Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

“Me? I recognize it well,” Jean-Pierre says. “She’s been alternately grinnin’ like a gopher in soft dirt and lookin’ sad enough to bring a tear to a glass eye ever since dem boys came back to town.”

  “It’s enough to make you wonder, ain’t it?” Earl muses.

  “Wonder what?” Jean-Pierre asks.

  “Which one of ’em she’s getting busy with.” Earl takes a swig of his beer and eyes me consideringly. “My money’s on both.”

  “Oh hush.” Heat flies to my cheeks. “I’m not getting busy with either of them. And who still uses the phrase getting busy anyway?”

  “Well, if you ain’t riding either of their baloney ponies, then what’s so great about them?” Earl demands.

  “There are more important things in life than sex, Earl. Didn’t your mother teach you that?”

  “Bah.” He waves a hand. “Folks who claim there are more important things than sex are the ones who ain’t getting any.”

  Jean-Pierre clinks the neck of his beer against Earl’s. “Ain’t dat da truth?”

  “You’re taking his side?” I scowl at Jean-Pierre. “Traitor!”

  “Me, I just calls dem like I sees dem.”

  “Well, the next time you call them like you see them,” I warn, “I’ll stop helping you with your Christmas shopping.” Every year, I drag Jean-Pierre to the shops on Royal Street to pick out gifts for his family. I was always under the impression that gay men were supposed to be good at shopping, but Jean-Pierre is completely and utterly useless.

  “No, ya won’t.” He grins. “Hearin’ how much my mawmaw and pawpaw love dem gifts puts too big a smile on your face.”

  Dang it. He has me there. I do enjoy seeing the pictures of his grandparents happily brandishing the presents I help him select. And since I can’t argue, I employ the only weapon left at my disposal—I deepen my scowl.

  “So,” Earl says, “back to your sex life.”

  “Hopeless.” I shake my head. “The both of you.”

  Moving down the bar, I fill drink orders and keep my eye on the couple at the end who are signing their receipt. As soon as they get up, I pull out the A-frame Reserved placard. I only ever use it to save Earl’s spot, so it feels weird putting it on the other end of the bar.

  When two guys try to sit down, I wave them off and point to the sign. Raising my voice above the din, I tell them, “I have some friends coming in, and these are their seats. Sorry. But hey! I’ll buy y’all a couple of drinks on the house to make up for it. A gin and tonic and a rum and Coke, right?”

  “Why doesn’t anyone carry Pepsi products down here?” one of them asks, his accent placing him far north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

  That’s right. He didn’t originally order a rum and Coke. He originally ordered a rum and Pepsi. The savage.

  “Because here in the South, Pepsi is considered a sin against God,” I inform him, moving away to make their drinks.

  When I set the finished cocktails in front of them, I notice the one on the left is wearing a black T-shirt with the word RAVE printed across the front in tie-dyed letters. A smile flirts with my mouth because it reminds me of the private party Cash threw for me on my sixteenth birthday and the one-year anniversary of us “officially dating.”

  I wanted to go to the rave Jessa Bryant was having in her father’s empty warehouse. The talk around school was that it was supposed to be the party of the year. And for the first time since my parents died, I actually wanted to do something normal and teenagery and fun. But Cash refused to take me.

  “You won’t be missing anything worth anything, Maggie,” he said. “Take it from me. A rave is nothing but Molly and glow sticks and body glitter.”

  No matter how much I begged and pleaded, he didn’t budge. He told me I was a naïve girl who didn’t know what I was in for. I accused him of being a heavy-handed a-hole who didn’t have the right to say what I could and couldn’t do. Then I swore I would go to Jessa’s party on my own.

  That’s when the fight was on.

  It was the first real disagreement we ever had. In the heat of the moment, we said things we didn’t mean. And then we didn’t speak for two days, during which time I oscillated between crying my eyes out on Luc’s shoulder and blistering his ears by cursing Cash to hell and back.

  Poor Luc. Always stuck in the middle.

  But on the night of the rave, Cash showed up with spiked hair, glow sticks, and an apologetic smile. He didn’t take me to Jessa Bryant’s dad’s warehouse. Instead, he drove me out to Luc’s swamp house. He’d moved the furniture against the walls to create a dance floor, hung up some psychedelic posters, and plugged in a black light.

