M.

The desert never seemed to cool at night. Even now, under a slivered moon and a sky dusted with stars. It was quiet. Almost too quiet for the chaos it held.

You press your palm against the rough stucco wall of your father’s spralling estate, the edge of the back courtyard bathed in shadows from the cacti. The air is thick with the scent of dry earth and sand that is still hot from a sun that has long since vanished beneath the horizon. The silence around you feels unnatural. Not the kind that comes with peace, but the kind that hums with those invisible wires, surveillance cameras, and secrets unspoken. 

The wind kicks up, stirring up a few pieces of loose hair your ponytail was not able to hold back. You held your breath, listening as you paused alongside another rough stone wall. You are anticipating the sound of an alarm or footsteps. There was an occasional patrol your brute of a father had roaming around the premises. No sound spoke in your ears, nothing but the sound of your own heartbeat drumming away. Small sounds of a cricket chorus nearby followed by the electric buzz of a floodlight too far away to touch you fill your senses.

Your heart thundered in your chest from the adrenaline as your long plan to escape was finally coming to fruition. The thought of what your father would do to you if you were caught…no, focus..

You slip past the final archway that leads into the cactus-lined backyard, your black lace up boots silent on the red gravel beneath the soles. By the gods you were thankful for it. The landscaping here is manicured with surgical precision not even a stone out of place, desert sage trimmed into neat mounds, towering cacti spaced evenly along the stone wall and moonflowers blooming with ghost-white petals that only open at night. They glow faintly in the dark like they’re mourning you and your history here. Mourning your poor deceased mothers history, the cruel blood of your father that is mixed with her flowing through your dainty veins. 

You make a sudden move toward the furthest edge of the property where the well manicured property bleeds into wilderness. Here the land becomes raw and wild again, untouched by your father’s money and greed.

The fence looms ahead. Tall. Barbed. A silent reminder that freedom is not but a dream. But you had planned for this dream, planned enough to make it a reality. 

You kneel beside a small patch of gravel near a small gardeners shed, your fingers brush away the smooth sand and stones that border a decorative succulent bed. Your nails scrape against the ground, digging up sand that seemed oddly out of place in the desert until your nails scrape the edge of a gardening tile that was hidden under the churned earth. The one you had buried above a small hole you’d dug with persistence over a month ago. 

You lift it, and there it is: a ziploc bag with a passport, ID and a couple hundred in cash and a small burner phone. Months of planning, waiting until the perfect night when you knew your father would be busy enough to not pay any attention. Those trials and tribulations of going behind your father's back who was the head of a well known Mafia in Tucson who had eyes everywhere. Yes, even in the back of his head. 

You let out a sigh of relief clenching the small bag tight in my fist and wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead. Your heart rattles against your ribs once more as you move toward the weakest point in the fence. The break is barely visible unless you know where to look. A spot where the ends bent and twisted just wide enough to fit your body through if you turn sideways and suck your stomach in. 

You had been working on this fence for months as well, since the thought of escape grazed the forefront of your mind after you learned of your fathers cruel intentions to sell you off as some prized brood mare.  With a stolen wire cutter you had found in the garage one day that you had been storing the tool under a loose floorboard in my room and using the excuse of needing space to take a walk late at night. You were able to work a break in the fence. 

Thankfully, this was the one thing your father was too busy to question and after you had kicked one of the body guards he had assigned to follow you around in the balls,  no one else would take up the job of “babysitting”. You thankfully were finally left alone.

A sound catches behind you, a soft metallic click and you freeze for a moment, petrified. This is it, this will be the death of me…I had imagined it so differently, many times..

Another motion-activated light by the back patio flickering to life, illuminating nothing but sand, gravel and the beady eyes of a fox nearby. You move faster now with a little more determination, you’re almost there, you can taste the free air on your tongue. The adrenaline sharpens everything. From the crunch of gravel underfoot, to the rough edge of the metal snagging your sleeve as you slip through the break, the distinct taste of fear in your dry mouth.

You fully slip through the break in the fence with a quiet grunt, a slight cut to your left knee appears as the fabric of your jeans tear slightly against the wire. You land hard on the other side as a result but now in the open desert. The earth here is cracked and broken, dry like the desert should be. Unmanicured.  You swear the air really does smell different on the other side of that damned wire fence. 

There’s no path here. No lights. Just the sound of your breath and the crunch of your boots as you break into a sprint. This feels like the first breath of real air you’ve taken in years.

And still, your father’s voice echoes behind your ears like a ghost you can’t outrun from the conversation that decided your fate for you. 

“It’s already done,” he had said, smoke billowing from a Cuban cigar. 

The haunting memory of the way he sat behind the desk, framed by backlit bookshelves and heavy curtains. A glass of scotch in his other hand and that arrogant smirk playing on his lips that he reserved for his enemies, even you, his only daughter. 

He didn’t look at you when he said it, when he told you he was selling you off for marriage like a pawn in his game to none other than Luciano Martelli. The estranged son of another mob family with more blood on his hands than a butcher and a cold hearted reputation.

“You will marry him and you will not protest,” your father had muttered like it was a mild inconvenience.

“You belong to the bloodline. You belong to me. And you will honor me at the altar.”

