‘We can change that whole no play thing, you know…’
He grins. ‘You’re relentless, you know that?’
‘You don’t ask, you don’t get.’
The look on his face makes it clear that I won’t be getting no matter how much I ask. It’s half amusement and half exasperation, but no matter how drunk I might be I can tell that that’s all. ‘Time to sleep, Ella,’ he says. ‘You’ll thank me in the morning.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ I tuck myself in, and roll my eyes. ‘Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it now.’
‘I’m sure you’ll cope.’ Jack’s voice comes from the bathroom. He appears in the doorway a second later with a glass filled to the brim with water. ‘Here. Drink this.’
‘Eurgh. You are the worst.’
‘And you’re going to feel dried out like a raisin tomorrow if you don’t. Now would you for once in your life just do as you’re told and drink up?’
There’s something in his voice – a note of irritation, perhaps – that I recognise. It’s the same note of irritation I’ve been playing through my mind all day. All of this, everything that’s happened since I got to New Orleans – perhaps even the situation with Carter – is my fault. Every last bit of it. There’s no way of getting around that. Just like always, I’ve overplayed my hand, and now even Jack has lost patience with me.
I scrunch my eyes tightly closed, convinced that with enough effort I can stop the wave of sadness from washing over me, but no luck. When I open them again, Jack’s momentary look of annoyance – perhaps real, perhaps imagined; who even knows at this point? – has been replaced with one of concern.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hey. It’s OK. I didn’t mean to snap at you.’ Immediately his voice is low and soothing. He sits down on the side of the bed, and rests his hand on my shoulder. ‘If I sounded a little bit rough, I didn’t mean –’
‘It’s not you,’ I say.
‘You sure?’
I nod. ‘Really. I’ve just… I’ve just had a bitch of a week, that’s all. A real, Grade-A, solid gold bitch.’
He smiles. ‘I never would have guessed.’
‘I made a real idiot out of myself tonight, didn’t I?’
Jack pauses for a second, then shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Oh yeah? Big city girl gets wasted on cocktails and can’t even walk down an alleyway without getting mugged.’
‘That’s not your fault. It’s New Orleans, man. There’s always someone looking to prey on a tourist. It’s easy pickings.’ In more ways than one, I think. Who even knows what would have happened if I had carried on drinking, if I’d thrown myself into having a good time with the girls, following the lead of Paige and Jessica – and even Danielle, who was definitely getting the lion’s share of the attention from men tonight. Hell, I pretty much threw myself at Jack – a perfect stranger, no less. Granted, he declined… but what if he hadn’t? He’s smart, funny, charming beyond all measure – and yeah, I can’t pretend he’s not attractive. But he’s not Carter. I don’t know how I feel about that. On one hand, what happened with Carter feels so fresh and so raw, but on the other… well, Chicago feels like a whole world away, rather than a two-hour plane ride. When I first got to New Orleans, part of me hoped that I might have just magically left my sadness in Illinois like unclaimed baggage… but perhaps I left something else behind instead. Perhaps the part of me that makes good decisions is still in O’Hare’s lost luggage department, waiting for me to come and pick it up as soon as the wedding over. It’s sure as shit not with me at the moment, anyway.
No… now the only thing helping me make good decisions is sitting beside me on the bed, still fully dressed, still above the sheets. Ever the gentleman.
‘Hey, Jack?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Thanks.’
‘For what?
I shrug in the darkness. ‘For walking me home. You didn’t have to. I mean that. I would have made it back OK.’
He smiles. ‘I know. I didn’t do it because I had to.’
‘Then why did you?’
He waits for a second, and then a little while longer. The feel of his arm around me is warm and safe, and with the blankets curled up around me and a few too many drinks clouding my brain, there’s not a lot I can do to fight it. He says something, soft and low and close to my ear, but I’m too far gone to realise what it is.
All I know for sure is that when I fall asleep a few seconds later, it’s with a smile on my face.
