’d probably been calling me, since I’d felt my phone vibrate twice.

  “Never mind,” he refuted. “I don’t want to know yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” He looked up, focusing over my head out in the distance. “You distract me, and I like it. I’m having fun.”

  Yeah, I was, too. For the first time all night.

  Attendees laughed and danced inside, while the two of us, alone in the cold night with only a few other people lounging around the large balcony, carried on with our stolen moment.

  “I should really get back, though,” I suggested, pulling away.

  My brother was no doubt looking for me.

  But he reached out and grabbed my hand, narrowing his eyes. “Not yet,” he urged, looking behind me toward the ballroom.

  I stopped, not making a move to take away my hand.

  He stood in front of me, his chest nearly touching mine.

  “You’re right,” he whispered, his breath falling over me. “I don’t really like a lot of those people, and they don’t really know me.” His voice turned hoarse. “But I like you. I’m not ready to say good night yet.”

  I swallowed, hearing the soft trickle of a slow jazz tune drifting out from the ballroom.

  “Dance with me,” he commanded.

  He didn’t wait for a response.

  Sliding a hand around my waist, he guided me in, and I sucked in a sharp breath, my body meeting his for the first time.

  Raising my arms, I put my right hand on his shoulder and my left hand in his as I let him lead me in a small circle, remaining in our own small, private space. Chills broke out down my arms, but I didn’t think he noticed.

  I let my eyes fall closed for a moment, not understanding what made him feel so good. My hands tingled and my legs felt weak.

  There was rarely ever a time when I felt drawn to a man. I’d felt attraction and passion, and I’d enjoyed sex, but I’d never opened myself up to someone long enough to connect.

  Now I found myself not wanting this evening to end any way other than in his arms.

  That’s where I wanted this to go. I didn’t need his name, what he did for a living, or his family history. I just wanted to be close to someone and feel good, and maybe that would be enough to satisfy me for the next few months until I needed someone again.

  Shaking my head slightly, I tried to clear my thoughts.

  Enough, Easton. He was good-looking and interesting, but I didn’t see anything in him that I hadn’t seen in any other man.

  He wasn’t special.

  Looking up, I asked, “You’re not enjoying the party, so what would you rather be doing right now?”

  He shot me a small, sexy smile. “I like what I’m doing right now.”

  I rolled my eyes, covering up how much I also liked him holding me close. “I mean, if not this?”

  He twisted his lips, looking me over like he was thinking. “I’d be working, I guess,” he answered. “I work a lot.”

  So he’d rather be doing work than schmoozing and drinking at a Mardi Gras ball? I dipped my head, breaking out
in a laugh.

  “What?” He pinched his eyebrows together.

  I met his eyes, seeing the confusion. “You prefer work,” I stated. “I can relate to that.”

  He nodded. “My work challenges me, but it’s also predictable. I like that,” he admitted. “I don’t like surprises.”

  I instantly slowed, nearly stopping our dance.

  I said the same thing all the time. I never liked surprises.

  “Everything else outside of work is unpredictable,” I added for him. “It’s hard to control.”

  He cocked his head and brought his hand up to my face, running his thumb along my cheek.

  “Yeah,” he mused, leaning in while his hand circled the back of my neck possessively. “But there are times,” he said softly, “when I like to lose control.”

  I closed my eyes. Jesus.

  “What’s your last name?” he asked.

  I opened my eyes, blinking. My last name? I had kind of liked keeping specifics off the table. I didn’t even know his first name yet.

  “Easton?” he pressed.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Why do you want to know that?”

  He stepped forward, charging me slowly and pushing me backward. I had to keep backing up so as not to fall. “Because I intend on getting to know you,” he said. It sounded like a threat.

  “Why?”

  “Because I like talking to you,” he shot back, his voice thick with a laugh he was holding in.

  I hit the wall behind me and stopped, glancing over at the people sitting at the table across the balcony.

  He closed the remaining distance between us and dipped down until his face was a couple of inches from mine.

  I locked my hands behind my back, instinctively tapping the wall with my fingers and counting in my head. One, two, three —

  “Do you like me?” He cut me off, a playful tilt to his lips.

  I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. I turned my head, but I knew he saw it anyway.

  “I don’t know,” I answered casually. “You might be too much of a gentleman.”

  The corners of his lips curled, looking sinister, and he threaded his hand around the back of my neck and through my hair, gripping my waist with the other and pressing his body to mine.

  “Which means I’m still a man, only with more skill,” he whispered against my lips, making my breath shake. “And there’s only one place I won’t be careful with you.”