Page 9

When we reach Carousel, the outdoor saloon is lit up spectacularly.

There are more than twenty public squares throughout the city of Savannah, and the old-time carousel that gives the bar its name is central to this one.

An intrepid entrepreneur saw potential in the children’s ride, long since abandoned and rusted out, restoring and converting it into an after-hours money-making machine.

Paul takes my hand as we amble to the nearest bar.

There are two of them, carved into opposite sides of the carousel itself.

Traditional mirrors and big white bulb lights twinkle overhead, moths fluttering lazily in their wake.

Gold trim is everywhere, flaking slightly from direct and constant exposure to the bayou’s humidity.

Several adventurous patrons swing themselves up on wooden horses as they sip their drinks.

Others dance to the beat of live jazz music streaming from a pair of dueling trumpet and saxophone players in the square.

Their instrument cases, open at their feet, swim with bills.

“Kat?” Tony leans over Paul’s shoulder. “Kat, what do you want?”

“A martini.”

“Rockefeller’s drink?” Paul murmurs, nuzzling me. “You have expensive taste tonight, m’lady.”

I shrug and point at my reflection above the bar. “She’s making the decisions, not me. ”

Abe shoulders around us to distribute drinks. He gives Paul his signature old-fashioned, then passes over my martini. His gaze lingers on me as he hands off the glass. Tony pulls back from the bar with two beers, one for himself and one for Abe.

“Cheers, Royals.” Paul tips his drink in.

Two martinis later, I start to dance in the square with the other revelers.

I take turns pulling in Paul, Abe, and Tony, one by one.

Each boy humors me for a few minutes before returning to the bar.

Tony is by far the best dancer, but even he doesn’t linger tonight.

He departs as soon as the final notes of our tango fade, off to chase a skirt on the opposite side of the bar.

In his absence, I assess my prospects. Paul leans casually on the counter with Abe, watching for my next move.

It doesn’t take long to attract a groping pair of hands on my hips.

“What are you drinking?” a deep voice murmurs in my ear.

“A martini,” I tell my stranger.

Two minutes later, one magically appears in my hand. Such spectacular service.

I subtly tip the glass and wink in Paul and Abe’s direction, eliciting laughs as I continue dancing with my mystery man.

After a few minutes, however, his hands start wandering, and I decide to take my leave.

If it’s not Paul, Abe, or Tony, I’m quick to bore.

Besides, Paul’s eyebrows are lowering with each passing moment. Abe’s too.

I turn to smile politely at my new friend, gripping his wrists to hold them still. “Thanks for the drink,” I tell him, “but I need to take a dance break.”

“Wanna go somewhere?” he murmurs, sliding his right hand behind my neck.

Really, really no. “Thanks for the drink,” I repeat and pull away.

He makes one more attempt, reaching out to grab my wrist. Possessive .

Abe rises from the bar, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He of all people knows I can handle myself. It’s why Paul hasn’t moved from his perch.

“Come on now. I bought you a drink,” the fella protests.

The Academy-bred lady inside me shrinks, but the wolf never does. And the wolf always wins.

“Yes, you bought a drink. You didn’t buy me .” I narrow my eyes, pointedly, dangerously, before twisting my wrist to break free. “Enjoy your night.”

I trot back to the guys as Paul signals the bartender. “Another martini?”

While I wait, I reach over and take a sip of Abe’s beer.

I hand it back and lick my lips as he swallows the dregs.

He holds his fingers up for the barmaid.

She’s wildly popular tonight—it’s quite a rarity to see a woman tending bar—but she swoops over swiftly to take Abe’s order.

Paul blazes up a cigarette with his silver lighter and offers me a drag.

Tony rejoins us soon after, bringing with him two tittering bayou brunettes—one for him and one, presumably, for Abe.

One of the women is smoking a hash joint.

She offers us all a hit. Paul and I decline, but Abe and Tony accept.

Paul smokes the occasional cigarette, but he never messes with street drugs.

Not ever. Says he’s seen more than enough of that in the Catacombs.

It’s something of a silent agreement between the two of us, a blood pact sworn the day he found me beside my mother’s body.