You still begged, pleaded. Reasoned. Screamed so hard your throat had torn and bled. You remember gripping the arms of the chair so tight it had bent your manicured nails back, the pain not as noticeable as the one that tore your chest wide open with. You protested for your own freedom. And yet he wouldn’t meet your eyes. He was always too much of a damn coward. You carried your mothers soft eyes. To which  was his only kryptonite in his otherwise steel armour he wore. His stare was glassy and detached as you had begged and tried to reason. He looked at you like you just another thorn in his side. The room smelled like power that day, not just cigar smoke. And your knees crumbled before you were dragged out of the room with a wave of his hand. 

It was this day as you were thrown into your room and heard the deadbolt lock latch from the inside that you decided you had no other choice but to make your own freedom. Even if it meant your life was on the line. 

Now, you run. And you run and you run.

Through scrub brush and dry weeds, whipping past tall cacti. Your throat burns as you gasp for air. Through brittle sand that crumbles beneath my boots and makes you sink with every step. Past a rusted fence post and an abandoned tractor half-buried in the dirt, forgotten. You run until the highway lights appear in the distance, glimmering hopes of flickering halos of orange and yellow and the silhouette of the Greyhound station begins to rise like a mirage along the paved asphalt.

You don’t stop moving until you finally reach the bus stop, thankful it was only a few miles away from your fathers estate. Wide eyes of those around you meet yours as you slow to a stop and gasp for air. You’re clearly out of place, and your damn asthma isn’t helping as you dig for the inhaler in your pocket,  taking a deep breath to help slow the burning in your lungs. 

When your breathing steadied you took a deep breath through your nose. The air reeked of diesel fuel. Now that’s actually the smell of freedom. You pick yourself up off the wall you had been leaning up against and walk along the concrete platform passing a stranger who was wrangling with a broken vending machine, pounding their fist upon the front rang through the air as you lifted the hood of your sweatshirt up, your  identity now hidden to the best of your ability. You hoped that you would remain unbothered during your trip. 

The buzzing line of flickering fluorescent lights overhead from both the electricity and the bugs adds a small sense of comfort as I settle onto a long bench and exhale. You pull the gallon ziplock bag out of your middle hoodie pocket and begin rummaging through it. The passport comes out first, with a fake name and obviously fake photo that looks like it was taken by a child. The name Evelyn Rhodes is just something to match the bus ticket your Aunt Mira had helped you purchase some time ago as a birthday gift. Funny how your escape was a birthday gift this year.. 

Your fingertips landed on a little folded photo in the bag, your mother’s ring hiding safe and sound in between the folds. The photo was old, it was of the two of you laughing in the  swimming pool the last summer before her death, before she disappeared. Before the closed-casket funeral. Before my world became shadowed in your fathers obedience and your fear.

On the passport you kept your first name the same because your mother told you it meant little bird. And little birds needed to fly the coup as they grew older in search of their freedom. But the last name had no meaning to you, it was better than carrying the weight of your fathers surname.

You board the Greyhound just after midnight.

The driver doesn’t look at you twice. You hand over my ticket with a nod and step onto the stale-smelling vehicle.The air inside is a sharp mix of exhaust, a lemon cleaner, and a dampness.

You choose a seat near the back where the darkness outside can hold you in its arms like a comfort blanket. Your body folds in on itself, instinctively trying to take up less space and make yourself as small as possible to not draw unwanted attention. You curl toward the glass and feel the engine rumble beneath your feet as the bus pulls away from the curb and into the open road. 

No one looks at you as the bus begins to fill. You don’t look at them. You are grateful.

Arizona fades behind you and the further you go, the deeper the breath you are able to muster into your lungs. The sharp claws of my father's world, his empire of blood and cruelty, are becoming smaller.

You feel yourself fully drop your shoulders for the first time in what feels like hours. Maybe days, months, years….

But peace doesn't fully come so easily to you.

Not yet at least.

The desert stretches endlessly out the window, painted in navy blue and florescent lights from the highway, shopping malls and grocery stores.

Your forehead presses against the cold windowpane.

You reminisce on memories of your mother, the happy memories, the ones of you and her finding refuge you didn't yet know you needed in New Orleans with your Aunt Mira. Memories of her smiling and laughing in the kitchen as she rummaged around in the spice cabinet, looking for that perfect addition to a meal.

Lilliana. 

You miss her. The way she used to hum Beatles tunes happily. The lavender perfume she wore in springtime. The way her eyes always seemed to carry a softness in them that never faltered no matter the cruelty that surrounded her. She always made it a point to make you feel safe. Plaster on a smile and pretend all was well  as if she knew you would never be safe in the world she brought you into.

You hated her funeral. It was an utter injustice to the woman who birthed you, who taught you to be strong but never let anyone dim your heart. The ugly brown closed casket that held the absence of her favorite flowers. No photos of her, no one sharing warm memories that they had of her. You were only eight years old. You didn't dare to shed a tear. Not because you weren’t sad, but because your father stood beside you with a hand on your shoulder like a man preparing to sculpt something out of stone his grip tight enough that it left bruises under your dress.You think back on that little girl, how she had to be strong at such a young age. Someone who didn't dare express any emotions on the outside in fear she would be punished. 

You wish you could hug her and tell her everything would be alright. 

You never got to say goodbye. You never knew what happened to her truly, you still don’t. The stories of her death changed over the years until your father eventually forbade you to ask of her any more. Her memory grew dim and it was as if she never existed in the house. You were grateful you had pieces of her left, even if it wasn't much. 

The bus jerks into a rest stop somewhere outside of El Paso, Texas pulling you from a light slumber. 

