Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

  He takes two more steps my way, and my blood begins to boil. I can feel it burning through my veins. Luc’s grip on my shoulder tightens.

  “You think you’re so much better than me?” Rick’s upper lip curls back to reveal a set of blindingly white veneers. Looks like he glued Chiclets over his teeth. “You’re nothing. Worse than nothing, you’re your mother’s son. She always walked around with her nose in the air too.”

  “To a worthless piece of shit lying in the grass, it must seem like everyone’s nose is in the air.”

  The big vein in Rick’s forehead swells to the size of a garden snake. “You got a lot of nerve thinking you can come into my town and disrespect me!” Flecks of spittle fly from his wet lips and land on his white dress shirt. “Remember who you’re dealing with, boy!”

  For a moment, I fell back into old habits, let the old rage and impotence take hold of me. Now I remember that nothing Rick says or does can touch me. Not in any way that matters.

  My blood settles. “I’m not scared of you, Rick. Not anymore. So why don’t you run along and torment someone who is?”

  “Why have you come back?” His meaty hands are clenched into fists.

  “Don’t for one minute think it has anything to do with you.”

  I can tell he wants to say something more. I can also tell he realizes that no matter what he says, I’m not going to give him the one thing he wants: a fight.

  Turning on his heel, he waddles toward the front door. Before he squeezes through, he spits on the floor then drops his cigar next to the wad of saliva, leaving it to burn a circle in the wood. A visual fuck you.

  I wait until he’s in his car and peeling away from the curb before walking over and stomping out the stogie.

  “Still wolverine mean,” Luc muses. “I reckon it was too much to hope the years had mellowed him. Still, maybe we should see his visit as a good thing.”

  “How do you figure?” I ask.

  “It’s over and done with.”

  I laugh. “Mr. Bright Side, huh?”

  “That’s me.” He hands me the sledgehammer. “Now, how about we go beat the piss outta some walls?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  That’s exactly what we do for the next few hours. When there’s nothing left between the kitchen and dining room but the studs and mounds of crumbled drywall, we take a break. I’m sweaty and tired, but it’s a good tired. The tired you feel after hard work.

  We’re sitting in the living room, which holds two folding chairs, a milk crate, and my mattress. Luc’s emptying the water from his Coleman jug down his throat. When he finishes the last drop, he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “My stomach thinks my neck’s been cut. Wanna grab a late lunch? We could walk over to Johnny’s for some po’ boys.”

  Johnny’s sandwich shop happens to be on Maggie’s block. Apprehension skips up my spine, and as if on cue, the construction workers in my head break out the jackhammers. Even though I woke up with a renewed determination when it comes to The Plan, I’m not sure I’m ready to see her again.

  “You just want an excuse to swing by Maggie’s,” I accuse.

  “Usually, that’d be true,” he admits. “But not today. She’s pulling a double shift at the bar.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

  “She told me last night.”

  I’ve been avoiding the subject all day. Now I can’t stop myself from asking, “What reason did you give her for me not coming with you?”

  “Said you had things to take care of here at the house.”

  “Good.” I nod, relief flooding into me. “That’s good.”

  “She saw right through it.”

  I groan. “You’ve always been a shitty liar.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you forgot our dear, sweet Maggie May has more than a few brain cells.” He taps his temple. “She smelled the whiskey on your breath yesterday. Saw the flask in your back pocket.”

  I say, “Shit,” but that doesn’t begin to cover the shame I feel.

  “Don’t worry.” He nudges the toe of my work boot with his. “I told her more about your head injury, and honestly, she’s more worried than anything else. You know her, slow to judge and quick to commiserate, lucky for you. We’re meeting her for coffee at ten hundred tomorrow. Café Du Monde.”

  “What?” I sit up straighter, my heart kicking into overdrive.

  “A trip down memory lane.” He frowns. “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “I am. I just…” I trail off.

  “Just what?” he prompts.

  “Nothing.” I stand and slap a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go get those po’ boys.”

