Touch & Geaux (Cut & Run 7)

“Yeah, tell that to my boat!”

“You shot the holes in it!”

“Strategically! It still floats!”

“I coughed up glitter for a week after Panama, you prick!”

Nick put up both hands to fend off Ty’s ranting, but he was laughing too hard to respond again.

“Every f**king time!” Ty shouted before he smacked Nick on the side of the head and stormed off.

Nick doubled over laughing.

“So . . . how many times has he fallen for that gag?” Zane asked.

Nick gasped and held up his hand, displaying all five fingers. “This makes five!”

Zane began to chuckle. It was Ty’s one true weakness they could exploit, his loyalty to them. He had come every time they’d called, and would continue to do so no matter what.

Kelly chuckled at Zane’s side as they watched Ty disappear into the bar. They followed after him, and Zane’s mind immediately went to the last time he’d been in New Orleans, to the last time he’d followed someone he loved down one of these streets.

“Where are you taking us?” Zane asked as his wife led him down a series of alleys in the French Quarter that looked like they should be filled with vampires. Or prostitutes.

She looked back at him, her eyes sparkling and her hair cascading down her back in waves.

“I promise you’ll love it.”

Zane smiled and followed, willing to give anything a chance if it got her this excited. New Orleans was their treat to themselves for their tenth anniversary, and Becky had been looking forward to this for months.

“It’s this little dive I heard about. They do a sort of comedy burlesque act. It’s supposed to be one of the hidden gems of the French Quarter.”

“I hate to break it to you honey, but we’re not even in the French Quarter anymore.”

After another thirty yards, Becky paused at a weathered, wooden door set into a stone wall. They were close to the river, heading past the Market and toward the outskirts of the French Quarter. The carved wooden sign that hung perpendicular from the wall named the pitiful little establishment as La Fée Verte.

“I think this is it.”

Zane glanced around and smiled weakly. They were well off the beaten path, the noise of the main thoroughfares dulled by the thick walls and crumbling plaster. “If this isn’t it, we’re going to end the night in jail.”

“You, hush,” Becky muttered as she pushed through the door.

Within was a surprisingly large room. It was ill lit and crowded with scarred chairs and tables, most of which were full. The walls were brick stained by age, with patches covered haphazardly by aging plaster and thick baroque fabric. A long bar lined the far wall, and opposite that was a stage with a single microphone stand and heavy, wine-colored curtains.

There were no windows, and the light in the bar came from antique string lights overhead and sconces along the walls that held real candles flickering within hurricane lamps. Wax dripped onto the tables from many nights of lit candles that had never been cleaned up.

Zane let his eyes adjust to the dim light. He’d seen worse. Better too. But also worse. “Wow, sweetie, you take me to the nicest places,” he drawled.

Becky laughed and led him to a table near the middle of the room. There was a folded card with the name Garrett written on it in beautiful calligraphy.

Zane pulled her chair out for her, then unbuttoned his suit coat and sat.

She leaned toward him, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “I heard the two performers are incredible. And the rumor is that every Friday and Saturday night, they pick out people from the audience to join them afterward.”

“Join them?”

“You know, join them.”

“Oh. Oh!” Zane laughed and looked around as Becky giggled. “What have you gotten us into?”

“Oh come on, it’s just a rumor. It’ll be fun,” she said as she slid her hand into his and scooted her chair closer so she could settle against his shoulder.

A woman came to take their drink order just as a man stepped up onto the stage and took the old-fashioned microphone in his hand. The people around them began to applaud, some of them even whistling and hooting.

Zane smiled and sat back, willing to try to enjoy the evening for his wife’s sake. The man on stage wore an old-fashioned suit and eyeliner, and his long hair was slicked back to the point that the candlelight reflected off it. He held a bowler hat in his hand, pressed to his chest. Zane cocked his head as he admired the man. He had wide shoulders and compact, hard muscles that showed through the thin, ruffled shirt he wore.

Becky whistled and began to laugh. “He’s pretty.”

Zane clucked his tongue, mentally echoing her.

The man welcomed them to a night of debauchery and decadence, and almost immediately he began to pick people out of the crowd and insult them. Zane was surprised at first, but the packed audience was eating it up.

The man turned his attention on them with an appreciative whistle. “Well hello, beautiful,” he said in a deep voice as he took a few steps toward their table. “Where have you been all my life? Where are you from, gorgeous?”

Becky laughed and sat forward. “Austin, Texas.”

“Yeah, wait your turn, honey, I’m talking to your boyfriend.”

Becky cackled and covered her mouth with her hands, looking at Zane as the audience laughed.

Zane felt himself blushing. He laughed and shook his head, meeting the man’s eyes with a strange rush of excitement. He realized he was enjoying the attention.

The man on stage gave him a rakish once over. “Congratulations on your face, darlin’,” he said, and then moved on, addressing a few other couples.

Zane watched him, his mouth ajar. He’d rarely experienced even a passing interest in anyone but his wife. What was it about this guy that had caught his eye?

It wasn’t long before a woman joined the man on stage. They made an attractive couple, with talent and chemistry. Their voices battled for supremacy at times, other times melding together smooth as silk. They sang, told jokes, and even performed some physical gags, almost like skits. And some of the sexiest costumes Zane had ever seen. He wasn’t watching the sensuous curves of the woman in her corset, though, but rather the solid lines of the man’s shoulders as he moved. When he offered his rendition of “House of the Rising Sun,” it raised the hairs on Zane’s arms. He couldn’t look away.

For the last act of the show, the woman sang a rousing patriotic burlesque number as the man weaved his way through the crowd with his bowler hat, collecting tips from the tables. He would clap along with the music as he moved from table to table, egging people on and getting the crowd involved. Zane’s eyes followed his movements. Over the last hour of watching him, Zane had decided that he was definitely attracted to the man. It didn’t strike him as odd, but it was distracting enough that he had to sit and dwell on it.