We don’t use; we don’t deal. The Wolfpack will never feed that particular appetite of Savannah’s black market.

We chat as a group for a short while before Tony decides he wants to go underground.

In the center of the merry-go-round, there’s a trapdoor, a portal to the dark side of Carousel—a hidden speakeasy.

Whispers run rampant through the streets of Savannah about the looming threat of the temperance movement.

The amendment has been ratified. Prohibition is coming, sure as the tide of 1920, and make no mistake, the city saloons are preparing for war.

Already cellars are being quietly converted, expanded, and trialed as liquor dens and dance halls.

For those in the know, of course…and for those willing to look the other way.

If there’s anything my upbringing has taught me, it’s that the black market will always find a way to keep turning.

And those bluenoses who run the American Congress are fools if they expect anything less.

The temperature in Carousel’s cellar is a refreshing ten degrees cooler than aboveground. The Savannah humidity becomes a distant memory, but the air down here is heavily laden with smoke. There’s a dark, velveteen bar along one wall. Faint echoes of the live music percolate from above.

It’s nearly wall-to-wall bodies down here tonight, either gyrating to the beat or crowding the lone bartender for his finest hooch. Tony jumps into the fray with the two brunettes. I lose them in the smoky haze within minutes.

“It’s packed like a can o’ sardines down here tonight. You wanna dance? Or should we go back out?” Paul speaks the words directly into my ear.

“Tony’s in there.” I point to the mob.

Paul shrugs. “He’s a big boy.”

True enough.

I look at Abe, but he also shrugs. Whatever you want, his lazy drawl whispers in my mind, though his lips don’t move. He smiles languidly because he knows.

Emboldened, I reach for both fellas’ hands and plunge into the pit. We weave between swinging hips and stomping heels, carving out our own space in the crowd. Paul slips behind me, and Abe takes my front. The three of us move to the beat, dancing, sweating the alcohol from our systems.

Abe and I attract more than a few judgmental stares, but I resolutely ignore them.

Even here in the bayou, where the lines of propriety are fluid, the stigma of the Jim Crow South is a red-hot brand.

As inherent to the community as our beloved Spanish moss, an epiphyte canopy of prejudice hangs over Savannah, casting shadows so deep, all sunlight is blocked. Growth made impossible.

Paul’s hands move over me unchecked as my heart pounds in rhythm with the trumpet. Abe is far more conservative with his touch, but his eyes pool into mine. My entire body thrums, a live wire sparking.

I feel daring tonight, so I step forward and grind my hips into Abe’s.

I wait breathlessly for his reaction, wondering if he’ll pull away.

I stay close, swinging with him. He swallows and looks over my shoulder at Paul.

I hold my breath, but he must get what he needs, because his hands hook onto me seconds later.

He lowers his forehead to mine, closer than close. When I exhale, he inhales.

Paul’s deep chuckle rumbles in my ear several minutes later. “Let’s go back outside.”

His words raise shivers of promise on my neck. I give a cursory glance for Tony, but I don’t see him. We emerge from the trapdoor to find the outdoor crowd has died down. I understand why when the first breath of humid air hits.

Abe slinks to the bar, and I follow him with my eyes. Paul slides his arms around my waist from behind and nuzzles my neck.

“You want Abe tonight, doll?” he asks. “It’s okay—you know I don’t mind sharing with him.”

I don’t reply right away. My eyes narrow as the barmaid flutters over to Abe like he conjured her out of thin air. He orders a drink, and she stays near, chatting him up, laughing as she pops his bottle cap. My hackles rise.

“Go get him.” Paul gently slaps my ass, urging me forward.

I hold Paul’s attention as I sashay to the bar. I love it. My veins sing with adrenaline. I sidle up to Abe, wiggling myself between him and the counter. He takes a sip of beer and looks at me with interest, waiting .

“What’re you gonna do, hellraiser?” His voice is deep and teasing. He knows perfectly well what I’m going to do, but I plow forward anyway.

Barreling ahead like a runaway train, I slide my arms around Abe’s neck.

