by R.S. Grey
“I agree, but be honest—are you coming for me or to replenish your king cake stores?”
“Why ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to?”
Fair enough.
We keep talking as I get dressed in my Free People velvet mini dress. It’s sleeveless (hence the leather jacket), and Rose insists that the stockings help make the length a little more decent.
“It might be a benefit concert, but if it’s at House of Blues, everyone will be dressed edgy and cool.”
I take her word for it and then hang up so she doesn’t distract me while I apply winged liner and a dark red lipstick. If my blonde curls weren’t so girly, I’d look badass.
I’m turning, trying to catch the back of my reflection to confirm I don’t have toilet paper stuck to any part of me when I hear a man’s voice out in the gallery. Shit. He’s early. There goes my hope of giving myself a neurotic pep talk in the mirror.
“Coming!” I call, shoving my cosmetics back into my bag and then reaching down for my purse. My leather jacket is hanging out on the coat rack, which was a mistake on my part because I feel like I’m showing too much skin when I step out of the bathroom.
I spread my lips into a well-trained, carefree smile, but it gets wiped away the moment I spot Preston standing in front of the bar, inspecting the place.
“Preston?”
He turns, hands stuffed in his pockets, and his blond brows shoot up to the sky when he gets a look at me.
He whistles low. “Where are you off to?”
I deposit my purse on the counter beside him and wonder if I should grab my jacket. Would that be too obvious? I settle for crossing my arms over my chest, but then that seems defensive, so I drop them by my sides and inwardly groan.
“There’s a benefit concert tonight at House of Blues.”
He’s listening to my words, but his attention is on my body. I’m suddenly not so sure about the length of my dress. Cool air hits the tops of my thighs. I consider calling Rose and growling at her for leading me down this path.
“Well, you look great. Wish I was going.”
I smile tightly. “What are you doing here?”
We haven’t seen each other since the night he met up with us on Bourbon. He was at my parents’ luncheon, but he had to leave early. We’ve talked via text a few times, but it’s been harmless and friendly. His presence here is throwing me for a loop.
His gaze flickers back up to mine and his expression turns serious, if not solemn. “I wanted to talk to you for a minute—alone.”
I motion to the empty coffee shop around me. “Well, now’s your chance.”
He nods and steps away, turning in a circle. “The place looks great, better than I imagined.”
Why does it feel like there’s an insult masked by his compliment? “Thanks. It’s nearly finished. Did you get my invitation for the soft opening?”
“I did. I’ll be there, of course.”
I rock back on my heels and let the silence expand between us. It’s obvious he didn’t come here to talk about NOLA, and I don’t really have time for small talk. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind, Preston?”
He’s turned away from me when he asks, “How well do you know Beau Fortier?”
A chill runs down my spine. I don’t want to have this conversation, but I can’t think of a way to kick him out without being rude.
“Pretty well.”
“Are you two dating?”
I don’t hesitate before answering, “Yes.”
Though I have no clue if Beau would give the same response, it’s better that I’m honest with Preston; he’s been nice these last few weeks, and I don’t have any interest in stringing him along.
“Have you considered why you’re dating?”
I laugh. “Um…well…”
I have no clue what to say. Why we’re dating? Because I think about him nonstop? Because I hump my bed every night pretending it’s him? Because if anyone else was dating him besides me, I’d probably be rotting away in a jail cell for committing a crime of passion?
“Why would he be pursuing you this hard, after all this time? Think about it, Lauren—he’s a leech.” His voice grows more passionate. “You can give him the only thing he’s missing. He has the education, the job, the lifestyle, but New Orleans has always been about more than that. The Fortier name was pawned by his grandfather, and Beau’s been struggling to buy it back. You’re the one thing he can’t buy—the perfect, pedigreed wife he can use to gain a foothold at the top of society for good.”
My gut instinct is to laugh. I mean, not just because his theory is absolutely ludicrous, but because I think he actually believes it.
