by Tricia Lynne
My mind raced trying to calculate the angles. What the hell was he playing at? Wingman for Jamie? Did he goddamned want me or not? I thought he had, but after last night’s rejection and dismissal, what the hell was I supposed to think?
Never one to shy away from a challenge, I’d go. I didn’t want to cock block Kat, but I also wanted to make Declan feel like the asshole he was. I wanted answers about last night, but I wouldn’t play his games. I came to New Orleans to have a good time, not end up feeling shitty about myself. Declan would learn the hard way that I wasn’t one of his band rats he could dick around.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go.”
Kat’s sly grin was irritating the shit out of me.
“What?” I shot her a look.
“Alpha females.” She smiled and sipped her coffee while I forked cold eggs.
Half an hour later we were on a streetcar to the Garden District. The weather was perfect for touring one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in the South, and the streetcars proved fascinating if you liked to people watch.
Used by tourists and locals alike, they were a gumbo of New Orleans cultures. I watched the city pass by in all its splendor and squalor through the open-air car, marveling at the civic boundaries the streets created, transparent to the eye, yet seemingly insurmountable to the city’s inhabitants. The transition from one neighborhood to the next was often abrupt and severe, but the streetcars themselves were a different story.
A collage of cultures mingled on the red trolleys: tourists, performance artists, musicians, college kids, socialites, businesspeople, single mothers, blue-collar fathers. Black, white, brown, yellow, red, and every combination therein, occupied the seats and stood in the isles. The streetcars were an amalgam of everyday life for New Orleanians, and though the French Quarter might’ve been the heart of the city, the streetcars were the blood pumping through its veins.
“This is us.” Kat pulled the cord and the car stopped in the middle of St. Charles Avenue. We crossed behind the trolley and ran smack into the Garden District.
Wandering the streets at a leisurely pace, we marveled at the architecture, passed famous restaurants and B and B’s, while Kat pointed out some of the more popular homes. Homes of celebrities and authors, and homes of legend, both reputable and nefarious.
We posed for pictures in front of handworked, wrought-iron masterpieces and wide wooden shuttered houses. Admired the beauty of the courtyards and manicured grounds. Fancy fountains and flower gardens, wide covered porches with lavish furnishings, and sky-blue porch ceilings that beckoned visitors to sit for a spell. It was a throwback to a different time where ladies waved their collapsible fans while taking sweet tea with gentleman callers and feigned fending off advances.
Spring came early to NOLA. Young flower blooms fell in mounds over railings, coloring the sidewalks and scenting the air. We stopped in front of a smaller home where honeysuckle bloomed through black fence spindles overhead.
“Stand underneath it and turn toward me. Tilt your chin down a bit. Grab the bloom by your face with your left hand. Look at the flower, not at me.”
Kat made me wholly self-conscious when she turned her camera on me. I could do silly, and selfie, and party, but to be the subject of focused attention? It made me feel as if all of my flaws were on display.
“Just take the damn picture,” I said, teeth clenched into an aching smile.
The shutter finally clicked and she lowered the camera, slipping it on her shoulder. Kat leaned against the brick half wall in the shade while I peered through the fence at the house. A warm buttery yellow with black shutters and doors against bright white trim. The porch columns were white, but the floor was glossy black, and ceiling fans anchored the ends of a watery blue ceiling.
“Avery?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you know how beautiful you are?”
At that, I turned.
She shifted her feet on the concrete and crossed her arms. “You think you’re very smooth with all the deflecting and that quick mouth, but I know what you really think, and I’m telling you, you’re wrong.”
I leaned my butt against the cool brick next to her, picked at my nails. “I’m not you, sweetie.”
“No, you’re not me. Katia is self-conscious of her flat chest and freckles. She was teased as a kid for having chicken legs and big feet, and was told her ass was too ‘black’ to ever make it in modeling. Avery is too smart for her own good, yet completely blind to what’s staring her in the mirror.” She gazed at the house across the street. “What do you think makes any one of these houses more beautiful than the rest?”