You blink, disoriented, your neck stiff. The lights of the small building flicker ahead, a low squat gas station with dinky signage and a leaky ice machine out front. 

The driver announces a twenty-minute break.

You step off the bus and stretch your legs and you glance around. Most of the other passengers are chain-smoking, waiting in line for the bathroom or grabbing snacks and drinks from inside. You catch through the dirty window how overwhelmed the attendant already is.

Cool air hits you inside the station which felt welcome compared to the stale air on the bus that was supposed to pass off as A/C. The floor tiles are cracked as you walk along and theres an invasive scent of incense hanging in the air meant to mask all the other scents but only amplifying them further. You head toward the refrigerated drinks first, grabbing a bottle of water and an energy drink. As you wait in line behind another one of the patrons who was picking an argument over the price of a small pack of gum, your gaze drifting toward the plexiglass case behind the register.

The cigarettes.

You’ve never smoked a day in your life.

Your father said your body was to be left untainted from these types of vices. Not with alcohol, not with smoke, and not with anyone’s hands but people he had carefully selected and sent to your room late at night. 

You stare at the little boxes of rebellion lined up like saints in a chapel. You step up to the clearly frustrated attendant, focusing your eyes on one particular box

“Can I get a pack of Marl-boh-roo?” you ask, surprising even yourself with how calm your voice sounds even when you know you are butchering your name.

“Which ones, sweet thing?” The cashier's attitude shifted almost instantly from annoyance to an attempt of saccharine dripping from his at the sight of you in front of him now. 

Ugh, men.

“Uh,” you feel that anxiety bubble up in your chest again as a smirk cracks across his face. “The gold ones?” 

“You sure about that baby?” His eyebrows raise. 

You nod rolling your shoulders and adjusting your posture to hopefully sport a bit of confidence that was waning pretty quickly. 

“Special blend? Lights? 100’s? Regular?” He smirked as he pulled a chewed up toothpick from in between his cracked lips, tossing you a smile with very yellow teeth.

Oh he was definitely fucking with you.  

“Just grab me a pack, I don't fucking care what it is.” You snapped. 

“Shit, alright, no need to get charged up on me now!” The cashier rings you up and pretty much tosses the box across the counter before he pulls it back from your reach. “Give me a smile and Ill give you these here cig’rettes.” 

“Just give me the fucking cigarettes.” You go to reach for his wrinkled hand covering the box next to your two drinks. 

“Aht, aht..” 

You start to throw him a smile and as his hand eases up on the box you snatch it with the bottles as well and you throw him a middle finger as you exit through the door.  

Once outside, you sit on the edge of a chipped concrete parking barrier. With only a few minutes left on your break before the bus takes off again you stare at the little white box in your hand. Tearing off the plastic around it and opening the pack you stare at the white tips of the paper wrapped nicotine. 

This is your first act of real disobedience against your father. Not quiet plotting, not subtle rebellion behind locked doors. But the actual choice that you got to make. 

Dammit, you forgot a lighter..

There was no way you were heading back inside for one either. You stuff the little box in your hoodie pocket and make your way back to the bus in the parking lot. 

**************

You cross into Louisiana as dawn begins to bleed the horizon with colors of reds, pinks and purples. Mist curls over the swamps that you pass by and the wildlife starts to stir to life as the sun breaks into a new day. Your eyelids feel like heavy weight as they open more and your head slightly vibrates against the cool glass window. 

As the swamps break away to more populated areas, the city unfolds before you in layers.  Neon signs, balconies dripping with vines and baskets of flowers all in bloom with bright colors of pinks and purples to match the sky. The sounds of jazz are loud enough to hear over the drum of the wheels on the pavement through the glass windows. The red trolley’s pass along the streets. The nostalgia of being here with your mom when you were little floods over you suddenly. The memory of a vanilla ice cream cone in your hand, her lavender perfume acting as a blanket of comfort and a smile you both shared with one another. A happier memory in time. 

The bus hisses as it pulls into the station, brakes squealing and patrons begin to scramble for bags. The sun is just starting to rise above the clouds now, casting long, bleeding streaks of orange and rose across the pavement. The windows of the bus are already fogged due to the suffocating humidity in the Louisiana midsummer air blocking your view of the curb the bus had just parked against. You hesitate for a moment, the “what ifs” flooding your mind. 

‘What if your father knew where you were’

‘What if he had some of his men waiting for you when you got off the bus, to take you back to your imprisoned life to that man’ 

‘What if you –’ 

You shook your head trying to physically free yourself from the bubbling anxiety causing bile to unpleasantly rise in your throat. The moment your boots touch the pavement, it's as if something shifts inside you again. This is that feeling of freedom you have been chasing for God only knows how long is finally here, you've landed.

You blink back tears, but not from sadness. From relief. From the simple, staggering truth that you did it.You ran, and you made it and there's no one standing here to take you back to your fathers estate. 

“There you are, baby girl.”

You turn toward the voice coming from your left, smooth as meringue cutting through the thick air like a hot knife. She is leaning against the hood of an old gold Buick Roadmaster that’s as beat-up as it is still loved and cared for. One hand on her hip, the other holding a cup of corner-store coffee and a slim cigarette.

Mira. 

Your mother’s sister. Your goddamn lifeline.

Her red curly hair is pulled up into a high, messy twist, gold hoops swing as she moves peeking out from the wisps of hair that have fallen out of her updo. She’s wearing denim shorts and a deep purple tank top with a faded Led Zeppelin logo. Her eyes held enough eyeliner to make a priest nervous. Her sunglasses rest on top of her head and her grin is quick, wide, and utterly disarming to your nervous system. 