  When he heads to the bathroom to take a leak, I drain the last of the Gentleman Jack from my flask. I have it refilled by the time he’s ready to head out.

  Chapter Seven

  ______________________________________

  Luc

  Sometimes, no matter what we do or say, no matter if we turn left or right, some things are just bound to happen.

  Sitting in Café Du Monde, looking across at Maggie, I know this moment was inevitable. I was fated to come back here, back to her. Ours is a friendship that stands the test of time. It’s ordained. Written in the stars.

  “There’s a real I-help-old-ladies-cross-the-street vibe about you.” She’s eyeing me thoughtfully.

  I groan. “Maggie May, that’s about the worst thing you can say to a man.”

  “What?” Wrinkles appear on her forehead. “Why? I thought being a good guy was a good thing.”

  “Women don’t want a good guy who’ll give ’em a hug and a shoulder to cry on. They want a bad boy who’ll punch ’em in the heart.”

  “Pfft.” She waves a hand through air redolent with the smells of chicory coffee, fried dough, and powdered sugar.

  Café Du Monde hasn’t changed a bit. The bistro tables are still white. The walls are still painted with green stripes. And the dining room is still hopping despite most God-fearing Southerners having taken themselves to church on this bright, blue Sunday morn.

  “Bad boys are fun when you’re young and dumb and looking for adventure,” she says. “But then you grow up and realize getting punched in the heart hurts like all get-out. No, thank you.” She reaches across the table to pat my hand. “Be glad you’re a good guy. Good women are attracted to good guys.”

  I turn my hand over to squeeze her fingers. “And how many bad boys did it take for you to learn this sage life lesson?”

  “Only the one.” There’s an edge in her voice, but she tries to play it off with a smile.

  “Are you sitting here telling me you haven’t dated anyone since Cash?”

  She laughs. “Oh, heck no. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends since him.” Her nose wrinkles. “Although, I’m not sure they technically qualify as boyfriends since none of them stuck around for longer than four months. What do you call someone who’s more than a friend, but less than a boyfriend?”

  “A friend with benefits?” I suggest.

  Her eyes fly wide, and she fakes a scandalized expression. “Good heavens! Not all of them!”

  “Hmmm.” I narrow my gaze. “But you are saying none of ’em were bad boys.”

  “Good, solid men,” she asserts with a dip of her chin. “Each and every one. Well, except for Billy Dickson. He rode a motorcycle and was in a band. Then again, he also visited his granny in the old-folks home every Sunday and volunteered as a Big Brother, so…yep. Good boys. Like I said, after Cash, I learned my lesson.”

  “Cash was never a bad boy. He was just…”

  I let the sentence dangle, not knowing how to explain why Cash is the way he is without, you know, explaining why Cash is the way he is. That’s Cash’s truth to share. Not mine.

  “When are you going to stop defending him?” She releases my hand. “You always defended him when we were teenagers, and you’re defending him still.”

  “I’m not defending him. I’m just…”
/>   I trail off again.

  She laughs. “Wow. You’re talking the legs off the chairs today, aren’t you, Luc?”

  I ignore her attempt at levity. “Everyone deserves forgiveness, Maggie May. Cash especially.”

  Her expression turns serious. “I believe that. Well, maybe not the ‘Cash especially’ part. It’s easier to forgive someone when they actually own up to what they did and then ask for forgiveness.”

  “He’s asking,” I assure her.

  “Oh yeah? How? When?”

  “He’s here. He came back. And the first thing he did after buying his house was come looking for you.”

  She glances away, blinking rapidly.

  “If they were such good men, why didn’t any of ’em stick?” I circle back around to our original topic because I can see what the subject of Cash is doing to her.

  She swallows, getting herself in hand, and then shrugs. “Some because we just weren’t compatible. Others because there was something missing. None of them were…” She trails off.

  “Cash?” I ask. So much for getting away from that topic.

  Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “You know, you never did answer him when he asked if you were seeing someone,” I remind her, wondering just how much work Cash has in store for himself.

  “Not at the moment,” she admits. “Lamentably, I don’t have your game.”

  I cock my head. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re back in town a few days and already you have someone.”

  “I do?” I rack my brain and come up empty. “Who?”

  “That leggy blonde from the other night. The one you took home with you.”

  “Oh. Her. I didn’t take her—”

  “What leggy blonde?” Cash asks from behind me.

  I brace myself. He’s fifteen minutes late, and when I left him last night, he was three king-size sheets to the wind. I expect bloodshot eyes and two days of beard growth, so I’m relieved when he grabs the extra chair and I find him clear-eyed and freshly shaved. Hell, it even looks like his standard-issue getup of jeans and a flannel shirt have just come out of the wash.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “This dude I know got a bead on some discount marble for my kitchen countertops, but I had to take a look at it this morning and let him know if I liked it because he has another buyer interested if I didn’t.”

  I narrow my eyes and wonder if he’s lying to cover for a morning spent nursing a hangover. Not that Cash is one for dishonesty. Then again, ever since the suicide bomber, he’s changed.

  Constant pain has a way of transforming a man, whittling him down to his lowest common denominator.

  I feel like an ass for testing him, but I can’t stop myself. “And? What d’ya think? You like it or not?”

  If his plan is to win back Maggie, she needs to know what she’s in for. I need to know what she’s in for so I can help her navigate what’s sure to be one hell of a bumpy road.

  “I do.” He nods. “But I want you and Maggie to come take a look after we finish here.”

  I blow out a covert breath, hating that I doubted him.

  “Me?” Maggie looks genuinely surprised. “Who cares what I think? It’s your house.”

  “I care what you think,” Cash says, and something sparks in Maggie’s eyes.

  She’s still hurting after all these years, still wondering what went wrong and needing more answers than the one he gave her. But that doesn’t mean she’s not already halfway to forgiving him.

  “And besides, everyone knows I have no taste.” He points to his worn jeans and even more worn work boots. “I need a second opinion.”

  She hesitates but eventually makes a motion like someone has taken hold of her arm. “Okay, twist my arm.”

  Cash smiles at her. Then he transfers his grin to the waitress who appears with a plate of warm beignets and two cups of café au lait.

  “And for you, sir?” the server asks him. She’s wearing the iconic paper hat. When he orders a straight-up black coffee, she bats her lashes seductively.

  Cash has always had a way with the ladies. I used to think it was his arrogance and swagger that attracted them. Now I think it’s the slightly broken quality about him. There’s a weariness that lives under his skin, giving him the haunting pallor of a man who’s seen too much and who needs the soothing touch of a tender hand.

  Women, wonderful creatures that they are, are suckers for the walking wounded.

  “You remember when Cash ate two plates of beignets all by himself?” I say as I pick up one of the sweet treats and pop a corner into my mouth. The taste of sugar, warm dough, and heaven explodes on my tongue.

  Maggie laughs. “He got high on powdered sugar and spent two hours tormenting the tarot card readers in Jackson Square.”

  Cash makes a face. “I wasn’t tormenting them. I merely pointed out that none of them prophesied the same future for me and that I thought it might be a good idea if they teamed up so their next customer didn’t pick up on their discrepancies and begin to doubt the efficacy of their trade.”

  “When you used the word efficacy”—Maggie makes air quotes—“I swear that one guy looked around for a dictionary.”

  “Apparently, a firm grasp of the English language isn’t a requirement before the Board of Tarot Card Readers gives someone a certificate for tarot card reading,” Cash laments.

  Now Maggie’s fighting tears. “Oh my Lord. Please let that be a real thing.”

  I’m laughing too. “What? The Board of Tarot Card Readers, or the certificate for tarot card reading?”

  “Either!” She grabs her side like it hurts. “Both!”