“Matter of opinion, I guess.”
“Exactly. You think this one is prettier. I prefer the cool colors of that one, but they’re both beautiful.”
She paused, sighed. “People are attracted to confidence. Beauty.” She gestured loosely at the houses. “It’s a fleeting illusion of angles and lighting, but knowing yourself? Being comfortable with who you are? That is sexy. We all have our flaws. Things we wish we could change. Confidence, though, is not letting that define who you are or hold you back from getting what you want. Look at me, Avery. I’m softer, stronger now than I ever was when I modeled, and the press loves to point out how big my ass is. But I’m happier now than I ever was as a size two.”
She turned her head and slanted a look at me. “What do you want?”
I stared down at my feet. I’d been trying to be everything to everybody for so long. My dad, my colleagues at work, men I was interested in. They all wanted me to fit into the little boxes they thought I belonged in, yet I always fell short. I was too curvy, too female, too tomboyish. I’d let them do it, too—pigeonhole me. Even worse, at some point I’d started to believe them.
It wasn’t so much that I didn’t think I was beautiful—I liked the way my curves felt under my hands—but I’d been told for so long that I wasn’t enough the way I was. Be it because I was curvy when I should be thin, ballsy when I should be demure, or female when I should be male.
Where were the men in my life who wanted me just as I was? It was becoming exhausting holding up the wall that I built to protect myself from the inevitable disappointment and the notion that I would never be enough. Because, for me, both disappointment and fear were synonymous with rejection and failure.
“I don’t want to care what other people think. About my curves, about being a woman in a male-dominated field, or my mouth running off…I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not.”
“See, that right there is the key to confidence. Not caring what everyone else thinks. Sweetie, beauty is subjective. But to be secure in your decisions and actions? In your own skin? That is the epitome of sexy. Confidence is simply finding the courage to be yourself, with all your glorious faults and flaws, because they are what make you you. And to hell with what anyone else thinks.”
“God, that’s deep.” I grinned. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Go ahead, make a joke. But I know the real Avery and she’s fabulous. You can’t please everyone, darling, and you’ve forgotten about the one person who really matters.” She went quiet and let that sink in. “I know you want to bang Declan.”
My mouth popped open and her sly smile made an appearance. Trust Kat to move back to the gutter to soften the lesson.
“He thinks you’re beautiful, you know.” She nudged me. “A guy doesn’t look at you like he did at the bar, and not think about sex.”
I snorted, then shook my head. “I don’t know. He was such an asshole last night.”
She sighed. “I can’t tell you why he put the brakes on, but I can tell you it had nothing to do with the softness of your stomach or the width of your ass. It had nothing to do…With. Your. Body…So stop internalizing it. He’s not Jason, Avery. Do yourself a favor.” She pulled off the wall to face me. “Get ou
t of your own way with this guy. Just be you, in every glorious inch, curve, and smart-ass remark. Because you, my love, are irresistible.”
Kat hooked an arm through mine and pulled me away from the ledge. “Now c’mon, let’s get a café au lait and hit Magazine Street. We have some shopping to do.”
“God, what’s a girl got to do to get laid?” I mumbled. “Take some deep fucking emotional journey?”
Chapter 8
Shopping with Kat is one of the few things I managed to avoid over the years. She invited me plenty, but she never pushed too hard when I turned her down. Yeah, definitely not good for the ego, that.
However, with her fashion background and photographer’s eye, the bitch knew exactly what I should’ve been wearing and it was the best time I’d ever had trying on clothes. I left with six bags, and balked at buying lingerie in addition, but Kat wasn’t hearing it. “Lingerie should be something a woman does for herself. It makes you feel beautiful, and when you feel beautiful, you look beautiful. That affects your carriage and attitude.”