“He wants your name, Lauren. The LeBlancs matter in New Orleans. You mean something.” He points at my chest for emphasis and I take a hesitant step back. “That house across the street from you? It’s his—did you know that?”
My face betrays a moment of surprise, but the revelation spawns pride more than anything else, something Preston misinterprets.
“Why wouldn’t he tell you? It’s because he’s fixing it up so he can tunnel in and pretend he’s one of us, so he can act like he belongs here.”
My heart breaks, but not for me—for Preston.
I step closer and touch his forearm, surprised at how much anger is rolling off him. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why else?” he spits. “I’m trying to warn you! Protect you, from this—this—this liar!”
The calmer my voice sounds, the more indignant his becomes. It’s like he thinks I’m a mouth-breathing fool for not seeing what he sees.
“Beau doesn’t want me for my name, I can assure you of that.”
He steps forward suddenly and grips my bicep so I couldn’t break free even if I wanted to. His eyes dart between mine and for half a second, I wonder if this was such a good idea. I thought I knew Preston, but his eyes look inhuman—angry and wild.
“When you moved back to New Orleans, I thought we’d finally get our chance. My parents have always adored you. They talked about you so much when I was growing up, even before I was smart enough to see what a catch you were. They—I—always assumed we’d be together one day. Didn’t you?”
I press my hand to his chest and try to push him off. “Preston, I think you have the wrong idea.”
I never should have called him that day in Beau’s office. I should have sat down with him and ended things face to face. I’ve left too much room for a second chance and hurt feelings. The wild look in Preston’s eyes isn’t hatred or bloodlust; it’s pain.
“I’m not losing you to him, not when all he wants is your name. I want you, Lauren. I want us to happen. The Westcott name would be your name. You should be with me.”
His voice is pure anguish, and my heart slices in two a little more. It wasn’t so long ago that our roles were reversed. In high school, I was the one throwing myself at his feet, and I haven’t forgotten what it feels like when your love is one-sided. There isn’t a feeling that compares.
My touch turns gentle on his chest. “I sincerely thank you for trying to protect me Preston, but I’m not worried about Beau, and you shouldn’t be either.”
He shakes his head and steps back, finally releasing me. His hand drags through his hair, and the blond threads go in every direction. My chest fills with air and I realize I was holding my breath, waiting to see what he would do.
The door to NOLA opens again and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. It’s Beau; this time I know for sure.
I turn to see him walk in, eyes on Preston. He’s magnificent, dressed down in jeans, boots, a flannel shirt, and a cool leather jacket. I smile and wave.
Preston seems happy to see him, which is strange considering the conversation we were just having.
“Hey Beau, good to see you, man.”
“What are you doing here?” I guess Beau isn’t one for pleasantries. He turns to me. “What is he doing here?”
&nbs
p; My brain works overtime trying to think up a solution for this scene he’s just walked in on. I want to be honest, but how would that go down? Preston is here because he thinks you’re a sociopath, using me as a societal stepping stone. Oh, and he wants me to be with him instead. Funny, right? Well, let’s go then.
“Preston came by to check out the space.”
It’s the weakest lie anyone has ever uttered, and it melts like acid on my tongue.
Beau’s jaw shifts as he clenches it and his eyes narrow sharply on Preston. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe me, and he’s trying to figure out what I’m attempting to hide.
I think there are going to be blows. I wonder if I could use the contractor’s tools to dig a trench and fashion a makeshift helmet. When I decide this isn’t an option, I turn to my tried-and-true diffusion tactic: nervous rambling.
“So I was just saying how it’s still coming along. I have a lot to do before the opening—guess the soft opening just keeps getting softer, huh? But as soon as I bring in some plants and hang the paintings on the wall, the space will be ready enough to fake it.”
Preston smiles and shakes his head. “It looks great already. I can tell you’ve put a lot of work into it.”
