Now, I often feel like a second thought. His meetings and business obligations seem to take precedent. But occasionally, I get a glimpse of the man I fell in love with, my Trevor, and I still feel hope for our future. Every relationship goes through trials and tribulations.
Hopefully, that’s all this is.
When the door of the gallery chimes, I shake off the memory and thoughts of Trevor, forcing a smile on my face. “Welcome to 303 Royal,” I call out, stepping around the desk, but stopping short as I come face to face once again with Finley Lawson.
“Finn.”
His name comes out like a grand discovery, much too breathy for my taste, but it’s too late. It’s already out of my mouth and I can’t take it back.
A familiar smirk takes over his chiseled face, those amazing eyes putting me in a trance, like they always have. “Kinda thought you might’ve forgotten my name.”
I laugh, partially to release the tension that’s taken up residence in my chest and partially because that’s so Finn. He’s always been the one to rescue me from my awkwardness, embracing my quirkiness, unlike Trevor.
“I was just packing up for the day and wanted to stop by and say hi. New Year’s Eve was…” He pauses, running a hand through his hair that’s still perfectly imperfect—rich chocolate brown with unruly curls.
We’ve always had that in common, the unruly curls.
And so many other things, I reminisce, as I momentarily lose myself in those gray eyes.
“New Year’s Eve was a surprise,” I finish for him, chuckling as I smooth down the front of my skirt. “I mean… New Orleans of all places.” To stop myself from fidgeting nervously as I wait for his wrath or anger over how we parted, I twist my fingers together behind my back.
“What are the odds,” he says, sounding more amazed and caught off guard than anything else.
I nod, unsure of where to take this conversation, but once again, Finn to the rescue.
“I have to go, but I’d love to catch up… maybe have a drink.”
Now, there’s a difference. The only drink Finn and I shared in the past was a bottle of wine we’d pilfered from my parents’ cellar on our graduation night. “Uh, yeah… a drink would be great.”
A drink between old friends. That’s okay, right?
“I play most nights at Gia’s Good Times,” Finn says, grabbing a pen and one of the gallery’s business cards from the desk beside me. “It’s on Frenchmen. My set tonight is early. I should be finished by nine. We can have a drink afterward, if you’d like.”
I’d like. I’d like that very much.
“Sure,” I say, taking the card and reading over the address, although I have no clue where it’s at. I’ve only been in my new city for a few days and most of that time has been spent here at the gallery and next door at the hotel I’m staying at. “I… I’ll see you there.”
Finn nods, his expression shifting as he takes me in and there’s an elongated pause in our conversation. I’m waiting, still, for him to say something, anything, about the past. And I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about it with questions on the tip of his tongue, but then he turns on his heel and walks toward the door.
But just when I think our conversation is over, he turns. “Don’t walk there,” Finn says, hesitantly. “It’s not safe for…” He starts, then stops. “It would be better if you take an Uber or something. I’ll make sure you get back safely, okay?”
And that’s the Finn I’ve always known. It’s like a warm, soothing balm. Regardless of our past, he still cares, always looking out for me.
“Okay.”
Chapter Five
Finley
“Okay, listen up,” Gia says, standing on a wooden box in the middle of the dimly-lit backroom. “For all you newbies, Mardi Gras season is upon us and shit’s about to get real.”
A smartass from the back stands up and yells, “Come on! This is New Orleans; shit is always real.” Various hoots and hollers follow, as well as, boisterous laughter.
“That may be true, y’all, but Mardi Gras is a whole other beast. We got two full months of parties, parades, wild tourists, and even wilder locals, so we have to be prepared to work harder than ever. It’s a damn good thing we work at the best jazz club in the city, am I right? We get paid to party so let’s make sure it’s the best one every night!”
A bottle of Jack is passed around, like it is on most nights, and I take my obligatory swig. Wiping the back of my hand over my mouth, I feel someone slide a hand around my torso, inching down to the button of my jeans.
Smirking, I turn skillfully out of the advance. “Gia.” It’s half greeting and half warning. I try to play it safe, because she’s my boss, but she also has a thing for the young talent she brings in. I’ve seen her slip off into a dark corner with several of the musicians who play at her bar.
I’m not interested in being a notch on her bedpost, but I do love my job.
I love this bar.
I love the people I play with.
Most of them became friends after the first week I was here. All of them love music as much as me, some more. The older guys have been doing this much longer than I have, putting in years on the stage, in the streets, and dozens of bars.
“How’s my favorite sax player?” she asks, coming around to face me. Her red lips are full and pouty as she closes in, her mouth hovering mere inches from mine.
“Good,” I say, feeling my body tense. When I don’t meet her halfway and my jaw tightens on instinct, she pulls back and pats my chest.
Giving in to her advances isn’t a requirement for working at Good Times, but most of the guys are happy to oblige, except me. Which might actually make me more appealing. Some people are turned on by the chase.
“Give us a good show,” she says, her hand tightening into a fist as she grabs the front of my shirt. “I’ll be watching.”
Her departing sentiment is delivered in a singsong with a wave over her shoulder as she saunters over to the bar, checking in with the guys stocking glasses and bottles.
Shaking my head, I take a deep breath. I think I’ve been holding it and could use a little air, but our first set is getting ready to start and I can’t keep my eyes off the front door. Ever since I invited Jette to the bar, I’ve been on edge.
I want her here.
I want to see her and talk to her.
But I’m also a little worried.
New Orleans, especially New Orleans during this particular season, is a little crazy. Gia was right, shit is getting real. I’ve noticed the hum in the air getting louder and more intense since New Year’s Eve. More and more people are flooding into the bars and clubs. Even my walk home in the wee hours of the morning is louder, with people staying out later.
I’ve always felt protective of Jette, even before we were friends.
The first time I saw her at school, she was standing across the cafeteria and the bitchy girls she hung out with were having fun at her expense. Apparently, someone found a picture of her from middle school when she still wore braces and posted, what they deemed unflattering images of her, on social media.
The comments were cruel.