As I slipped into the new pale pink strapless bra and matching hipsters, I saw the wisdom in her words. I loved how my breasts mounded in the cups and the curves of my hips against the delicate lace. I felt so sexy. My posture was better; my shoulders pushed back. I was still Avery, just a racier, Betty-Booped-up version who seemed to know how intriguing she was and how sensually she moved.
Unzipping my new black dress, I slipped in, looping the halter over my head. A bit of contortion to get it zipped and the bodice snuggled against my ribs. I looked down at the square neckline and adjusted the girls. With my strong shoulders, the twins were framed quite nicely and out there for all to see, and the fit and flare of the dress showed off my nipped-in waist and rounded hips.
I looked like all my curves were in the right places and begging for a set of strong hands. I wasn’t going to throw myself at Declan, but if he could resist this vixen then maybe he was gay, or only had one nut. Anyway, it was his loss because I would absolutely do me.
I was still pissed about Declan ditching me the night before, but damn, I wanted that man in my bed. I was going to give my dark side free rein on Declan McGinn; she was popping champagne bottles to pour over my head. Really, what did I have to lose? A man I barely knew? Fuck it. Besides, Kat was right.
Every dip, curve, and smart-ass remark.
The knock on the door sent my heart racing as I slipped into my new d’Orsays and smoothed the bodice of my dress.
Declan leaned against the doorjamb, brushing an eyebrow with his thumb. He looked up from under the brim of a gray flat cap. When his eyes finally settled on mine, I was breathless. Then that grin slid into place. He wore a black dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck and rolled at the sleeves, revealing tanned and tattooed forearms. A set of leather suspenders held up gray slacks, slung low on his narrow hips.
Damn. It’s hot in here.
“Avery?” His gritty bass pulled me from my lazy perusal.
“Hmm?” I said, eyes snapping to his face.
“You look, uh…Yeah.” He brushed his hand over the back of his head and adjusted his hat. “That’s a pretty dress. So, are you ready? We have reservations.”
I eyed him. “Don’t push. After last night, you’re lucky I don’t toss your ass. Are you sure you’re not going to march me through the lobby and then leave me at the curb? I’m starting to sense a pattern.”
His lips thinned, eyes hardening. “No. I’m not going anywhere this time.”
I checked my lips in the mirror, making a show of it and relished the feel of Declan’s gaze on me.
In front of the hotel, a group rubbernecked at the hot rod sitting at the curb. I could see why: a matte black Mercury Lead Sled. I wasn’t by any means a gearhead, but as an engineer with a father who turned wrenches for a living, I appreciated fine mechanical detail when I saw it.
The car had been chopped and channeled within an inch of its life, and the flat black paint was more menacing than any flame job. A classic chrome grill matched some serious-looking racing rims and the interior was all black leather with chromed gauges. Someone had dropped major coin into the rebuild.
With a tilt of his head, Declan opened the Merc’s passenger door and held a hand out to me. “Getting in?”
Hmm…black cards, cars, hotels. Just how much money did Declan have? No, not my business. This was a date, not a relationship, and Declan wasn’t Jason. Stepping off the curb, I slipped in and he rounded the front end. Declan got behind the wheel, hit the ignition button, and the big-block rumbled to life. With The Quarter left behind, Declan parked under a sign that read “Vito’s” in green neon, but the “o” flickered on and off. He helped me out of the low-slung hot rod and draped my arm over his elbow, leading me to the entrance where he opened the door all gentleman-like.
He was the one full of surprises.
It kinda threw me. Declan McGinn, down and dirty? Yes. Rock ’n’ roll? Abso. But a gentleman? That didn’t fit into my nice tidy box of expectations. Declan was a bad boy playing at being good, and it was irresistible.
Vito’s was traditional Americanized Italian: Small tables with checkerboard tablecloths and red candles, empty Chianti bottles hanging from the ceiling over a few booths. Pictures of the old country with the scents of oregano and rosemary drifting heavy on the air while Dean Martin crooned about his “Innamorata.”
