by Stacy Green
“Running for your life is part of the drug bust?”
“Shit went wrong. Thankfully it all worked out.”
“Why did it go wrong?” An outsider might assume she was flirting with a married man, but they couldn’t see the stubborn set to her jaw or hear the challenge in her voice.
She wouldn’t say any more about the book until he answered her questions. “My partner and I had a miscommunication. The suspect made me, and I had to run.”
“With no backup?”
“Like I said, miscommunication.”
“Bonin failed you.” She spit the words with the callous tone of someone who’d been failed over and over again by the people in her life and the system that failed to protect her.
Talking badly about Bonin wouldn’t help the scrap of civility between the two women. But Lyric’s bullshit detector was better than his, and his was damn good.
“Yes, she did.”
“What was her excuse?” Lyric shifted to take another drink and then moved even closer, gazing up at him. The scar through her lips was deeper than he realized, and he’d never noticed the green flecks in her tenacious brown eyes.
Cage looked away and watched a waitress shimmy through the crowd. The band played a bluesy song about lying lovers. He wasn’t about to give in to Lyric’s game, as much as he’d like to push her away and tell her to knock off the bullshit. She’d get angry and leave, putting all the blame on him. Why couldn’t she just trust him? Why did she have to have this quid pro quo?
“She had a personal thing that isn’t my business to share. But she owned the mistake, and we moved on.”
“She almost got you killed.” Her lips nearly grazed his earlobe. “How can you trust her after that?”
“Because I know who she really is.” He shifted so they were nose to nose and stared her in the eyes. “And sometimes you have to take a leap of faith.”
Lyric drew back, her sharp angles restored. She tapped her short fingernails on the glass. “That’s really all I know about the blue book. I’ve asked around about The PhoeniX, and no one is talking.”
“You ever hear any gossip about someone from the London Club being involved?” Cage used a cocktail napkin to wipe the moisture off his neck. He’d sweat less sitting in a sauna.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. They like strippers too.” Lyric still had her jacket on, not a drop of perspiration visible. “They just go to the places called ‘gentleman’s clubs’ and pretend it’s different. How do they fit into all of this?”
“I’m honestly not sure. What about Annabeth’s therapist?”
Lyric didn’t blink at the change of subject. “Annabeth loves her, says she’s helped her a lot. I suppose she has. She seems okay, although she said you were a first-class dickbag the other day before you invaded my room.”
“Pretty much was. And I am sorry. I didn’t think, and that was stupid.”
“Apology accepted. This time.”
The music ended and Cage’s ears popped, only to be filled by the cheers. Hart was going to have groupies before long.
“What do you think about Remy?”
“He knows about all her baggage and says he’s cool with it,” Lyric said. “That’s got to make him worth something. He’s totally intimated by you, by the way.”
“Good. And if he’s intimidated by me, he must be scared to death of you.”
“Pretty much. Speaking of the mouthy one, here comes Annabeth. Get ready to kiss some ass.”
He was going to need more alcohol. “Listen, if you hear anything more about the book or the missing girls or anything else, call me.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious, Lyric. This thing is one big spider’s web. I need all the help I can get.”
“And I need to stay out of trouble. I don’t want to get involved with another investigation.”
“And yet here you are.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, here I am. Like a dumbass.”
“You know anything about a Layla? She may be connected to The PhoeniX.”
“Just that she put Eric Clapton on his knees.” Lyric chewed on a big chunk of ice. “Did you know he supposedly wrote that about one of the Beatles’s wives?”
“I thought Annabeth was the trivia trove.”
“I know music. I had to have something to keep me going all those years with that pig.”
What could he say? Start in on her about counseling beyond the court-ordered stuff? Tell her he understood? The hell he did.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.” She waved at Deandra several tables over. “Tell you what. I promise to keep you in the loop if you promise to talk to someone about your PTSD.”
“I don’t have PTSD, and I already talked with the psychologist. I’m trauma free.” Never mind the nightmares or the urge to look behind him at the slightest noise.
“You’re a liar,” Lyric said. “And it’s going to come back to bite you in the ass.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“You could. But my lies only hurt myself. You have people to take care of.”
“That entire episode with the fireworks is a one-time thing. I was lost in thought and not paying attention to my surroundings. Just overreacted.” He’d been more scared tonight than he had been at Holt. Things had been black and white that night: run or die. He might get shot any second. The fireworks came out of nowhere.
“Sorry guys.” Deandra appeared, balancing a tray full of empty bottles and glasses. “Just two of us tonight. You need a second round?”
“Absolutely,” Lyric said. “Foster’s buying.”
Didn’t he always? “Start a tab. The band brings in the crowd, don’t they?”
“Hart brings in the crowd. The band’s good, but that guy has a stage presence like nothing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been doing this my whole life.” Deandra grabbed their empties. “The news said Masen’s death was a suicide.”
“It’s possible.” Unlikely, but he kept that to himself.
“I should have paid more attention,” she said. “I knew he had issues, but I never imagined he’d do that.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. Most of the time, even the people closest to the person doesn’t realize they’re suicidal. And Masen seemed to have no one.”