What is he doing? He should be making a polite excuse to leave and hightailing it out of here!
“Beau? Doesn’t that concert start soon? We’re probably going to be late.”
I scramble quickly for my purse and then dart over to rip my leather jacket off the coat rack.
“Yeah, I’d better get going too,” Preston agrees, looking strangely satisfied.
I shoo everyone out so I can lock up.
Beau assesses him with a dark scowl as he passes. They don’t bother shaking hands, and I’m grateful. The less physical contact the better.
Preston is going in the opposite direction, and when we part in front of NOLA, I do an awkward half-hug, half-wave because I am just a leaf in a stream. He doesn’t miss the opportunity to lean down and kiss my cheek. It’s petty and calculated. “Have fun at the concert. I’ll text you so we can meet up for dinner later this week.”
This is the absolute worst. I’m floundering.
When we turn toward House of Blues, Beau walks half a pace in front of me the entire first block. He’s an angry, stomping, flannelled giant, and my puny pumping legs can’t keep up.
“Hey! Slow down, will you!”
“We’re going to be late—you said so yourself,” he says, looking both ways before crossing Royal and then continuing on ahead without me.
My boots clatter against the concrete as I break out into a run.
“I didn’t know he would be there when you showed up!” I immediately hear how wrong that sounds. “Actually, wait, I didn’t even—”
He doesn’t give me the chance to correct my word vomit.
He shakes his head and his anger is visceral, and maybe I shouldn’t have lied, but what choice did I have? Beau doesn’t need to know what Preston said. What good would come from him knowing? I know Preston is wrong. It’s not fair for him to accuse Beau of only wanting me for my name, and I stand by my decision to not lend his stupid theories any more legitimacy. I didn’t want to spoil our night with the truth, but now I’ve spoiled it even more with a lie.
Beau doesn’t wait for me to catch up to him on the sidewalk outside the venue. He disappears inside and I’m left trailing after him, giving his name to the woman at the door. She tells me there are free drinks and food, the first band is already on, and the second act will be following shortly. I thank her and rush in after Beau.
He’s nowhere to be found. His dark hair and tall frame have been swallowed up by the crowd, and with each second that ticks by, my budding anger starts to replace my anxiety. He shouldn’t have left me back there. House of Blues is filled to the brim. There are familiar faces everywhere, and I look like a fool wandering around the room.
“Have you seen Beau?” I ask an acquaintance.
He shrugs and I wander on.
“Hey, have you seen Beau?” I ask the party coordinator near the door.
She laughs. “I should be asking you—isn’t he your date?”
I’m half-convinced he left without me, but then I find him. He’s talking to an edgy black-haired woman at the bar. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the tableau is enough to make me see red. Is this his way of teaching me a lesson? If I have Preston as a pet, he can have another woman too?
I hesitate there, tempted to turn and leave, but then I think over the last few weeks. All the evenings Beau has shown up at the gallery to walk me home have been building toward something, and I’m not going to throw it all away because of one silly lie. I hover there, still unsure of what I should do, when a man walks up and wraps his arm around the woman’s shoulders. A few more people join the group and I’m left looking like an outsider, and maybe a little bit of me is scared to approach him. I’ve seen how unwilling he is to mask his feelings for the sake of appearances. What if he shoots me down in front of all of them? My ego can’t take it, so I busy myself at the silent auction tables, bidding on a few smaller items, snooping on some of the more expensive bids. Someone has bid $10,000 on a spa package. That massage better include a happy ending—as in, a ride on a pony through a carwash made of licky golden retriever puppies. I accept a drink from a passing waiter. I’m stopped by a few friends. They ask if I’m here alone, and I smile tightly and tell them Beau’s in the bathroom. I say it so many times that people start recommending their trusted gastroenterologists.
