Page 29 of Gator (Bourbon Kings MC #1)

“Oh my God,” Henley moaned, her eyes rolling back so far, I half-expected to see her brain. She melted, quite literally, into her chair.

“This is so good.”

I swear, the woman was a dramatic masterpiece.

I, on the other hand, was too busy experiencing pure, unadulterated sandwich bliss to be dramatic.

I took another bite, the olive salad exploding on my tongue in a symphony of salty, briny, and slightly vinegary perfection.

A perfect storm of flavor nestled between layers of soft Italian bread and cured meats.

“Yep,” I mumbled through a mouthful of deliciousness, “And it’s the only thing that’s keeping me here. I’m telling you, Hen, if Rosewood had these sandwiches, I wouldn’t need Wade anymore. Every bite is a new sensation. I swear, I’ve orgasmed at least three times because of this sandwich.”

Okay, maybe I was being a little dramatic.

But only a little.

Henley didn’t bat an eye. She was too busy dismantling her own muffuletta with the ferocity of a starving lioness. “I can see that,” she mumbled around a mouthful of salami. “But don’t you think you’ll tire of eating these?”

The sandwich froze halfway to my mouth.

The very suggestion felt like a personal affront.

My eyes widened, a slight tremor of panic running through me. “I will never tire of eating a muffuletta. Never. It’s... it’s a culinary masterpiece! A symphony of flavor! A... a testament to the power of friendship and cured meats!”

I might have gotten slightly carried away.

Henley shook her head, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You’re ridiculous, but I get it. Food always seems to speak to your soul first and your stomach second.”

She had a point.

Food for me wasn’t just sustenance; it was an experience, a narrative, a whole darned theatrical production. My tastebuds were the critics, and my stomach was the cheering audience.

I grinned, leaning back, the crumbs of my divine sandwich clinging to my chin like edible glitter. “Soul food, Henley. It’s a religion here. And let me tell you, this muffuletta should be canonized. We should build a shrine. Offerings of provolone and giardiniera can be made at the altar.”

I paused, considering the logistics.

“Maybe we could have little muffuletta-shaped communion wafers.”

Henley burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the otherwise quiet deli. “Oh, I’m already working on the hymn book,” she said, wiping a stray olive from her cheek. “It’s going to have a really catchy chorus about the glorious layers of this sandwich.”

We fell silent again, lost in the blissful task of devouring our heavenly sandwiches.

The rhythmic crunching of bread and the occasional contented sigh were the only sounds, a perfect soundtrack to this utterly ridiculous, completely satisfying, and profoundly muffuletta-centric moment.

It was, I realized, a perfect example of why sometimes, the simplest pleasures in life were also the most profound.

And sometimes, why a really, really good sandwich made everything okay.

Henley rolled her eyes dramatically. “What about Wade? Do sandwiches surpass his charm now?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Henley, Wade’s charm is in a whole different league. It’s not a fair comparison. Sandwiches don’t brood in leather jackets or fix your bike at two a.m. But”—I lifted my muffaletta—“this right here is a masterpiece of its own kind.”

Henley smirked as she wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Good to know Wade hasn’t been completely dethroned. But seriously, what’s next for you two? Are you still playing the ‘will they, won’t they’ game, or are you finally getting on the same page?”

The question hung in the air for a moment, and I set the sandwich down carefully, as though handling a delicate piece of art.

“I don’t know, Hen. It’s like every time we’re about to turn a corner, something pulls us back to square one.

It’s exhausting, but...” I trailed off, my mind circling back to last night—the way Wade’s hand lingered on mine, the quiet promise in his eyes that he would always be there, no matter how messy things got.

“But maybe that’s just how we work. Messy but undeniable. ”

Henley leaned forward, her gaze softening. “Messy isn’t bad, you know. Sometimes the best things in life are the ones you have to fight for. And if anyone can handle a little chaos, it’s you.”

I smiled, though the weight of her words settled deep in my chest. “Yeah, well, let’s hope you’re right. Wade and me? We’re on a long road, Henley. But I think we’re worth the trip.”

She raised her soda in a mock toast. “To messy roads and muffalettas. May they never disappoint.”

Clinking my glass against hers, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Amen to that.”

As the sounds of New Orleans filtered through the air, a rhythmic melody of horns and laughter carried on the wind, and I wondered if this was what my life would be like.

Good food, lazy days, laughter, and just a whole lotta fun.

Had to admit if it was, I wasn’t too heartbroken about it.

There was something magical, relaxing about the way of life in New Orleans.

The streets seemed to hum with a life of their own, a sort of timeless energy that pulsed through the veins of the city.

Every corner seemed to have a story to tell, whether it was in the soulful notes of a jazz band tucked into an old bar or the rich aromas of gumbo wafting from a kitchen window.

It wasn’t just a place; it was an experience.

A tapestry of culture, history, and joy, stitched together by the people who called it home.

I let myself get lost in it, savoring the slow unraveling of time, the way the minutes didn’t seem to matter here. And for the first time in what felt like ages, I wasn’t chasing a moment—I was living in one.

The French Quarter was a maze of enchantment, a kaleidoscope of color, sound, and movement as Henley and I wandered around the city.

Balconies adorned with iron lace stretched above cobblestone streets, where revelers strolled with daiquiris in hand, their laughter mingling with the street performers’ melodies.

Every shop window seemed to beckon us with mysterious trinkets and treasures, voodoo dolls perched beside handcrafted jewelry, and vintage postcards that whispered secrets of yesteryear.

As we wandered further, the Mississippi River came into view, its waters shimmering under the golden blush of the setting sun.