His eyes flicker with anticipation as I rise on tiptoes to kiss him.

He puts his beer down and presses both hands to the bar, pinning me in.

I slip my tongue in his mouth and suck gently.

When I pull away, we both look at Paul, who jerks his head.

“Let’s go home.” I take Abe’s hand.

We follow Paul as he cuts a path through the square. I lift his billfold from his pocket and toss some scratch into the musicians’ cases. Paul chuckles when he realizes what I’ve done.

“Dirty little thief,” he teases, swiping for the wallet.

I spin away in jest, furtively passing the contraband from my right hand to my left. I very much enjoy the look on Paul’s face when he snatches my right arm and comes up with an empty palm, fooled by my sleight of hand.

“Looking for something?” I lift my left hand, his billfold dangling between two fingers.

His lighthearted snort becomes a deep, throaty laugh. “Smooth move, Kitty-Kat. Who taught you to turn tricks like that?” His eyes glimmer knowingly for a fleeting second before he turns on a dime and takes off running. “Bet I can beat you home,” he says over his shoulder. “ Both of you.”

The three of us tear through moonlit streets, yipping and laughing like the wolves we are.

I can’t tell if I’m breathless with exertion or anticipation.

As Paul unlocks the door to our loft, Abe leans me against the wall.

He closes his lips over mine. The door swings open, and he drags me inside, backing me right into Paul’s waiting arms.

Someone kicks the door shut, but I barely notice.

There’s one set of lips on mine, another moves over my neck.

Paul’s fingers work the buttons at my back while Abe pulls off my wig.

He drops it to the floor as I push back his suspenders and rip off his white shirt.

The fingers of my left hand slide up his ribs, darting across his pawprint tattoos.

I reach my right hand behind me and wrap it around Paul’s neck, leaning back to kiss him.

The three of us slowly make our way to the master bedroom. Once inside, I step out of my dress. Abe sits on the bed to unstrap my heels and pull down my stockings. He presses fluttering kisses to my knees and thighs while he works. Paul finds the bottle of gin and falls back on the bed, waiting.

Power rushes through my veins, the power of holding both men like liquid mercury in my palm. Hot and fluid and languid and mine . When my shoes and stockings are gone, Abe’s kisses move from my thighs to my center. My head tips back, my jaw slack.

“Kat,” he murmurs, breath hot between my legs.

Paul pulls a swig of gin, then crawls to us.

I push Abe onto his back, and he pulls me with him, straight onto his lap, breath hitching.

Paul tosses him a condom. With little hesitation, Abe positions me, then slides in with a satisfied groan.

Paul moves behind me and grabs my hips, changing the angle for himself.

I cry out once they’re both inside, filling me, front and back.

“Kat?” Paul asks, waiting for my go-ahead.

I give it.

It’s not the first time we’ve done this, and the guys have their rhythm well sorted.

They know when I’m close, and their pace quickens.

They thrust together, twice. I implode, falling onto Abe’s chest. I’m completely oblivious as they both finish, one after the other, a few thrusts later.

I’m inhabiting another planet. Floating on the ceiling.

Paul collapses on the bed, the motion gently bouncing Abe and me up and down. Abe, whose strong arms are still wrapped tightly around me, holding on like I’m a buoy in a storm. I stay there with him, breathless. Paul kisses me lazily, amused. Abe runs his fingers up and down my arm .

I sigh and close my eyes, drifting into oblivion with these two men—wolves—beside me.

“Hey.” It’s Paul who wakes me at dawn, gently shaking my shoulder. “We have to get you back to the Academy. The sun will rise soon.”

Abe snores softly, blissfully unaware. I dress quickly but pause before leaving the room. I don’t want to wake him, but…

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him for you,” Paul says.

“What, exactly, will you tell him?” Because I’m wondering what to say myself.

His eyes are understanding as he shrugs. “That you love him.”

“Yes,” I admit, “but not like I love you.” It’s important to me that Paul knows.

He reaches out to tweak one of my bedraggled braids. “I know, Kitty-Kat. You don’t have to worry. Not with me. Not with any of us.”