“That’s the worst part. Poor kid.” Deandra exhaled, dabbing her eyes with the bar towel. “Next round’s on the house.” Deandra hurried toward the crowded bar. She’d probably be stuck making drinks forever.
“Free drinks. My favorite way to pass a good time.” Lyric smirked. “That’s local speak for having fun.”
“I’m aware.”
“And speaking of passing a good time, here comes trash mouth. This should be good.”
Halfway across the long, narrow room, a crowd of middle-aged women blocked Annabeth’s path. She weaved left and then right, but the women didn’t seem to realize they weren’t the only ones in the room.
Cage thought she said “excuse me” a couple of times, but her pinched mouth was the precursor to an explosion.
“My bet’s on ‘move your fat fucking asses.’” Lyric’s love of Annabeth’s uncontrollable honesty normally made Cage laugh, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of the night bailing her out of jail.
“Move your old snatch is my personal favorite.” Cage had nearly died of embarrassment when Annabeth dropped that one on an unsuspecting—albeit rude—woman in the checkout line last month. “Don’t tell her about what happened earlier. I don’t need her freaking out.”
“Me either.” Lyric held up her cell phone and started recording. “Oh, there she goes.”
Gasps and cursing came from the group. The heavyset woman closest to Annabeth stepped toward her, and Annabeth’s mouth started moving faster.
“Step off me you dried-up old bag.” Lyric’s narration was probably spot-on.
Annabeth clenched her fists.
“And that’s it.” Cage jumped up and forced his way through
the horde.
“Who the fuck you think you are?” Purple and gold earrings jiggled in time with anger.
Annabeth pointed to the woman’s too-small T-shirt with ‘What happens on Bourbon, I can’t remember’ emblazoned across her large chest.
“Your boobs are crying for air. Seriously, you need like, three sizes bigger, bitch.”
Cage wrapped an arm around Annabeth’s shoulders, hoping his tight grip sent the message. “I’m so sorry. She was hit by a car several years ago and suffered brain damage. Sometimes she can’t control the things she says.”
“And who the fuck are you?” the woman snapped. “Her keeper? Back up.”
Cage stuck his badge in her fleshy face. “Special Agent Cage Foster with the LBI.”
The woman fluffed her hair, thick chin raised. “Just get her out of here.”
“Bye, bitch.” Annabeth blew her a kiss, and Cage pulled her away before fists started flying.
Annabeth punched him in the gut. “Thanks for the help, Agent Dickbag.”
21
Annabeth accepted his apology after he promised to buy drinks. With the band’s set finished, the bar slowly emptied, and he, Lyric, and Annabeth joined Remy and Hart up front.
Deandra insisted Cage’s and Lyric’s drinks were on the house since they’d been stuck at a back table. Annabeth raised hell, and Remy stepped in before Cage had the chance.
“Don’t worry about it,” Remy said. “Cage is paying for you, remember?”
Who was this guy? He hadn’t known Annabeth that long, and he definitely hadn’t been up shit creek with her like Cage had. He opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut when he saw Lyric’s knowing smile.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” Deandra emerged from the back room carrying a huge king cake topped with white icing and pounds of purple and green sanding sugar. “Just a little lagniappe—something extra.” Annabeth squealed with joy, and even Lyric looked happy.
“This is my first Carnival.” Hart’s accent seemed thicker with the booze. “What’s the deal with this thing again?”
Deandra sank into the empty seat at the end of the table, chasing aspirin down with a beer. “Carnival is a Catholic thing. Starts on Epiphany and ends with Mardi Gras on Fat Tuesday. King cake comes from the Bible—the three kings who brought gifts to baby Jesus. The circular shape represents a crown, and this beautiful thing honors the visit of the Magi.”
“The French brought the tradition to colonial Louisiana,” Annabeth said. “And New Orleans made it better.”
Remy laughed. “We’re probably the only Carnival city with dozens of king cake flavors.”
“The original is my favorite.” Deandra sliced up pieces and passed them around.
The drinks kept coming, and the topic turned to ghosts. Cage gave Hart a slight shake of his head. He wasn’t going to spill details about his psychic ability.
“This building is nearly as old as the Marigny neighborhood,” Deandra said. “Story goes it’s one of the first Bernard de Marigny built when he divided the property into subdivisions. We have generations of ghosts.”
“Hart saw one,” Annabeth said.
Cage kicked Annabeth under the table. Remy patted her arm, and Cage almost flung a chunk of cake at him.
“Was it Pouting Polly? My parents used to hear her whining in the back rooms, so they said. I think Dad gave her the name.”
“This was a man,” Hart said. “Short, wearing a pageboy hat. He was behind the bar—his back to me. It looked like he was—”
“Counting the liquor bottles?” Deandra’s weathered skin had paled.
“Yeah,” Hart said. “And I smelled cigarette smoke.”
Deandra’s hands shook, and she dropped her fork. “That was my father. He counted bottles every night because he thought an employee was stealing them.” She covered her mouth, half laughing, half crying. “I was the one taking them. Young and stupid. He almost killed me when he found out.”
“Have you seen him before?” Cage asked.