A paddlewheel steamboat glided along its surface, a living relic of a bygone era, its white silhouette timeless against the amber glow.

The gentle breeze carried with it the scent of beignets and powdered sugar from the nearby café, where patrons lingered, indulging in the sweet decadence of the moment.

I found myself drawn to the rhythm of the place, to its heartbeat—a city that thrived on revelry and resilience.

And as the night crept on, New Orleans transformed once more, bathed in the soft light of gas lamps, its shadows dancing to the tune of footfalls and quiet conversation.

Somehow, amidst the vibrant chaos, there was a profound serenity, a reminder that life didn’t have to be rushed.

It could be savored, cherished, celebrated.

The music called to me as the night deepened, its pull magnetic and impossible to ignore.

We followed the sound of trumpets and tambourines to a small, dimly lit club where the air was thick with rhythm and the scent of spilled whiskey mingled with traces of clove cigarettes.

Inside, the world seemed to shrink, the walls reverberating with the raw energy of a jazz quartet that played as if their hearts would burst with every note.

A drummer tapped out a beat that felt like the pulse of the city itself, steady and unyielding, while the saxophonist poured out melodies that alternated between playful and mournful, as complex and layered as the streets we had walked that day.

Strangers swayed in unison under the spell of the music, faces alight with a joyous abandon that spoke of freedom—a fleeting, precious kind of freedom that could only be found in a place like this.

I caught the eye of a woman seated in the corner; her smile was as enigmatic as the crescent moon peeking through the window.

She raised her glass to me in an unspoken toast, as if welcoming me to the secret heartbeat of New Orleans.

For a moment, I felt like I belonged, like the city had opened its arms and embraced me as one of its own.

As the band took a brief pause, the city outside seemed to exhale, its hum softening to a gentle murmur under the twinkle of stars and the glow of lamplight.

But even in that quiet, New Orleans thrived—a place where every second held the promise of discovery, every shadow hid a story waiting to be told.

We stepped back out into the balmy night, my senses alive, my heart full. And as we wandered once more, arm in arm through the labyrinth of streets, I knew that this city, with its vibrant soul and unyielding spirit, had left an indelible mark on me.

I was finally home.

“Look, Devlyn!” Henley gasped, pointing to an old woman near a café. “Let’s get our palms read.”

Groaning, I shook my head. “We don’t believe in that crap, Hen. Besides, if we want our palms read, all we gotta do is call Athena.”

“We are in the French Quarter, Dev. I want the full New Orleans experience, and that means getting my fortune read. Come on!” My sister huffed, dragging me over to the woman.

The woman looked up as we approached, her eyes sharp and enigmatic beneath a shawl of swirling purples and golds.

A small table in front of her held an assortment of candles, crystals, and a tattered deck of tarot cards.

Henley, ever the charmer, grinned as she plopped herself down on the creaky wooden stool across from the woman.

The old woman gave me a knowing look before focusing on Henley. “You seek answers?” she asked, her voice as thick and rich as molasses, carrying a cadence that spoke of mysteries and ancient wisdom.

Henley nodded enthusiastically. “I want to know what my future holds.”

I crossed my arms, standing just behind my sister, my skepticism evident. “Do you take credit cards?” I asked dryly, earning me a sharp elbow from Henley.

“Shush,” she whispered. “This is serious.”

The woman shuffled the tarot cards methodically, the sound of the well-worn cards brushing together filling the stillness of the night. When she finally laid down the first card, her expression shifted ever so slightly—just enough to make my curiosity stir despite myself.

“What do you see?” Henley asked breathlessly, her eyes darting between the woman’s face and the card lying on the table.

The old woman tapped the card lightly with a weathered finger.

It depicted a tower struck by lightning, flames erupting from its windows as small figures tumbled from its heights.

“The Tower,” she murmured, her voice laced with gravity.

“A symbol of upheaval, of unforeseen change. But also a chance to rebuild, stronger than before.”

Henley’s excitement dimmed slightly, her brows knitting together as she pondered the meaning of the card. “Does that mean something bad will happen?”

The woman’s enigmatic smile returned, her eyes glinting like the reflection of moonlight on dark water. “It means transformation, child. What may seem like destruction is often the beginning of something new.”

As Henley absorbed the words, the woman turned her gaze to me, her stare piercing and unrelenting. “And you,” she said, her voice softer but no less intense. “You carry a shadow with you—a question that you do not wish to ask.”

I stiffened, caught off guard by her sudden attention. “I’m just here for moral support,” I muttered, avoiding her eyes.

She chuckled, a low, knowing sound, before drawing another card and placing it before me. This one showed a figure standing at a crossroads, two paths stretching into the distance. “The Two of Swords,” she intoned. “A choice awaits you, one with no easy answers.”

Henley gave me a sidelong glance, her curiosity now fixed on me instead of her own fortune. “A choice? What kind of choice?”

I shrugged, feigning indifference. “Probably whether to leave now or stay and let the psychic drain my wallet.”

But deep down, the woman’s words struck a chord, a quiet unease settling in my chest. The night air seemed to grow heavier, wrapping around me like a tangible presence. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something in her eyes—pity, or perhaps warning.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“Well,” Henley said, breaking the tension with her usual exuberance. “I think this is amazing. Thank you so much!” She reached for her purse, while the old woman began gathering her cards, her expression now serene.

We walked away, Henley clutching her newfound sense of mystery and me still trying to shake the woman’s stare from my thoughts.

The French Quarter buzzed around us, alive with music and chatter.

But despite the liveliness, I couldn’t help but feel like something had shifted, as if the cards had pulled back a veil I wasn’t ready to see beyond.