Page 3 of Girl Between (Dana Gray FBI Mystery Thriller #5)

“Play Sweet Caroline,” Dana slurred, slapping down a hundred-dollar bill on top of the closest dueling piano.

The bored pianists shared a look, shrugged, and agreed. “This one goes out to the unoriginal drunk lady in the front; again,” drawled the one she’d given the cash to.

Dana raised her empty hurricane glass in appreciation before adding it to the rest of the empty glassware at her table for one. She nodded to the waitress, signaling for one more drink as the upbeat Neil Diamond tune filled the bar.

The more time she spent in the Crescent City, the more alcohol she required to dull the pain and the not-so-distant memories she was trying to leave behind.

Dana was four weeks into her grant from NOSA. The New Orleans Arts time was in abundance. And Dana had finally gotten her timing right.

Desperate to escape the tumultuous memories of her last case in D.C., she reached out to see if the offer still stood. Professor Broussard of Tulane University, who’d been the catalyst behind the research, had immediately confirmed, stating the program would take her anytime, anyhow.

Guilt tried to prevail through the haze of sugar and rum clouding Dana’s judgment. She was supposed to be working on tracing the origins of vampirism. But so far, all she’d managed to discover was which bars would consistently overserve her.

Tonight, she was at Pat O’Brien’s; a Bourbon Street tourist trap if there ever was one. She wasn’t particularly fond of the venue, but the multiple bars and wall-to-wall tourists ensured anonymity and more importantly, that the high-octane hurricanes would keep flowing her way.

She preferred Lafitte’s Blacksmith bar on St. Philip, where she could disappear into the dark shadows of the old candlelit bar. But the limited collection of bartenders made it harder to achieve the level of numbness she required.

If vampires existed, Dana was convinced they were staffed at Lafitte’s. The tiny dive bar was open almost 24/7. And whether she started or ended her night there, the same bartenders were always in attendance as though they didn’t require the sleep or sustenance of mere mortals.

Dana planned to stumble her way—drink in hand—from Pat’s to Lafitte’s, like she did most nights, but it was still early.

Tonight, like every night, the dark melody of the dueling pianos pounded a booming rhythm that spilled out of the Bourbon Street staple like a siren’s song, drawing more and more rowdy revelers inside.

The shrill voices of the drunken patrons added to the hokeyness of Pat O’Brien’s signature sing-alongs.

Dana groaned when a bachelor party stumbled into the bar.

She’d learned to avoid them at all costs if she didn’t want to be repulsively propositioned, which meant she’d be moving on earlier than planned tonight.

Fighting her way to the bar, she waved her credit card in the air, ready to pay her tab. A busy bartender quickly gave her a nod. Dana watched the piano players as she waited for her bill. She knew there were two of them, but seeing double of everything else was a sure sign she needed to leave.

Finally, the bill was set in front of her, but as she was tabulating the tip, her phone began to ring.

Jake Shepard’s name flashed across her caller ID, awakening the pain she’d spent the night trying to numb.

She owed him a phone call, but her stomach tightened with unease knowing she still didn’t have an answer to his question. What about us?

As the tattooed bartender came back to collect Dana’s check she said, “On second thought, can you add one more for the road?”

The bartender nodded, and Dana was filled with gratitude for New Orleans’s fast and loose lifestyle of open container laws. She took her Styrofoam cup full of high-octane rum punch to go.