  Cash grins at us. For a moment, I can forget about everything that happened to drive us away. I can forget about the explosion that brought us back. When we’re like this, it feels like no time at all has passed.

  Maggie wipes her eyes. “And then there was that time you got into a fight with Wesley Madigan on your way here and showed up with a bloody nose. You remember that, Cash? That poor waitress serving us kept giving you the side-eye like she thought you were some barroom brawler about to start a ruckus.”

  Some of my humor disappears. “I remember she asked me for his number after you dragged him to the restroom to clean him up.”

  Maggie gapes. “You never told me that.”

  I shrug and point at Cash.

  “What can I say?” He spreads his arms wide as the waitress reappears with his coffee in hand. “Even bloodied, I can still make the ladies come a-runnin’.” He winks at the waitress and she blushes to the roots of her hair.

  Maggie acts like Cash’s flirting doesn’t bother her. Only someone who knows her well can see her smile is a bit wobbly.

  Cash’s plan will be a slam dunk if he’ll pull his head out of his ass and stop screwing around. I don’t know if he’s aiming to make her jealous to see if she still has feelings for him, or if he’s a complete and total dick munch. If it’s the former, I need to slap him upside the head. All it takes is one look at Maggie to know all her old feelings are still thriving. If it’s the latter? Well, I reckon I still need to slap him upside the head.

  “And speaking of making the ladies come a-runnin’.” He blows across the top of his coffee. “What’s this I hear about you taking home a leggy blonde?” He pins me with a look.

  “I didn’t take her home. We only snogged for a while on Canal Street. Then I walked her to her hotel so she could meet up with her friend.”

  Maggie shakes her head sorrowfully. “And after all that big talk about casual sex? How disappointing. Then again, sometimes a good snogging session is better than sex.”

  “Amen, sister.” We bump knuckles.

  “Ugh.” Cash rolls his eyes. “Snogging. I’d hoped you two had outgrown Harry Potter.”

  She presses a hand over her heart. “Outgrow Harry Potter? Never.”

  “What she said,” I agree, and then we’re at it again. Smiling at
each other like a couple of dopes.

  Cash shoves a beignet into his mouth. “Don’t know how much spare time you have today, Maggie,” he garbles, “but I think we should stop by Jackson Square before we go see the counter guy. Been years since I’ve had my fortune read.” He brushes powdered sugar from the front of his shirt. “Might be good to hear what the Fates have in store for me.”

  Indecision plasters her face. It’s obvious she thinks he’s operating under the notion that all is well, that the past is forgotten and forgiven, and that he can pick up right where he left off without so much as a by-your-leave.

  “Come on,” he cajoles. “Let me buy you a reading as a thank-you for the gift basket. That was really nice, by the way. You know how much I love The Big Lebowski. I’ve already watched it twice.” He grins at her. “Haven’t managed to shake off all those genial manners Miss Bea instilled in you, I guess.”

  “Genial manners aren’t something you can shake off. If anything, the older I get, the stickier they get.” Maggie makes a face. “This past winter, I forgot to send a get-well card to a sick employee, and I felt so guilty I couldn’t sleep until I’d made up for it by bringing him a Crock Pot full of homemade chicken soup and an industrial-sized tub of Vicks VapoRub.”

  Cash laughs. “Do you still pick up street litter and toss it in the trash can?”

  Her lips twist. “Not all the time.”

  “And do you still leave dollar bills behind in vending machines?”

  “I have less opportunity to come across vending machines now that I’m out of school.” When Cash gives her a look, her chin lifts defensively. “And before you make fun of me for being a bleeding heart, remember random acts of kindness are what separates us from the animals. At least that’s what Auntie June always says.”

  “And how is Miss June?” I ask. Of Maggie’s two great-aunts, June was always my favorite.

  “Still gardening and cooking and scandalizing Aunt Bea every chance she gets.” Maggie grins affectionately.

  I chuckle, picturing the ornery twinkle that seemed to be a permanent fixture in Miss June’s aged eyes.