Chapter Twenty
I wake up at nine thirty-seven in a room that’s not my own. Sure, it looks familiar, but it can’t be. No one would have been stupid enough to make a hotel where the walls spin and the floor is on a permanent forty-five-degree slope, and they definitely wouldn’t have the gall to charge as much as I’m paying for it – and yet here I am. The curtains are letting a thin streak of light through – a streak of light brighter than the sun itself, somehow – and with it I can see those damn swans staring at me from the wall, mocking me like an avian version of Statler and Waldorf from The Muppet Show.
Well, fuck.
Time for a quick stroll down memory lane to try and figure out what actually happened last night. I remember a couple of drinks at the shitty bar that Danielle picked out, and then getting settled at the Coeur de Vie... that much is crystal clear, at least. The first round of Sazeracs, and the second. Jack, charming his way through my friends, taking my phone…
I sit bolt upright in bed, pulling my face away from the oh-so-sexy patch of drool I’ve managed to leave on the pillow, but there’s no need to worry; it’s there on my bedside cabinet without so much as a scratch on the case. Instinctively I reach out to check my messages, but my usual passcode just fills the screen with an angry-looking padlock.
Well, fuck again.
Bigger problems, I tell myself. Carry on with the story.
Where was I? Oh yes. Sazaracs and Jack. The sound of him on trumpet. The crowd swelling in around us as he played. God, he looked good up on stage like that. The details of the picture are a little blurry around the edges at that point – thanks no doubt to Eddie the bartender and his generous pours – but the sight of Jack working his way through the Great American Songbook is clear as a bell.
But it’s not all that happy. There’s the Abercrombie-and-Fitch asshole and his bachelor party (Boring, boring, fat and boring, obviously not as fun as your friends). There’s the alleyway, and almost losing everything – and what a pain in the ass that would have been – but my watch is still firmly around my wrist, safe and sound as it should be. Oh, and of course my gaping head wound; I can’t forget that.
It’s smaller than I remember. In fact, for the amount of blood that came out of it, it barely seems like it’s there at all. Doctor Jack must have done one hell of a job of patching me up.
And walking me home.
And coming up to my room.
And… my God, did we…?
No, that’s not right. No matter how drunk I was, I’m sure I would have remembered that.
Well, that would explain the pyjamas at least. No self-respecting seductress would be caught dead on a post-coital first impression wearing flannelette bottoms and a ratty old Modest Mouse t-shirt, no matter how comfortable it might be.
Doesn’t matter, I think. He probably saw them anyway.
Oh, he definitely saw them. No doubt. I have a sudden, blurred recollection of Jack putting me to bed – of being the perfect gentleman while I got changed, of fetching me a glass of water and tucking me away like a five-year-old – and I cringe internally. So much for that, then. It’s going to be hard to play that one off as just part of my charm.
The glass is empty. I must have finished it during the night, but it’s done absolutely nothing to slake my thirst; my mouth is Texas-dry. Barefooted and shaky, I make my way the three miles to the bathroom one regrettable footstep after another.
I examine myself in the mirror and find a bruise a
t the base of my spine, no doubt from getting pipe-fucked in the small of my back by that asshole mugger, and another one just south of my knee from… well, God-only knows what; the room is full of unfamiliar low-level furniture that I might have stumbled into.
Something catches my attention. On the sink is a note, written on the back of the hotel’s ‘How Are We Doing?’ questionnaire. I snatch it up, not even thinking about how someone might have just cost me my chance to win 50% off my next trip to the Hotel Belle View (or one of its thirteen sister hotels across the continental United States).
Ella, it reads.
Sorry I had to run. Don’t know how much longer you’re in town for, but I’d like to see you again. Head back around to the club if you have the time, OK? If not, I hope you and the girls enjoy the wedding.
Jack
PS. Your phone password is 1959.
PPS. Get some chips for the hangover you’re going to be rocking in the morning. The salt will clear that right up. Trust me on this one – one barfly to another.
Pssh, I think. Barfly. As if.