  In between laughter and kissing and long moments of touching, we danced to the music shouting from his cell phone. And after a few hours, when the kissing and touching heated up, he laid me on the floor, carefully removed my clothes, and painted me head to toe in pink body glitter. He used my naked skin as a canvas, his fingers reverent and purposeful, his eyes alight with so much hunger that I felt like the most beautiful girl in the world.

  That night was the first time we went to third base. I would’ve happily allowed him to steal home, but he laughed and kissed my nose and told me he was happy with a triple.

  Sighing at the memory, I check the clock on the wall above the cash register. I swear, ten minutes feels more like ten years.

  By the time Luc and Cash push into the bar, I’m so anxious that Earl accuses me of having ants in my pants. Waving them toward the seats at the end of the bar, I yell over the dull roar of the crowd, “What’ll it be, Luc?”

  “Just a beer for me,” he says. “I’m driving home after this.”

  “One Abita it is.” I pop the top on a bottle and set it in front of him.

  “And speaking of driving home,” he says, “I parked Smurf down the street, but I didn’t wanna leave my guitar inside. Is there room for it behind the bar?”

  “Hand it over.” I make gimme motions with my fingers, and he passes his guitar case to me. I find a safe spot for it in the corner where I keep the box of lost-and-found items. Then I turn back to Cash.

  It’s weird. The obvious question would be, What are you drinking? But…

  “Gentleman Jack.” He takes the decision out of my hands. “Straight up.”

  I try not to cringe as I pour the drink.

  “Miss Bea’s been driving me crazy with phone calls this week,” he tells me when I set the whiskey in front of him. “I didn’t know I had to wear a tux to this thing. Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “Uh.” I blink. “Maybe because I had no idea you were going to volunteer? And also because I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in days?”

  He ignores this last part. “And a wrist corsage? Why do I have to buy a wrist corsage?”

  “You’re supposed to give it to the woman who wins you. You know…” I make a rolling motion with my hand. “To make it official and whatnot.”

  He shakes his head, and the lights from the bar catch all the colors in his hair. “I regret this already,” he mutters.

  I point to his nose and narrow my eyes. “It’s too late to back out now, so don’t even think about it.”

  Jean-Pierre wanders over and says to Luc, “I saw you brought your guitar with ya. Thinkin’ of joinin’ me up on da stage?”

  I shake my head. “Luc doesn’t play for a crowd and—”

  “You might not have noticed,” Luc interrupts me, “but I’m not that shy, scrawny thing you knew in high school.”

  “I’ll take dat as a yes.” Jean-Pierre claps his hands. “You still got dat extra amplifier in da back, Maggie?” When I nod, he squeezes Luc’s shoulder. “You and me, let’s show dese folks what real pickin’ and grinnin’ is supposed to sound like, mais yeah?”

  After handing Luc’s guitar back to him, and after he and Jean-Pierre disappear through the door leading to the storage room, I turn to Cash in astonishment. “Is he really going to get up onstage?”

  Cash smiles. “
Our little Luc is all grown up, Maggie.”

  “I guess so.” I jerk my chin side to side, unable to imagine the Luc I knew playing for anyone but me and Cash.

  “Do you still play?” he asks. “I noticed the guitar hanging on the wall in your living room.”

  I twist my lips. “I can strum chords. But I’ve never learned to fingerpick like Luc. What about you? Was he ever able to teach you?”

  He holds up his hands—they’re beautiful hands, broad-palmed and long-fingered. “I’m still all thumbs. These things are completely useless.”

  “Not true. If memory serves, they’re talented in other ways.”

  Oh, son of a biscuit. Did I say that out loud?

  Embarrassment feels a lot like eating a habanero pepper. It sets the back of my throat on fire and makes my eyes water. Lucky for me, someone shouts a drink order and gives me an excuse to slink away without seeing Cash’s reaction.

  Ten minutes later, I’ve worked up the courage to go back to him. But when I open my mouth to say…heck, I don’t know what, he beats me to the punch by handing me a sheet of paper.

  “What’s this?” I frown.