Mira was the opposite in stature and looks compared to your mother, probably due to the fact that they had different mothers themselves. But they carried the same soft eyes.

She crosses the pavement in long, purposeful strides and pulls you into a hug before you can utter even a peep.This was not a polite hug. Not a half-hearted pat-on-the-back. But a real rib-crushing, grounding hug. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” Mira whispers into your hair as she holds the back of your head.

You feel yourself fold into her body like a paper doll. Tears instantly pour down your cheeks hot and full of emotion, your body shaking with noiseless sobs. Your hands clutch the back of her tank top without thinking, and you breathe her in. She reeks of cigarette smoke and incense with that touch of lavender on her skin. You don't know if she's always sporting that scent but if not, you know why she picked it today of all days.

“Breathe baby girl, breathe,” she says quietly into your hair and she strokes it softly. “You’re safe now, sugar. You made it and that’s all that matters.”

You simply nod because you can’t speak, you don't trust your voice. Not yet. Not without crumbling further and causing a scene that would draw unwanted attention.

She pulls back and frames your face in her hands, studying you like she’s looking at a ghost and a miracle all at once. Her face softening fully, a slight pout to her lips as she wipes the tears off of your now blemished cheeks with her manicured fingers.

“Oh baby girl, you’ve got your mama’s eyes. That wild softness,” she murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “But you’ve definitely got that spark hidden in them. Stubborn lil’ thing.” She tuts and lightly pinches your cheek. 

You start to say something, anything but the words seem to fail making it past your throat. Mira waves it off with a smirk and a flick of her wrist as she notices the words fail you.

“Come on sugar,” she says, grabbing your bag off of your shoulder with one hand and slinging it over her shoulder. “Tony’s making us breakfast. Let’s get you outta this dingy bus station and into proper salvation.” 

The Buick roars to life with a cough and a shudder and the drive through New Orleans is short but electric. The city is starting to stir. Nightlife swapping shifts with the morning folk, more tame than the latter.  Church bells ring in the distance as you watch people sweep pavement in front of their shops, locals breezed by drunk tourists that are stumbling on the streets. You watch it all from the passenger seat like a dream. A small, genuine smile actually cracking across your face for the first time since your escape. The sun is now beaming in the sky adding to the heat outside that will take some time to get used to. There is Spanish moss hanging heavy from the trees you drive by, decorating the branches like tinsel on a Christmas tree. You decide here and now that it is your favorite piece about New Orleans thus far . 

It’s beautiful here. It feels like home already, somehow in some strange way.

Mira drums her fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of whatever song is playing through the old stereo. Another Virginia Slim held tightly between her pointer and middle finger, the smoke curling around the interior of the car escaping the small cracks in the windows. She hums along for just a moment as she turns down a side street. Her manicured fingers reach across to the stereo, turning it down a notch before she speaks. 

“Tony said the apartment above the bar is finally cleared out for ya baby girl,” she takes another drag from the thin cigarette before tossing it out the window. “The roof leaks a little when it storms and the floors rattle when the bar is full downstairs. But it's cozy and all your own, if you want it.”

You smile softly and nod, trying to not give away too much excitement all at once. 

A place of your own….you've never been able to have that..

Mira glances at you sideways, a smile breaking across her beautiful weathered faceas she takes another drag. “You don’t have ‘tah say a word, sweet chil’e. I’m just grateful ya here.”

“Me too, Aunt Mira.” 

With that, you lean your forehead against the cool glass of the car window and watch the blue of the streets bleed by. 

The Buick slows as Mira swings it into a narrow alley just off a cracked and uneven street in Marigny. You pass a sign barely clinging to life, its white faded letters spell out The Patrons Dive, missing half the “V” which makes a chuckle bubble in your throat. The building is dilapidated beyond hell and weathered. Yet the vibrant colors of the exterior bleed life into it. An old wooden and metal door propped open with an empty keg. Its wooden shutters are rotten and hanging off their hinges have seen better days. The awning in the front looks like one heavy rain will be its ending. 

You love it.

Arizona didn’t hold a character like this. At least the Arizona you grew up to know. 

Music filters out from the open door, the sound of Elvis Presley's voice carrying out into the street singing “Heartbreak Hotel.”

You follow Mira and step out of the car and are hit with the scent of beer, smoked meat and the heat in the air. Almost just as you remembered it here. 

Mira nudges you toward the door with her elbow. “Go on baby, check it out.”

Inside, the bar is dim and dilapidated yet full of life with odd signs hanging on the walls and hundreds of dollar bills tacked and taped to the ceiling. Old wood aged leather stools, shelves full of mismatched glasses and liquor bottles in every shape. There’s a faint scent of the same incense that was lingering on Mira's skin and clothes now just combined with the scent of booze and bacon.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stands outlined by a weathered doorway to the kitchen, arms tattooed and sleeves rolled to the elbows. His salt-and-pepper beard is scruffy and his bald head pouring with sweat from the heat of the grill in the kitchen, and he wears a t-shirt and an apron that reads 'Yes, I Own the Damn Place' in big bold letters. His reading glasses hang around his neck on a shoelace that's barely hanging on for dear life.

When he looks up and sees you, his whole face softens.

