Page 21

Bailey

“Well, that was awkward,” I grumble as Peter pulls me down the sidewalk to Bourbon Street. I don’t know where Castro’s is, so I have no idea where I’m going, but I could see Charlie did, judging by the smug look on his face. Luckily, Peter drives us to dinner, so I don’t have to walk far in these heels.

Truthfully, when I woke up, I regretted agreeing to this date. I would have much rather stayed home and ate my feelings away with a box of chocolates, but I’m only in New Orleans for a couple weeks. I don’t want to spend it sad because my two-day fling fell to the wayside.

“You can say that again,” Peter says, chuckling under his breath. He pulls onto a busy street, leading us out of the Quarter and into downtown.

“He’s just protective of me because of Andi,” I grit, fidgeting with the strap on my clutch. Peter’s hand covers mine and he stops me.

“You don’t need to be nervous, Bailey.”

Okay, kind of creepy, but I’m sure he meant well.

“I’m not,” I lie, forcing myself to hold still and watch the passing city out the window. It’s hard to believe this is the same New Orleans that boasts the Quarter. Sleek architecture, much like Los Angeles, lines the busy street, making it feel both cold and stuffy at the same time. Not a good feeling.

I suppose it’s childish of me, agreeing to go out with Peter, just to show Charlie that I have other options, but I refuse to acknowledge that, right now. I’m tired of being his personal science experiment. It’s almost as if he was conducting a study of the best way to mess with a woman’s head and I’m not okay with being the lab rat anymore.

“I don’t know about that. Charlie definitely wasn’t happy.”

I roll my eyes.

“Who cares?”

Peter laughs, patting my knee.

“He always had a temper.”

No shit , I think bitterly. It’s evident every time he sees me.

Peter took me to a restaurant that was definitely way out of my pay grade. When I told him as much, he told me in the south, a woman doesn’t pay for a date.

Okay, Casanova .

We’re seated at a table that looks like it belongs in a Michelin restaurant, surrounded on three sides by fish tanks.

Peter orders something in French and moments later, a tin bucket is set up next to our table with an expensive bottle of what I’m assuming is red wine.

I don’t like wine. I never have, but after the last few days I’ve had, I’m not going to complain about some liquid courage.

“We’ll both have the bar au beurre blanc ,” Peter says, smiling at the waitress. She’s a very pretty woman, with dark hair and light eyes, but with the look she turns on me, you would think I’ve spit on her Granny. I have no idea what to order. I spent the last ten minutes searching through the menu for something that sounded like chicken, but there were no pictures to go by.

“What is that?” I ask Peter, looking for it on the menu before the girl tugs it from my hand and slips away.

Rude.

“You’ll love it,” Peter says with a wave of his hand. I take another drink of my wine, pushing back the negative thoughts that are forming. Part of me wants to snap that I can order for myself, but the other half wants to be polite.

So far, Peter doesn’t seem to be that bad. He’s a little uppity, reminding me of home, but he’s nowhere near my mother, so that’s good. A little creepy, at times, but I know he’s nervous.

“Tell me about your life in California,” Peter says, tugging the stem of my glass down when I attempt to drink the wine.

Annoyance bubbles inside of me and I bite my tongue to keep from telling him to keep his hands to himself. “Well, not much to tell. My stepfather is a lawyer. I have a few siblings.”

“Marcus Whitmore. I’ve heard of him.”

Fuck.

“Oh, you have?” I say, faking interest.

“Yeah, my father worked with him on a case a few years back. Hell of a lawyer.”

Hell of a slimeball, too.

The last thing I want to do is talk about Marcus and all the impending questions that will come with him.

“Yeah, he’s good. What does your father do?”

“Politics. He’s in the Senate, actually.”

“And what do you do?”

Peter shrugs. “I work for him. I’m his campaign manager, most of the time.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It’s not,” Peter laughs. “But it’s important. We need people who aren’t afraid to cut a few loses for the greater good. This city is too focused on the few to see the big picture.”

“A few loses?” I ask, cautiously. Sounds like something Marcus and Drew would say.

“Well,” Peter starts, swirling his wine glass. “If you had two dogs and one was old and sick, while the other was a healthy pup and you could only save one in a flood, which would you choose?”

Is this guy for real?

“I wouldn’t save one. I would do what I needed to save both.”

Peter eyes me, annoyed. “Bailey. Think about it. The sick one will die soon, while the other has a whole life to live.”

“And I’m not God,” I snap. “It’s not my decision who gets to live or die and it’s not a politician’s, either.” I attempt to take another drink of wine, but he pulls it from my mouth, again.

I shoot him a glare and drink it, anyway. I’m not a child. “Well, when you look at it that way, it does sound bad. Perhaps that was the wrong explanation. Let’s move on from that.”

“Let’s,” I say, a little too harshly.