The host led us to a semi-circular booth and I slid around the back with Declan on the end. The waiter appeared immediately, pouring San Pellegrino while I scanned the menu. I didn’t see anything I was reading, though. It hadn’t escaped me that we hadn’t said more than a handful of words to each other since we left the hotel.
“Red, Avery?” he asked, and I looked up from my menu. The waiter looked at me expectantly.
“Sure.”
“Guinness for me,” Declan said. “She’ll have Killian’s.”
My mouth gaped open. Beer?
“We’re ready to order, too.”
I had barely scanned the menu.
“Yes, sir.” The waiter inclined his head.
I narrowed my eyes at Declan and caught his subtle hint of amusement.
“She’s going to have the alfredo and I’ll have the chicken parmesan.”
“Very good, sir.” The waiter turned to leave.
Nope. I shook my head. Declan seemed to think he could boss me around. So. Not. Happening.
“Excuse me?” I raised my voice after the waiter, lacking any delicacy.
“Yes, miss?”
“I’ve decided I’d like the lasagna instead.”
The waiter glanced at Declan, who nodded while he watched me. Unbelievable.
“Sure thing. I’ll be back with your drinks shortly.”
I felt an angry flush crest my cheeks and was about to let loose with a deluge of colorful language. He seemed to know it, too, expected it even. Jaw resting on two fingers, eyes dancing under sooty lashes while he failed to hide a smirk.
“I think you might be laying this daddy thing on a little thick, don’t you? First the shoes and now my dinner? Why, are you going to cut my food for me too, and tell me when I’m full?”
He stopped trying to hide the grin, shoulders bouncing with stifled laughter. “I’m sorry.”
“You are not. Asshat.” But my temper was already beginning to wane.
“No, I’m not.” He leaned forward, his eyes catching the flicker of candlelight. “I like your temper, and you can’t control that quick mouth of yours for shit. I can see you fighting it, knew the moment the mouth won, too. Baby, you gotta work on your poker face.”
I eased into a smile. “Glad I could be your dancing monkey. Why is my temper so amusing to you, anyway? Most men are scared of it, or completely turned off by it. Yet, you’re actively seeking ways to bring out the worst in me.”
He sipped his beer and I watched his Adam’s apple bob. “That’s a matter of opinion. Saying what you think is one of the things I like most about you.” Declan eyed my boobs. “Okay, maybe a distant second. But you couldn’t back down if you wanted. You don’t censor what you say to protect my ego. It’s honest.” He shrugged a heavy shoulder. “If that’s intimidating to other men, it’s their problem.” He fingered the pint glass with one hand, slung the other over the back of the booth, exposing the expanse of his chest. Which I ogled. Touché.
“Some guys need things sugarcoated,” he added. “If a guy can’t handle being with a strong woman, then he doesn’t have any balls to speak of. And if a woman bends over backward just to please me? I got no use for her because she has no spine.” He shook his head. “They’re playing games with each other and I’m not into that.”
Wow, that was…an interesting take on things considering the mind-fuck he’d pulled the night before.
“But you are playing games, aren’t you, Declan?” I pinned him with a sharp look, waited for him to squirm.
Shrewd eyes cut to mine.
“Last night? Wasn’t that a game to you?”
He didn’t squirm, but glanced away, stared at the pint glass he was spinning between his fingers as he contemplated his response.
“No.” He trapped me with those eyes again, effectively ending my line of questioning.
What. The. Fuck. Goddamn that word and the way he wielded it like a weapon. He just chopped off the subject. Whack. Not open for discussion.
It wasn’t enough for me. “That’s twice you’ve skated on me. I deserve more than ‘No.’ ”
His jaw tightened. “Last night was…intense. But I don’t play games, Avery. And I’m not playing with you.” The look on his face told me that was all I was getting as our eyes met in a battle for control that lasted several moments.
But as I met his stare, there was something there…confusion maybe? Some kind of turmoil? Whatever it was, it made me relatively sure he hadn’t darted last night because of me. Declan had his own demons.