It’s awkward and weird to be here at the event as Beau’s date without him by my side. I should go up and try to explain what happened, but he’s never alone, and the idea of him refusing to hear me out in front of a group of people makes my skin itch. I haven’t cried in front of a crowd this large since my 8th birthday party, when Rose overzealously decapitated my Minnie Mouse piñata.
I hate Preston for putting me in this position. He could have picked any other moment to march into NOLA; his timing couldn’t have been worse. I ask the pastry chef when they’re going to start passing around desserts, and I think she can tell I’m close to tears because she slips me a small piece of cake under the table. I eat it in the corner, shoveling buttercream into my mouth like an NYC subway rat.
Beau does eventually come find me, but it’s not because he’s ready to kiss and make up.
“I’ve been asked by half a dozen people if my ‘tummy’ is feeling better. What have you been telling everyone?”
I flush (poor word choice). “Yes, well, they’ve been asking me where you are and I can’t really tell them you’re ignoring me. The bathroom was the first excuse I could think of.”
His mouth twists into a sardonic smile. “What’s another lie, right?”
His tone is biting, and his hand pushes me through the crowd. We rejoin the group he left to find me and I’m forced to stand there beside him for the next half-hour as he chats away with every person but me. I’m there, but I don’t exist. He doesn’t touch me, look at me, or even speak in my direction. It feels like some sort of punishment. Now, you’re going to stand there and think about what you’ve done.
I accept another drink from a passing waiter. The last one I had was blue. This one is green. I imagine them blending together in my stomach to make a murky, dark brown. I normally wouldn’t be drinking my feelings, but I’m tired of gazing into the side of Beau’s head, trying to bore in and extract his thoughts. At least with a drink, I have something to do with my hands.
Beau’s eyes slice over to me, stopping on my drink. The message is clear: slow down.
My pathetic little heart expands under his gaze. He hasn’t completely forgotten I exist! He cares about my liver!
In a matter of seconds, I’m a rebellious teenager, craving attention any way she can get it. With wide, disobedient eyes and a mouth like a puffer fish, I circle my lips over the straw and down half the drink in one swallow. I glance up at him from beneath my lashes wi
th a sarcastic grin. His brows are furrowed and his beautiful, angry eyes are narrowed on me.
Interesting.
I take another small sip.
Lines form beside his eyes.
Ooph, I’m parched. One more itty-bitty sip.
His hand hits my elbow and I think he’s going to wrench the cup out of my hand and toss it across the room. My back arches toward him.
“Lauren, how long have you and Beau been dating?” someone asks.
I glance up and find half the group staring our way, probably aware of the tension growing between us.
“A few weeks,” I answer lackadaisically, even though I’m not sure that’s the truth. Is this dating?
“And are you from New Orleans?”
I smile extra wide, laying on the charm. “Born and raised.”
I grew up in this world, talking and chatting my way through any awkward situation. Beau wants me to make a fool of myself, but in 10 minutes, I win the group over. They’re small birds eating out of the palms of my hands.
After a well-received story about the day I tried to introduce Beau to beignets at Café Du Monde, the man to my left chuckles and asks, “Where have you been hiding this one, Beau?”
I turn to look at Beau and my expression says, Yes, Beauregard, where have you been hiding me?
He learns his lesson quickly, dragging me away from the group as soon as it’s polite. On the surface, his grip on my arm is a gentle guiding force. Underneath, it bites and sears. He wants to fight with me and I consider grabbing another drink from a passing waiter, but he veers us to the right just before I can. My hand catches nothing but air.
“You’re making a scene,” I hiss under my breath, though it’s not true. It’s crowded in here and the music is too loud. We could hash it out right here, clattering dishes and voices raised, and it would probably go mostly unnoticed.
He pulls me to the back of the room and down a hallway toward the bathroom. It’s as private as we’re going to get. A group of women passes by, loudly singing along with the band, and when they disappear into the bathroom, he lets go of me and turns. “Why was Preston alone with you?”
I open my mouth so the same lie from earlier can spill out, but I’ve learned my lesson.