He’s got better handwriting than I was expecting: small and precise and neat, far from the chaotic, freewheelin’ Jack Robichaux vibe I got from seeing him play. He’s a man full of little surprises like that – a thousand and one contradictions in a linen suit jacket. Working the crowd as skilfully as he worked a microphone, and then staying behind to help a poor, dumb out-of-towner to bed without what appeared to be any ulterior motive whatsoever.
Too good to be true, I think. Couldn’t possibly be real.
I check my watch – Thanks again, Jack – and find that it’s still comfortably before noon. There’s the rehearsal dinner waiting for me in the evening, but… I have time, right? It wouldn’t be so crazy for me to go down and see him? I mean, he did ask me too; I've got the note to prove it.
My body does everything I can to resist getting showered and dressed, but before long I look a little more like my old self – still a bit on the tender side, and still definitely not in the market for anything more than the gentlest of strolls, but still faintly recognisable. A little too faintly for my liking. I grab my makeup bag and put it to work: a little foundation to hide the clammy touch of St. Hangover of New Orleans, a little touch-up to make me look as though I didn’t spend the entirety of last night praying at the porcelain altar. Nothing too complicated, nothing too showy. I’m not trying to impress anyone, after all.
Jack Robichaux who?
I take a good long look in the mirror, and then dig out a pair of sunglasses that I brought with me in an optimistic moment – as though February in New Orleans was going to be some exotic island paradise. Well, I’m sure glad I brought them now. The dimming effect helps to convince the team of jackhammer-wielding construction workers who’ve taken up residence in my brain that it might be time for them to take five.
Maybe a walk will do me some good. And if I should so happen to find myself at a certain bar… well, what’s the harm in that, right? New Orleans is a big city, and I’m an out-of-towner. Who’s to say I won’t just get lost, wander down a familiar street, get myself a drink…
I smile. Yeah, that works. I can live with that.
~~~
By now, I could pretty much find the way to the Coeur de Vie on instinct alone; I’ve been in New Orleans for three whole days, and every day I’ve found myself there for one reason or another. Granted, the first time was just random chance, and the second time had me carried there – and back – in a fog of alcohol, but still. My feet find their own way. I’m just along for the ride.
It’s much quieter in the morning, although still open. Tourists don’t work on normal time, and if there’s ever a place where it’s acceptable to drink a mint julep at ten in the morning, it’s while you’re on holiday in the party capital of the south. The whole city is powered by that spirit of ‘Well, why the hell not?’
Eddie is behind the bar, and he smiles as soon as he sees me. ‘You survived, then?’ he asks.
‘Jury’s still out,’ I say. ‘At this stage, I might just be running on fumes.’
‘Yeah, that’ll happen.’ He pulls a packet of chips out from below the counter. ‘Here,’ he says as he tosses them to me. ‘It sounds weird, but the salt’ll–’
‘Make me feel better? Yeah, I know.’
Eddie grins again. ‘Jack’s words of wisdom?’ he asks.
‘Something like that. Speaking of… is he around?’
Eddie shakes his head. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘He’s not scheduled to be here today, and tomorrow he’s got another gig. He won’t be back until Sunday night.’
My mind flits back to top drawer of my bedside cabinet back in the hotel, where my return ticket is safely stashed. By Sunday at noon, I’ll be six miles up in the air on my way back to Chicago and God-only-knows what awaits me. Sunday night is no use at all.
‘Do you have his number?’ I ask.
Eddie pauses, and I realise just how crazy it sounds: Hey, Mr. Bartender I barely know, can you hook me up with the number of the guy I went home with last night who has mysteriously disappeared? I’m not a stalker, I promise… I just really want to see him again. I wonder if I’m the first girl who’s ever come to the bar looking for Jack after hours. I doubt it, somehow. I try my hardest not to think about what that mean.
‘OK, fine,’ I say. ‘I get it. Privacy and all. Will you give him a message if he comes in, at least?’
He nods. ‘Sure thing,’ he says, pulling out his order book and a pencil. ‘You know, seeing as you’re a regular now.’