“Ah, good to see the package has arrived safe’t and soun’!” He says, wiping his hands on a bar towel as he rounds the counter. His voice is gravel, warm and worn. “Mira told me all abouts ya miss Y/N. Ya hungry?”

You blink, caught off guard by how genuinely kind he seems. You definitely judged a book by its cover. Though you have a feeling you still wouldn’t want to be on his bad side on a good day. 

“I—um,” your stomach answers for you as he brings a stronger scent of fresh bacon and pancakes into the bar area behind him.

He laughs, a booming hearty sound and nods. Tony places a steady hand on your shoulder followed by a few pats of his rough hand. 

“Why don't yeh go get settled first,” he says, then glances at Mira. “Upstairs is good to go. I fixed that damned leak in the roof to the best I coul’. No promises it won’t still leak during heavy rains.”

“Good,” she says, then looks at you. “Come on, sugar. Let me show you to your new home.”

Your throat tightens at the thought.  Home. The word feels like a foreign language bouncing around in your head. You follow Mira out a little side door and through another that opens to a  narrow staircase. The old wood of the stairs creaks beneath both of your footsteps as you climb. The walls are scuffed, the plaster peeling, and the railing is loose in places, but that character here speaks to your soul again.It smells, and looks like it harbors many stories it's dying to share with you. The building’s life story layered and lived-in painted here in this single stairwell in front of you like oil on canvas. 

At the top of the stairs, Mira unlocks the rickety door with a brass key and pushes it open with her hip, standing aside to let you walk past her. 

“Welcome home, baby girl.”

The apartment is small. Really small. A modest studio with a closet-sized kitchen. But it’s high-ceiling and has a bay window. The light from the window spills across the warped floorboards like honey.

There’s a twin bed in the corner, pushed up against a wall of exposed brick and plaster. The sheets look to be soft but mismatched with a floral quilt, a cotton throw, and one too-fluffy pillow. A crooked bookshelf leans against the wall, crammed with old books, candles, and a small vase of dried roses.A small table sits in front of the window with a single chair. The kitchen has one burner, a chipped sink, and a fridge that hums quite loudly but you know you will get used to it over time. At least the tiny bathroom is tucked away in its own space in the far corner behind a half-cracked door. Your heart thrums with excitement as your eyes catch the edge of a clawfoot tub.

You stand in the middle of the room and really take in your surroundings. 

You’ve never had your own space like this before. Not in your father’s house, where every room was designed for display, not comfort. There, even your bedroom wasn’t yours. The windows didn’t open. The doors were thin and listened through. The cameras that invaded your privacy.

But this?

This is yours to call your own.

You walk to the window pushing the small table slightly out of your way and push it open. The city hums below, coming to life even more as the sun tilts higher in the sky and a small breeze fills the area. 

You turn back toward the bed, and your gaze catches on the ring on your finger, your mother’s. A little black polished stone tucked away safely against detailed metal. You don't remember putting it on but you know somewhere along your journey you had pulled it out of its safe keeping in that old photo.

You sit slowly on the edge of the bed and stare at it, running your thumb over the silver as Mira chats away, something about clothes in the dresser next to the door. Wiping the dust off the singular kitchen cabinet and ‘tsking’ up a storm with Tony's name hot and heavy on her lips.

She would have loved this place.Your mother. Not because it’s perfect, but because of what it symbolizes for you. That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? Something real. Something not built from expectation or obedience. Something soft that matches you internally under the many layers of brick walls you have erected to protect yourself. 

Mira notices you haven't been listening to a word that has left her hot pink lips as she leans against that kitchen cabinet with her arms crossed.

“You okay, baby?”

You look at her now fully.  This woman who is a part of you that you had so many fond memories of. Of her and your mom laughing on a beach when you were just a tot. You feel your heart squeeze in your chest out of utter appreciation and sadness.

You nod. Just once. That’s all you can manage. 

Mira smiles. “Good. I’ll leave you to settle in.Take a nap, change into some different clothes, do whatever baby girl. Just don't settle too long otherwise Tony will come hobbling up those stairs to bang on your door.”

She closes the door gently behind her and you’re alone.

Not lonely.

Alone.

You lay back on the bed, your body sinking into the lumpy mattress, the ceiling fan rattling overhead. Your fingertips brush your mother’s ring where it rests on your left hand again.

The floor creaks under your bare feet as you move through the quiet of your new apartment. You dig through the dresser Mira had been talking about and pull on a pair of jean shorts and a faded tee, twisting your hair up loosely into a bun, and you stand at the top of the stairs for a moment before going down. The door to the stairwell is old, heavy, and painted a chipped shade of navy. 

The music greets you first as you descend. Faint but rising, Elvis on the jukebox again. The sound of voices in the kitchen arguing, no playfully bantering back and forth - about what exactly, you arent sure as the overwhelming feeling of hunger spreads into your bones. 

The Patrons Dive looks more alive now as a few people sit in a corner drinking beers with their scrambled eggs and toast on a plate, Mira swaying her hips in the corner to the music as she sweeps up a pile of dust.Tony is wiping down the bar, humming along to the music on the jukebox as well, watching Mira's hips sway at every chance he can. He glances up when you walk in.

“Hey there, sunshine.”

You smile, small and unsure, tucking your hands into your back pockets. “Hey.”

Mira turns around and tosses you a big grin as Tony disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate stacked high with blueberry pancakes and slices of bacon. The golden maple syrup catches in the sunlight as she sets it down on the bar in front of where you're standing. 