Be nice, Bailey, I scold myself.

“How do you know Charlie and Andi?” I ask, aiming to change the subject. . . . again.

“Well,” Peter says. “I met Charlie when we were younger. Andi is, of course, marrying a good friend of mine.”

“Charlie seems to think you’re a bad guy,” I say, waving my hand so he thinks I don’t believe him. Really, I want the full story, there.

Peter’s jaw tenses. So, there is something there.

“Why would he say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He just told me not to talk to you. You know how it goes. Once you’re protective over your little sister, her friends become your little sisters, too.”

“Well, there was a misunderstanding a couple years ago. Charlie thought I was seeing his girlfriend, at the time, behind his back.”

Oh. Oh, shit.

“Pricilla?” I ask, my mouth suddenly very dry. I finish the rest of my wine and Peter eyes the glass like I’m taking shots of one-fifty-one out of a stripper’s butthole.

“Yes. She and I were together for a while. She and Charlie were on the outs, so I thought they were separated, at the time.”

As my mind connects the dots, I start to understand why Charlie didn’t want me going out with Peter. And now I feel guilty as shit.

“So, you’re the one Charlie beat up.” It’s not a question.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

I can see the scar on his cheek. He’s the guy Priscilla cheated with that Charlie caught.

“The problem with Charlie is he’s too hot headed. Say you and I were dating. If I caught you cheating, I wouldn’t beat up the guy that you were with. I would leave.”

“His mother had just died,” I pointed out.

“There’s that. He’s also an alcoholic.”

“ Was ,” I correct, heat starting to trickle up the back of my neck. “They were still dating and you were in his house.”

It makes sense to me, then, why Priscilla would bring Peter to Charlie’s for sex. She wanted Charlie to catch her.

“Yes, but she wasn’t happy. Everyone has the right to be happy. And I thought that was Priscilla’s house. Charlie either doesn’t care or he doesn’t know when a woman is upset. He was one of those guys in high school who got by on their athletic skill. He thinks all women are the same. Women want to be submissive. Protected.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

Finally, the waitress delivers our food before Peter can say anything else. As it turns out bar au beurre blanc is a fish, eyes and all, with a goopy yellow sauce on it. Revulsion coils in my stomach and I have to look away.

“I get the sense that I’ve upset you, Bailey.”

This is too much for me. He’s just like Drew.

I stand from the table, my chair scraping against the floor loudly and drawing unwanted attention towards our table.

“First of all, Charlie is a good man and he didn’t deserve the things you did to him. Second of all, you know nothing about what a woman wants because it certainly isn’t to be told what to do and what to eat.” I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder.

“Bailey, sit down. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Abruptly, I shove my plate of fish into his lap. “Eat shit. ”

An old man laughs as I walk out of the restaurant.

“What an asshole,” I murmur, pulling my cigarettes out of my purse. It’s been days since I’ve smoked one, but I think I’ve earned it after listening to that. Charlie was right, as much as I hate to admit it.

“Hey, sweetheart,” a homeless man calls as I walk past him.

I turn and glare at him and he holds up his hands in surrender.

Why couldn’t Charlie just tell me Peter was the guy that put him in jail? It would have saved me this whole headache. And for Peter to think that he knows what a woman wants. God, he sounded like Drew when he said that stuff.

I get home before I even realize I’ve hiked across the Quarter. I’m so angry that I cook a cup of ramen and eat it in the bathtub in silence, while soaking my sore feet. Heels and hiking probably wasn’t the smartest move.

Charlie isn’t home. He and his friend must have left after I did. Probably picking up women.

Peter doesn’t try to call me and it’s a good thing, too. I’m not sure my phone would survive a crash into the wall.

When I finally climb out and slip between my sheets, it’s dark and I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’m almost asleep when I hear Charlie come home.

A loud thud hits the wall beside me and I jump, almost launching myself out of bed. A moan follows and my stomach sinks.

What the fuck?

Another moan followed by a groan trickles through the paper-thin walls and my skin heats up .

“Are you kidding me?” I groan under my breath. Whatever woman Charlie’s brought home makes another noise, banging into the wall again.

Jealously forms a pit in my stomach and, stupidly, my eyes tear up. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not like Charlie and I ever agreed to anything. A couple orgasms don’t constitute the need for loyalty.

Still, resentment bubbles in my gut. I’m not allowed to go on a date with Peter, yet Charlie’s allowed to bring a girl home and fuck her up against our shared wall and I’m not supposed to care.?

He wants you to care, the voice in the back of my head chimes, reminding me that reacting negatively like he wants would just be playing into the palm of his hand.

My phone vibrates beside me on the night stand with an email and a sick and twisted idea forms in my head. Twisted, yes, but genius.

I grab the phone faster than I can talk myself out of it and dial the number.

“Hello, I would like to report a break-in.”