  “It’s Luc’s list. If you think of more, add them.” Glancing at the sheet, I see the names of several places of interest in and around New Orleans.

  Oh, right. Our grand scheme to visit the sights.

  “But don’t go too crazy,” he adds. “I’m not sure we’ll have time to hit them all as it is.”

  I cut him a glance. “Is the remodeling keeping y’all that busy?”

  “Something like that,” he says, and I frown because…vague. Then he adds, “Hey, Maggie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I like what you’ve done with this place. It’s exactly what we always talked about. Not too flashy. Not too trashy.” He reaches across the bar to chuck me on the chin. “You did good, kid.”

  The embarrassment from earlier—I guess we’re going to pretend I never said anything—is replaced by pride. “Thanks,” I say, not having the guts to ask him why he’s just now stopping by.

  I mean, it’s been two weeks! And Bon Temps Rouler is only eight blocks from his house!

  “You’re coming to this Halloween ball and bachelor auction on Thursday, right?” He takes a slow, leisurely sip of his drink.

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” I tell him. “I try to limit my exposure to Aunt Bea’s upper-crust friends as much as I can. Last Saturday’s tea means I’m good to go for a while and—” Jean-Pierre and Luc have plugged in up onstage and Jean-Pierre gives me the signal to kill the jukebox. “Hold that thought,” I say as I head to the control panel beside the register.

  As soon as the music from the jukebox stops, Jean-Pierre plays the opening riffs to “House of the Rising Sun” and I can’t help but smile. That’ll get the party started.

  He and Luc put their personal spin on the song, upping the tempo. Luc sings lead in his low, clear baritone and Jean-Pierre comes in with the harmony.

  I’ve always been amazed how musicians can do that. Never played with each other, and yet they can make beautiful music together.

  When they reach the bridge, Jean-Pierre sawing away on his fiddle and Luc strumming his guitar like he’s possessed, the crowd is jumping and hollering for more.

  For nearly an hour, the pace doesn’t let up. Luc and Jean-Pierre do their best to bring the house down. Chrissy and I try to keep a drink in everyone’s hands while poor Charlie works like a fiend washing dirty glasses and restocking the cooler.

  I love every minute of it. This right here, this bar, this night, is what New Orleans is all about. Laissez les bon temps rouler!

  When the last song of the set ends, Jean-Pierre wipes the sweat from his brow and says into the mic, “Me, I’m takin’ a bit of a breather, folks.” The crowd boos and hisses and Jean-Pierre laughs. “But don’t you worry none. Mon ami here”—he gestures to Luc—“is goin’ to play a ballad for y’all. So grab your best girl or guy or nonbinary, and pull dem close.”

  Luc drags a stool up onstage and sits, curling himself around his guitar. Closing his eyes, he begins to strum. Before he even opens his mouth to sing, cell phone flashlights are thrust into the air. They’re accompanied by a few dozen lighters.

  I hope no one burns down my bar.

  Jean-Pierre heads to the back, navigating high fives, fist bumps, and back slaps along the way. He grabs the empty barstool next to Cash and I hand him an ice-cold beer. Upending it, he chugs half the contents before setting the bottle down with a thump. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and grins his classic Cajun grin—all dancing eyes and flashing teeth.

  “We doin’ good, mais yeah? You don’t miss dat silly ol’ band you booked out of Baton Rouge?” He pronounces the city in the French way, rolling the R.

  “You know you’re doing good, you glory hound. Look at these folks.” I wave a hand around the bar. “They love you.”

  As if on cue, a guy stumbles up behind Jean-Pierre. He overshoots his mark and bumps into Cash. “Sorry, bro,” he says absently. Or, rather, slurs.

  He’s about two beers past a buzz. I’ll need to keep an eye on him to make sure he’s not overserved.

  Most watering holes in this city let customers drinks themselves under the bar. As long as the money’s green, the booze flows. But I try to cut folks off before they get too far gone.

  For one thing, I don’t like getting puked on as I drag a drunk into a taxi—learned that the hard way. For another thing, I feel a moral obligation as a business owner to do my best to make sure everybody has a good time, but nobody gets hurt.

  Alcohol poisoning is no laughing matter.