“There she is,” Mira says as she walks towards you and pulls out two barstools so you both can sit. “C’mon and eat up now while it's hot!”

Your stomach gurgles at the reminder it has been awhile since you really had eaten anything sustainable, it's been ages since you even had a home cooked meal.

You run your hand along the worn edge of the counter as you take a seat and pick up the fork and knife that was placed in front of you, mouth watering.

Tony tosses the rag over his shoulder. “You gettin’ settled upstairs okay?”

You nod and take a bite of a pancake. “It’s perfect.”

He smiles, then pours you a cup of coffee from the pot behind the bar and slides it across to you like he’s done it a thousand times.

You wrap your hands around the warm ceramic and clear your throat softly.

“I… I was wondering,” you start, “if maybe I could help out down here. I need to make some money of my own, somehow.”

Tony raises an eyebrow and he and Mira share a quick glance at one another, but there’s no surprise in his expression.

“What were you thinkin’ baby girl?” Mira asks, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“Just… cleaning. Stocking. Whatever you need, something that keeps me out of the eye of too many patrons,” you say quickly. “I don’t need much. I just want to earn my keep and save a few dollars in the process. I can’t stay here for free.”

Mira leans against the counter beside you, arms crossed loosely. “Sugar, you don’t owe us anything. You're family.”

“I know,” you say. “But I feel like I need to. I need to make my own way. Even if it’s just a little.”

The silence between the three of you is warm, not tense. Tony scratches at his beard and gives a thoughtful nod.

“Well, I ain’t gonna say no to a easy hire,” he says, deadpan then smirks when you laugh, just a little. “Truth is, I’ve been meaning to clean out that damned  stock room since last summer. You good at organizing chil’d?”

You stuff another bite of syrup soaked pancake in your mouth and nod.

“You’d be doing us a favor,” Mira adds. “How about we start slow? One, two days a week. A couple hours a pop. You get the lay of the land, meet the employees, the regulars, feel it out.”

“And we won't add you to the payroll,” Tony finishes. “Keeps them books clean, you safer.”

Your chest fills with gratitude.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Tony lifts his mug in a quiet salute. “How about tomorrow night then. Just shadow Mira to start. She can show you the ropes. 

You smile again, a little wider this time. “You got it.”

Mira raises her coffee cup next. “To your freedom, baby girl.”

You lift yours last, the warmth of it seeping into your chest.

Your life feels like it is finally beginning.

***************

You spend the rest of the morning just existing.

The tiny apartment is still unfamiliar, but it’s already started to mold around you, your aura spilling into the space. 

You have had your mind on the clawfoot tub since you saw it peeking out behind the little doorway. It sits like a relic beneath a foggy mirror, chipped porcelain and tarnished fixtures, but beautiful in that worn and vintage way. You run your fingers along the edge of it, then twist the knobs. The water hisses and groans to life in the old pipes and it takes a minute to warm up.

You pour in a bit of rose-scented soap you found under the sink, clearly Mira’s doing, and slide into the water once it’s ready. Your muscles sigh. Your bones feel heavy in the best way. The water curls around your shoulders, fragrant and soft, and you allow your guard down. You soak until your fingers prune and your eyes begin to flutter closed. When you finally step out, you wrap yourself in an old scratchy towel you found hanging behind the door, swearing to yourself when you get your first payment from The Patrons Dive that you will use it to buy new towels. You collapse into the bed in nothing but a large t-shirt you found in one of the small dresser drawers and curl up on the old mattress. 

Sleep takes you whole as your body succumbs to its exhaustion. 

Your dreams are plagued immediately with darkness that threatens to swallow you up and spit you back out again. You’re running…bare feet against the cold earth. 

It’s winter. No. End of winter that is breaking into spring. Your fingertips grip the skirt of a white slim gown. Your mind is not your own, you don’t recognize the panic that swells beneath your breasts. 

“Come find me..” you call out to the wind softly as you pause to rest yourself against a wet tree trunk before sprinting off again. 

The feeling is unsettling. Are you being hunted? Or rather are you escaping your fate once more? 

You wake sometime after sunset in a startled sweat. Your chest heaves as you sit up on your lumpy bed and you take in the space around you. 

Your reality sets in softly. You’re safe..

The sky through the window is deep blue, soft with heat, and the room glows faintly orange from the streetlamp outside.

You hear the sound of the bar beneath you now louder than before and already assume it is the cause for your disturbance from slumber. Muffled laughter, clinking glass, the low thrum of a bassline drifting upward through the floorboards along with the scent of smoke.You stretch out across the bed, hot and slightly uncomfortable, you let the sound beneath you over you like ocean waves. It isn’t unpleasant necessarily, but it will take some getting used to.

You dress slowly, pulling on the same levi shorts from earlier and a worn white tank. You re-tie your hair back once more and your bangs are another story as you try your best to brush the wisps of hair off your already damp forehead. This humidity is no fuckin joke... You slip on sandals, slide your little flip phone into your back pocket, and take a last glance in the little dingy mirror by the door. Your forgotten pack of cigarettes lay nearby, a tempting feeling crawls into your throat. The ache for the burn of the smoke turns your mind into auto pilot as you pluck one from the pack. You take a moment to look at yourself again in the mirror as you hang the cigarette from your lips. 

A true act of defiance. You look good. You look alive. 

There’s something restless stirring in your belly, a hunger for adventure of sorts. You never truly had the freedom of not answering to a single person before, to be able to step out into the night without being watched or followed closely.