‘Tell him...’ Well, shit. Tell him what, exactly? That I had a great night? There’s no way that sounds sleazy. Thanks for making sure I got home in one piece? That’s closer to it, at least, but still not quite there; I would have got home on my own, one way or another. Thanks for being there for me to talk to? For making me feel a little less alone in a strange city when I really was in a terrible, terrible mood? That’s the one – but true or not, it sounds almost chronically lame.
Eddie is waiting for me. Shit.
‘Tell him thanks,’ I say.
‘Just… thanks?’
‘Just thanks. And my number.’
I reel off a string of digits, and watch as Eddie marks them down, looking down at his hand to make absolutely sure he gets them right. Ordinarily, I would have just slipped him a business card, but the few I carried with me – Just in case, I had told myself as I packed them – are back in my hotel room. After all, business cards were for the old Ella. Work Ella. I’m on holiday, for God’s sake. Maybe it’s OK for me not to be completely accessible at all times.
It’s pointless, of course. If Jack had wanted my phone number, he would have asked for it. Or maybe he did ask, and I just don’t remember giving it to him. Or maybe he’s just one of those weirdos who doesn’t have a cell phone, and my number would be of no use to him either way.
Or maybe he’s just not interested in you. Maybe he’s just – God forbid – being nice to a customer.
Yeah, well. Maybe I’m just being nice to him too. Maybe it was just the booze talking, and being sad about Carter, and…
Nope. Keep it light, keep it happy, keep it gay. I take a deep breath. ‘See you around, Eddie,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the drinks.’
‘Look after yourself, OK?’ he says. ‘Any friend of Jack’s is a friend of the Coeur de Vie.’
I nod back at him as I step outside into the sunlight.
That’s all well and good, I think, but what the hell does that make me?
Chapter Twenty-One
I suck the flavour off of my fingers one by one, before stuffing the bag of Lays into a garbage can just outside the Hotel Belle View. It’s been a strange and meandering walk home. At first, when I stepped out of the Coeur de Vie back into the light of Bourbon Street, I felt oddly depressed about the fact that I’d missed Jack. I’d wandered aimlessly around for a while, to nowhere in particular – first south, to Jackson Square and the banks of the Mis
sissippi, and then doubling back on myself to check out Louis Armstrong Park – but the time on my own had done little to clear my head. Whether it was foggy because of the booze or because of Jack, I couldn’t rightly have said.
The impossible truth was, I would have slept with Jack if the opportunity had arisen. I felt a brief pang of guilt at the idea of betraying Carter so readily, but then a tiny voice piped up in my ear: Would he feel the same way about you?
Does it even matter? I’d hope he would, but sure, but he’s made his decision – made it three days ago, even, and there hasn’t been so much as a peep from him since. Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps Lauren was right, and Carter and my plan really were holding me back. He had seemed so right five years ago, but as time had marched ever onwards… was it possible that I had changed? Outgrown him? The Ella from last night – the post-Carter Ella, as Lauren had dubbed her – seems like a whole other person. She had seemed happy, that was for sure. Not completely, no – not in the club, and certainly not in the back alley – but on the walk home? With Jack’s arm linked through hers? Yes, she had been happy then.
I roll my eyes. Stop talking about yourself in the third person, I thought. That’s the first sign of madness right there. You were the one who enjoyed yourself. You were the one who would have given Jack the ride of his life last night. It was all you, every last moment.
Well, me and the tequila. I couldn’t forget that, chips or not.
There’s no point worrying about it now, either way, I told myself. If Jack calls, he calls. If he doesn’t, I’ll cope. It’s not like I don’t have enough other things to keep me occupied over the next couple of days.
Figuring that the chips are probably going to be enough to keep me satisfied until the no-doubt mountains of food that will accompany the rehearsal dinner, I decide that I could really use some alone time before I’m subjected to all of the rigmarole that is everyone involved trying to get their speeches into some kind of order. I make a beeline for the elevator, but apparently it’s not quite quick enough; as I walk past the hotel restaurant, a familiar voice calls out to me.
Smooth: A New Love Romance Novel (Bad Boy Musicians) Page 12