  “I had to come over and shake the hand of the man.” The drunk guy nearly elbows Cash in the face when he extends his big, meaty paw toward Jean-Pierre. “Put ’er there, dude. You guys are throwing down onstage. I love New Orleans!”

  As if to prove his point, he tilts back his beer, finishing it off. Then he slams the empty onto the bar and burps loudly.

  Did I mention he’s wearing a baseball cap backward? What is it with guys who wear their baseball caps backward? Don’t they know it makes them look like total tools?

  “Glad you like it,” Jean-Pierre says, ever the gentleman. “Where’re you from, ami?”

  “Oklahoma.” Another burp. Lovely. “Where the wind comes ssssweepin’ down the plains!” Baseball Cap sings this last part. Loudly. And way off-key.

  I make a face at Cash, who rolls his eyes.

  “What?” Baseball Cap demands, having caught Cash’s expression.

  “Nothing, man.” Cash takes a slow drink of his Gentleman Jack.

  “Damn right, it’s nothing,” Baseball Cap slurs before turning back to Jean-Pierre.

  A muscle in Cash’s jaw hardens. I grab his wrist and give it a squeeze. When he looks at me, I shake my head slightly. Don’t.

  His nostrils flare. Then he gives me his best no-worries-everything’s-hunky-dory smile. It’s sarcastic, of course. Baseball Cap is one of those drunks. You know the kind I’m talking about? The kind that gets loud and obnoxious and ruins everyone else’s good time?

  “I bet you get tons of pussy, don’t you?” Baseball Cap is so close to Jean-Pierre that Jean-Pierre has to lean back to escape his breath. “Chicks love musicians.”

  “No pussy for me, cher.” Jean-Pierre winks. “But when it comes to dick, I clean up.”

  I snort. That will do it. Baseball Cap will blanch and turn away in three…two—

  “You’re a faggot?” Baseball Cap sneers.

  Apparently, I underestimated the extent of the man’s douchebaggery.

  I open my mouth to tell him to shut his, but Cash beats me to it. “So what if he is? What’s it to you?”

  Baseball Cap looks down at Cash on the barstool. “Let me guess. You’re his butt buddy?”

  “Hey!” I slap the bar. “Everyone is welcome in here except for racists, sexists, and homophobic assholes. And since I get the feeling you’re all thr
ee, you can get the fuck out!”

  I usually try not to cuss. I might not be the gracious Southern belle Aunt Bea raised me to be, but I do my best to comport myself with dignity and a smidge of class. However, there are occasions that call for the almighty F-bomb.

  This is one of them.

  Baseball Cap’s upper lip curls back as his attention focuses on me. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “Wrong.” I smile, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. “I own this bar, so I absolutely, positively can tell you what to do.”

  “Bullshit.” He laughs. “You’re too young.”

  Normally, that would be true. Not many people my age have the moola to buy a place of business. Then again, not many people my age came into a small fortune thanks to their parents’ life insurance policies.

  “Now run along.” He flicks his fingers. “And get me another beer, bitch.”

  “That’s it.” Cash stands so abruptly his barstool topples over. Jean-Pierre is right there with him, taking a threatening step toward Baseball Cap.

  Cash grabs the guy’s arm to pull him toward the side door, but Baseball Cap is big. Not as tall as Cash, but a lot wider, with that flabby kind of muscle that makes him strong because he can put his weight behind it. He rips his arm out of Cash’s grasp, and I know things are about to go bad even before he rears back with his fist.

  My heart goes nuclear. I’m no doctor, but I suspect Cash can’t afford to get hit in the head.

  “Hey, buddy! Before you take a swing, there’s something you should know!” I yell.

  It’s enough to get the attention of the people around us. They turn away from the stage where Luc, who’s oblivious to what’s happening at the back of the bar, continues to win hearts and minds with his rendition of Bob Dylan’s “Make You Feel My Love.”

  Baseball Cap blinks at me blearily.

  “This here fella you’re fixing to tangle with?” I say. “He’s a Green Beret. He knows dozens of ways to kill a man.”

  Baseball Cap snickers. “Fuck the Green Berets. Bunch of pussies who run around in little French hats.” Then, to my horror, he lets his fist fly.

  Thank goodness he’s drunk and his aim is off.