So you reach for a small over the shoulder bag that was hanging off the one kitchen chair and add a few 20 dollar bills to the empty inside, laughing at the thought. You let determination and curiosity lead you forward as the dream you startled awake from is now forgotten. 

The bar is practically overflowing now.

You slip through the hallway and push open the swinging door that separates the stairwell from the bar, and everything hits you at once. The heat of the room mixed with the overwhelming sound of chatter filling the small space. The tang of sweat and beer invading your senses, the soft burn of cigarette smoke floating in from the back patio door and curling against the neon signs.

There’s a different kind of magic here at night, and dare you say you love it? 

The lights are dimmed, casting golden shadows across tables and the glossy wood of the bar top. Loud laughter pours from many different corners of the space. There’s a woman slow-dancing with herself near the jukebox, a bottle of Coors Light heavy in her grip. A man in a backwards cap gathering up little shot glasses of whiskey to bring over to his buddies yelling his name in the corner. It's not fully packed, but each barstool and table is occupied with a few stragglers around. 

You weave through the crowd of patrons and slip behind the bar with ease, ducking into the back hallway where the office sits. It is a small room lit by a single overhead bulb and smelling faintly of bleach and must.

Mira’s in the middle of dragging a file box across the floor when you find her. She’s got her hair tied up with a scarf now, that same tank from this morning clinging to her back with sweat, and a half-drunk can of Diet Coke with a cigarette balancing on the top.

“You know you could start a fire in here with all of this,” you gesture to the can as you lean against the doorframe

“Jesus, sugar!” she yells, clutching her hand to her chest as she turns around to meet you. “Scared the daylights out of me. Clear your throat next time or somethin’.”

You smile and step forward, instinctively reaching out to help her shift the box to the side wall. “Sorry about that.”

Mira finally looks at you as she wipes away the sweat on her brow that sharp, assessing look that mothers wear. Her eyes flick down to your sandals, your tank, and the little bag hanging off of your shoulder.

“Didn't expect to see you again tonight, figured you wouldve slept the night through you tired little thing.”

“I slept most of the day actually, I think my body needed some movement.”

She snorts. “Good. You needed it. You looked like a ghost this morning.”

You grin.

“What are you doing?” you ask, motioning to the boxes.

“Oh, well, making room,” she says with a shrug. “Figured I’d clear out this space for you, get you a head start.”

You blink, surprised. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I wanted to.” She wipes her other brow now with the back of her hand, then gives you that signature Mira smirk that makes the tops of her cheeks bunch up under her eyes. “You look like you're about to be up to no good.” 

You nod slowly, that small ache of gratitude blooming again in your chest. You press your palm against the doorframe and shift your weight, voice quieter now.

“Just gonna go stretch my legs outside. Won’t be gone long.”

Mira nods, but her smile fades just a bit around the edges as she takes a drag of her almost forgotten cigarette.

“You’ve got the city at your feet, sugar, but be smart about where those feet take you. Don’t go wandering too far tonight. Frenchmen’s fine. Esplanade Ave..if you stay close to the lit streets. But don’t turn down any alleys you’s don’t know.”

You offer a small salute. “Got it.”

Mira eyes you once more, then tosses you something from the desk drawer. A little keychain sporting a small can of pepper spray lands in the palm of your hands, hot pink and bedazzled in rhinestones, of course.

“Take’s that too girl. Just in case.”

“Thanks, Mira.” You stick it into your little satchel. 

“Call me if you need anything,” she says, already turning back to the boxes. “Seriously. I'll come uh running.”

You nod, a lump rising in your throat. You don’t say thank you again, she’d swat at you if you did but you mean it.

With that, you turn, step back out into the low hum of The Patrons Dive, and head for the front door.

The heat and humidity greet you like a familiar friend now as you step out into the night. The city is yours for the taking tonight, and you're determined to have fun. 

You don't just walk. You practically float through the streets of New Orleans. 

The sounds hit you first, a rush of laughter from a group of girls around your age passing you by. The vibrant jazz music outside and inside bars and on the streets - trumpets, trombones, drums. Voices overlapping like waves on a restless sea. The quiet of the desert that you resided in the life you left behind almost seems to die the moment you cross the street. It’s loud here, in the way of blooming life. It’s a Thursday night in the city. The air feels charged as it prepares for a packed weekend. It feels like anything is possible. So you allow your feet and the crowds to guide you. 

Frenchmen Street pulses under your feet. The sidewalks are cracked and glitter-dusted. The neon signs flicker and hum above open doors. Theres dusty chalkboard signs boasting happy hour specials, rum flights, “$5 palm readings inside” and more. 

Everywhere you look, something’s happening. Couples stumble past you, arms wrapped around each other, drinks sloshing in those gaudy touristy to-go cups. A group of people spill out of one of the vibrant bars in front of you, apologies thrown left and right as someone bumps into you. Oddly enough, you haven't a care in the world over the matter. 

Above you, balconies drip with vines and string lights, casting golden spiderwebs of glow down onto the pavement. There's a sort of mischief that clings to the air as the sun finally sets and the sky bleeds from orange and pink to navy blue once more. New Orleans at night feels less like a place and more like a spell. And you are utterly spellbound.

The city doesn’t care who you are or where you came from, it only cares that you surrender to it and you are just another stranger with secrets under your skin it is dying to seep its claws into.

