“Hey, close the doors,” Lucky calls to him without pulling his gaze from my face.
Patrick doesthatwithout saying anything either.
The doors loudly click shut, and Lucky drags the cigarette while his long, slow strides carry him across the balcony to stand right in front of me.
“Last night, huh?” His words exit his mouth on a curl of smoke.
My gut reaction to him calling me out is that it’s none of his business. But then I remember that I only did what I did with Patrick because I was drunk and secretly spying on Lucky with those two women, like a creepy pervert. Bile creeps up my throat, and I swallow, unable to respond.
Lucky lifts his hand to wag the cigarette at me. “Y’know, if it had been me, I wouldn’t be saying sorry. Andyouwouldn’t be wanting to leave.” He closes the distance between us, forcing my back to press against the railing and bracing his palms on either side of me.
Caged in. No ability to walk away. In this moment, Lucky De Luca is the human version of this government-mandated lockdown that’s keeping me from fleeing from this mortifying situation.
“I kissed you while we were slow dancing,” he goes on, cobalt eyes spearing mine, “in low, blue lighting. At one of the oldest jazz clubs in New Orleans. With a timeless song in the air.” His dense, black brows crawl up his forehead. “And you called meshady.”
In a reflex, the words spill from my lips. “I’m sor—”
“And thenyou,” he cuts me off, inclining his head forward and staring down his nose at me, “let Patrick put his hand up your skirt in thehallway.”
My stomach twists into a knot.
He saw. He knows.
“Yeah, I did see you,” Lucky adds, seemingly reading my mind, although my guilt is probably all over my face like somebody doused me with a bucket of red paint. He cocks his head. “You coulda joined us, y’know.”
He’sso smug, and I’m cornered like a shamed dog, and I’m sick to my stomach, and I can’t stop the words. “Fuck you.”
A smile teases his lips. “Well, you could’ve. But instead, you wanted to spy on me and then use Patrick to get your rocks off. But you know what, sweetie?” He licks his lips and drags his gaze up and down my body. “I bet you were thinking of me while he was pounding you so hard that you screamed loud enough for everyone on the second floor to hear. Weren’t you?”
Again, he’s right, but he’s also proving that he’s just a self-absorbed asshole. And he willneverget the satisfaction of me admitting it. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you’re lying to yourself.” He angles his face over mine, forcing my head to tilt backward like we’re about to share an intimate kiss. He’s so close that the air I’m breathing is saturated with his intoxicating scent.
He lifts his hand off the rail to flick his cigarette onto the empty street below. He has the audacity to stroke his fingers across my forehead and then tuck my hair behind my ear. And my body has the audacity to ache with need for him to use those fingers on me exactly like he did to the women last night. His eyes remain locked on mine, and it’s only right now that I realize that the brilliant, handsome, charismatic jazz pianist I’ve loved for years—the one whose music was the single bright spot in my extremely dull and unfulfilling life—has a dark streak.
“You’re a really smart girl, Ava doll,” Lucky murmurs, drawing his hand down the side of my neck to cradle my nape. “You blew me off last night because you thought my reason for singling you out to come here was shady. And you were right.”
I gulp as a wisp of fear snakes through me, but I still can’t look away from his eyes; cobalt darkened to deep pools of cold obsidian.
“You made an impression on me at that show,” Lucky continues, his thumb dragging up and down the center of my throat, fingers still wrapped around the back of my neck, perfectly poised to choke me if he wanted. “You’re a painfully shy, painfully awkward little girl, with no confidence and even less self-respect. And that made you a fun challenge for me to overcome. You see, Ava…” He steps even closer, and I grasp the iron lace railing pressed to my back. “I have all of this because I’m really good at overcoming challenges. You wouldn’tbelievethe shit I’ve survived to get to where I am. You asked me last night, what’s the real reason I go by this name, and I’ll be honest with you. It’s got nothingto do with poker.”
Lucky abruptly releases my neck and stands up straight, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You might get your rocks off with voyeurism, but I get mine from overcoming challenges.” He pulls out one hand to wag his finger at my face, completely patronizing. “And that’s what you are. I brought you here because I decided I was gonna penetrate that armor of awkward shyness and fuck you. But you know what?” He slips his hand back into his pocket and then hitches his shoulders. “I don’t wanna do that anymore. Because now you’re not just a shy little girl. You’re sloppy seconds from my drummer.” He casts a long glance toward the French doors and scoffs a quick, sardonic laugh. “A guy who has no spine or balls to stand up for himself with anything. Not with me. Not even once.” He looks back at me and raises his eyebrows. “A guy who clearly has a thing for you, a guy who already fucked you, but who still walked away from you just now, just because I told him to.”
We stare at each other as the silence of the deserted French Quarter once again envelopes us. He’s clearly finished talking, and what the hell am I supposed to say in response to that? I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to because an infuriating lump has formed in my throat as a result of not only his cruel, callous words, but also the reality that I can’t even go home right now. That even trying to escape could infect me with a virus that would potentially kill me.
“Now that we got that outta the way,” Lucky continues, casually switching gears and slipping out his cigarette case again, “why don’t you put on a happy face and pour yourself a drink? ‘Cuz it sounds like you’re gonna be my guest for a good,longwhile. So let’s just put the bullshit behind us now and try to have some fun until this whole thing blows over.”
I still can’t evenspeak.
My stupid chin is starting to tremble, and my eyes are burning with unshed tears.
Lucky notices this as he lights up, and mumbles with the cigarette waggling between his lips, “Or, y’know…you can go cry on Patrick’s shoulder for a second before I snap my fingers again to make him get back to work.” He takes a long drag and then waves the cigarette through the air in a gesture at me. “Totally up to you.”
With that, Lucky turns on the ball of his foot and strolls back inside, pushing the French doors wide and approaches the sofa where Pearl is still seated. He tugs at his slacks before sitting on the coffee table in front of her and picks up her hand. He offers her a warm, sympathetic smile as he speaks to her and then listens to whatever she’s saying. Far on the other side of the room, Patrick is nursing a drink while he stalks back and forth in front of the drum set, eyeing Lucky with disdain. He doesn’t even glance in my direction. Nobody does.
I’m just on a balcony in the deserted French Quarter, stuck in a house with people who either don’t care about me or outright resent me. Humiliated and trapped.
I'm twenty-seven years old. And if those twenty-seven years have taught me one thing over and over again, it's that when things seem too good to be true, they are.