“Not in a long time.” Deandra looked at Hart. “Please tell me if you see him again.”
“Of course.”
Lyric caught Cage’s eye. Despite being brought up in the Voodoo religion, she’d lost faith in all things spiritual. She was the only person in his immediate circle—including his wife—who shared his skepticism. He shrugged and took another drink. Anything was possible, right?
His wife. Shit. She knew he’d come to talk to Annabeth and that he was going to stay through the show, which ended three hours ago.
“Excuse me.” He headed down the hall toward the back entrance. A single thirty-watt bulb provided just enough light to keep him from tripping. Dizzy, he put his arms out for balance, slamming both sets of knuckles on the wall. Might as well be tunneling toward the half-lit exit sign at the back door.
Cage stopped in front of the closed dressing room and leaned against the wall.
“Christ.” He lowered his phone’s brightness and then leaned toward the screen until the icons stopped blurring together.
Dani finally answered with a yawn. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine and still here. The owner’s handing out free drinks and king cakes. I lost track of time.”
“You sound a little sloshed.”
“The cake will soak it up.”
“It’s almost three a.m. Don’t drive home. Crash at the girls’ place.”
“You sure? I could take a cab.”
“I’m sure. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
She’d hung up without saying ‘I love you,’ but she’d been half-asleep and didn’t sound pissed off.
“Agent Foster.”
“Holy God.”
Hart seemed to come out of nowhere, his long legs as wobbly as Cage felt. “I need to tell you something.”
Not tonight. He was too drunk and having a good time. “Listen, kid. My back still hurts from taking a bullet less than two weeks ago. I can’t get Masen’s dying face out of my head, and the girls who found him are missing. I’m starting to think one of them might be involved with The PhoeniX. I’m damned fucking sure some suit-wearing douchebag from the London Club is, but the city is determined to keep bending over for them, so my entire case is pretty much screwed since I went over there today and pissed in their sandbox.”
Shots had erased Hart’s cool demeanor. “I don’t know what the London Club is, but I’m glad you pissed in their sandbox.”
“Money and status turn people into jerks. Remember that.”
Hart pushed his curls off his face. “Pretty sure I don’t need to worry about that.”
“Are you kidding? You packed this place. You guys are good. And you’ve already got fans. You should put your music online. I don’t know how that works, but I know people make it big that way.”
“Not sure that’s what I’m looking for, but thanks for the suggestion. I wanted to—”
“Did you really see that old guy? Or did you hear Deandra talking about her dad? I hope that’s not it, because that’s not cool.”
“I saw him.” Hart’s eyes widened and he stilled. He stared down the empty hallway.
Cage laughed. “You see one now?”
“Your mother and sister are worried about you,” Hart blurted.
The air whooshed from his lungs, a sledgehammer pounding on his chest. He balled his fist, and Hart stepped back.
“I don’t mean to be rude. They just really wanted me to tell you to be careful. Your sister keeps showing me a tire swing on one of the big oak trees. Does that mean anything to you?”
Cold air seemed to seep through his skin and into his system. “Not anymore.”
He wasn’t going to think about what Hart had just said. He forced his hand to relax, made his lungs take in air. He’d have another drink and warm up. “Let’s go eat more cake before Annabeth inhales it all.”
22
LYRIC
Foster snores. And his legs are a f
oot too long for the couch. I tiptoe into the kitchen to make coffee and find aspirin. My rule is to never leave the bar hammered, but I broke that last night. Hard not to when the place keeps giving free drinks. We closed The Black Sheep down along with Remy and Hart, who just might be the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen. If I wasn’t damaged to my core, I might have brought him home. But he’s too decent to survive in my orbit, especially once Cage finds everything out.
Cage and Hart had some weird vibes after they came back to the table. Either Cage had a hard-on for Hart or the ghost boy said something that freaked Cage out. Seeing Cage rattled is a first. I can’t help but wonder what the hell Hart said—or did. I’m guessing he’s straight, but he’s one of those guys that seems to flirt with everyone, even if he isn’t. However he swings, I don’t think he’d make a pass at Cage, but alcohol turns people stupid.
Strong black coffee warms my damned soul. Cage had to be disappointed. He’d probably hung around to see if the alcohol loosened me up enough to talk. I talked plenty, but not about the things he wanted to hear. I’ll keep this PhoeniX crap to myself until I can’t, and then I’ll tell him everything I’ve learned so far.
It was nice to see him having a good time, especially after his meltdown at the fireworks. Stubborn ass needed therapy, but I can’t judge. I just sit and stare during some of my court-appointed therapy sessions. Other times I’ll talk about the Saints or something else completely unrelated to my emotional state.
“That couch sucks.” Cage’s Gumby arms reach the top of the doorway. “My back is killing me.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten too drunk to drive home.”
“Can you make me a cup of that coffee to go?”
“Do I look like your wife?”
He rolled his eyes. “Where are the coffee cups?”
“In the cabinet above the pot.”
I sneak a look at him while he’s putting too much sugar in perfectly good coffee. Annabeth isn’t joking when she calls him Agent Sexy. Cage is flat-out hot. And a good man who seemed determined not to give up on my becoming a normal person.
