Later I’ll figure out whether I accept for myself or on behalf of the US government. Later I’ll decide whether I become villain or hero. Right now there’s only one place I want to be, and that’s between the legs of a girl much too pure for me.
“You going after Bethany?”
I stop walking but don’t turn around. How did he know? I must have given myself away more than I thought. Or maybe that’s how Caleb keeps the dirty fuckers in line, by dangling that jailbait pussy in front of us. Maybe that’s why he asked me to follow her home.
Don’t punch Connor in the face. I glare him. “What’s it to you?”
“She’s a nice piece of ass. Not much in the way of tits, but—”
“Is there a point to this?”
“The point is you don’t want to fuck with her. If there’s one way to make sure Caleb puts a bullet in your back, it’s to make a move toward his sister.”
Interesting.
“Because I’m white?” It hasn’t escaped my notice that even in the melting pot of New Orleans, couples of mixed race get some sideways glances. I wouldn’t put it past Caleb to insist on that dynastic bullshit.
“Nah, he doesn’t want anyone touching her. Or even looking at her. Including me. One time I talked about her ass, and he almost broke my jaw. You hear him talk, you’d think she was six years old instead of sixteen.”
Caleb may be a crazy fuck, but I can’t blame him for being protective of his sister. Sixteen years old? I don’t usually mess around with jailbait. Then again, I’m not ready to walk away from her either. “Keep track of your own dick. Don’t worry about mine.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The contemporary circus Cirque du Soleil started as a group of street performers who did acts like fire-breathing and juggling on the streets of Quebec.
Bethany, five years earlier
Low voices rumble beneath the floor.
Mamere makes most of her money from her regular weekly customers who want tarot card readings. We’re a few blocks away from the French Quarter. Occasionally the tourists wander far enough away to see the neon sign announcing Palm Readings in the front window. I’m used to doing my homework in the kitchen listening to her croon her predictions through the velvet curtains. It’s comforting, her voice. Everything comforts me except for the séances. They don’t happen very often. But they always, always, always end in disaster. There’s sobbing. Usually someone throws something. Once the curtains caught on fire. I’m trying to do my usual stretches before bed, pretending like there isn’t a grieving family clutching their hands beneath me. I’m already wearing my jammies—a pink tank top and purple shorts. I’m sitting with my right leg in front of me, my left behind in a side split. My science textbook is propped up by my foot, and I’m settled in to read this chapter before I switch sides.
Pop. I jump at the sound and scramble up from the floor. The textbook slams flat. Goosebumps rise on my arms. I don’t believe in the séance happening underneath me, but the idea still freaks me out. You didn’t hear anything, Bethany. It was the wind.
Pop. The sound comes again, and a squeak escapes me.
I creep up to the window, where I expect to see nothing in the backyard. Instead there’s someone standing right underneath my window, looking up. My heart skips a beat. It’s him.
Pebbles. It was Josh throwing pebbles at the window, not spirits blowing by on the wind. My cheeks heat, even though he can’t have known what I was thinking.
I shove the window harder than I need to, with a bold push. The last thing I want is for him to think I was scared of a few pebbles. The night air wafts in, heavy with the scent of gumbo and hibiscus from the garden plants near the fence. “What are you doing here?” My heart thumps in a one-two-one-two beat at the sight of his face tilted up toward mine. The memory of powdered sugar ghosts across my tongue. It’s almost impossible to associate his hard body with soft, warm beignets. He is not soft, I remind myself. He is the same man who stalked around me in the warehouse and made my pulse race. If he’s really working with Caleb, he’s far more dangerous than the average man lurking in the city’s cemeteries. Far more dangerous.
“Come down,” he tells me. The tone of his voice is light. Simple—just go down. I should shut the window and lock it. But a flimsy window lock would never keep Josh out. I’m not even sure I’d want it to. Voices rise beneath the floor. Mamere’s made contact, it sounds like. This is the perfect time to leave. I’d almost risk walking right out, but then I’d have to pass by her. If it interrupts the séance it’ll inspire another lecture. Mamere is afraid I’ll become like my mother. A stripper by the time she was my age. Pregnant with Caleb by nineteen. It wasn’t the path Mamere wanted for my mother, and it’s not the one I’m taking. That doesn’t stop Mamere from wringing her hands about it.
So I slip on my shoes and go out the window instead.
The old windowsills are wide and sturdy, and my dancer’s body has no problem finding footholds on the way down. The difference now is that Josh is watching. He doesn’t step forward to offer a hand. He lets me choose my own descent. My last stop is a strand of ivy that stretches across the house. I predict it’ll hold my weight for the breath I need to get a toehold on the frame on the window below. I’m right. Gravity and I shake hands and I land lightly on my feet, letting my knees absorb some of the shock from the grass.
Now Josh and I are restored to our natural order.
He grins down at me. “Love the outfit.”
My face flushes all the way down to my chest. I didn’t dress for company, clearly. “You asked me to come down. I’m assuming I don’t need formal wear for that.”
Not that I have a lot of formal wear. I have one thrifted gown I got for the homecoming dance last year. One size up, so I could wear it again this year with different accessories.
And not that Josh asked me to come down. He didn’t.
He told me to, and I obeyed him.