A man with a sparkling purple coat tries to stop you along your journey offering a sweet serenade. You smile and brush him off, dipping into a bar nearby, the cash in your bag practically burning a hole, begging to be spent. 

The bar is even more vibrant inside than out which you didn't think was possible. Neon pinks and purples combined with walls that are painted deep indigo, streaked with gold leaf patterns that catch and scatter the light like constellations. On one side, a long mahogany bar stretches the length of the room, cluttered with bottles of bourbon, tequila, and gin in every shape and color imaginable.Glasses hang upside-down above the bartender’s head, catching the glow from the neon lights. 

Tucked into the corner, a jazz quartet plays like they were born doing it. The trumpet glows silver in the spotlight, warm and loud. The upright bass thrums in your chest. The saxophone is slow and dirty, like a sinner's confession. The drummer doesn’t smile, but his hands move like they’re telling stories.The light on the stage is rose-colored, filtering through a red velvet curtain behind them. It paints their skin warm and golden. Their eyes are closed. The rhythm seduces you instantly. 

You take a seat near the back corner at the bar, and for the first time since you stumbled out of The Patrons Dive, you feel a sense of excitement. Your hands still shake a little as you tuck your hair behind your ear and lean forward on your elbows.The bartender catches your eye and strolls over with a rag in one hand, the other slung over the back of his hip. He’s young, maybe about early twenties and dressed to impress in a black button down, black slacks and a red tie. 

“What can I get you?”

Your mouth opens, but you hesitate. This is new to you, the bar setting, ordering drinks, choosing what you want. 

“I — um, I'm not too sure to be honest.” You half smile at the bartender. 

“Do you like sweet or savory?” 

You shrug, “Probably sweet. 

“Coming right up.” He says with a wink.

He returns shortly and places a frosted martini glass in front of you. As you pull the drink closer towards you, you send the twenty his way, he returns quickly with your change. 

You take a sip. The sugar coated rim kisses your lips. A sickly sweet flavor invading your taste buds at first followed by citrus lemon and married together with a finish of lavender. You groan as you allow the drink to linger on your tongue for a moment before the bite of the alcohol becomes too much. 

When you swallow it warms your insides instantly. As fate will have it, it reminds you immediately of the lavender lemonades you and your mother used to share when you were younger.  Your eyes focus back on the band before you think too hard about her and you let the culture consume you. 

It does not take long for the alcohol to make you feel fuzzy or for the yearning for adventure to return. You abandon the remainder of your drink and flow back into the warmth of the night.You pass an artist selling paintings on a crooked sidewalk, a man offering tarot readings with a crow perched silently on his shoulder, laughter rolling out of you as the alcohol flows through your veins. You almost lose track of time as you continue to wander, caught in the spell of the city one street blurring into the next, signs and scents and rhythm pulling you deeper.

Until you make a wrong turn.Iit happens so easily you are not aware of what has happened untl its too late.One left becomes another. Then another. You follow a flicker of color in hopes it will steer you back on the right track,a mural tucked into the side of a building. Then you’re somewhere you don’t recognize. You realize the light, the vibrancy, the music is all left behind and now all you hear is the wind in front of you.

The pavement shifts from cobbled charm to broken and chipped asphalt. The smell of the air changes to mold and mildew, decay, and you could swear on it, death.

You slow your steps and observe your surroundings. You’re alone.

There’s a low buzzing in your ears, a sense of danger beginning to blanket you. You spin on your heel, turning back the way you think you came, but the buildings loom closer now, leaning in like they’re watching your every move, waiting to consume.

You can’t find the light. A right turn, another left turn, your heart begins to thrum as you realize the mistake you've made. You feel that familiar sense of anxiety bubbling up in your throat. You reach into your back pocket and fumble with your phone, the cheap plastic of the flip model slipping in your sweaty palm as you open it and try to find Mira’s number.

Before your fingers can press call a hand wraps into your hair at the nape of your neck, another hand covers your mouth. You scream into the palm, muffled, desperate as your back is slammed against a wall, the breath knocked from your lungs.

The silver of a blade flashes in the darkness, pressed to the fragile hollow beneath your chin  and your skin grows cold. Colder than it has ever felt, even the abuse you've experienced never made you feel like this. You let your god damn guard down and now look at what happened. 

The hand in your hair at the nape shifts, gripping your jaw instead. Forcing your eyes up to meet his.

He smells like whiskey and something acrid beneath it, that decay you caught a hint of earlier. His face is close, too close to your own. Leathery skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, watery yellow eyes sunk deep. His teeth are brown and broken, and the words that leak from his mouth are slick with venom.

“Well, well. What do we have here,” he whispers, voice like gravel, his snake-like tongue licks a stripe along your cheek. “Ain’t you a pretty thing out here all alone.”

You try to jerk away, but the knife presses closer. A cold kiss against your pulse. One wrong move on your part and you know the blade will bite. Your legs tremble, your feet rooted in fear.

His breath hits your cheek still heavier than the summer air that engulfs you.

“Got somethin’ sweet in that purse for me? Or somethin’ sweeter between those legs?”

The words hit like bile. You choke on what feels like vomit rising in your throat, heart hammering like it’s a hummingbird caught in a trap, trying so desperately to escape.

“Bet you thought you were somethin’ real clever, wanderin’ out here. Lookin’ like that.”

Your mind races at a million miles. Move. Scream. Bite. Something.

But you can't. You're frozen. His sunken, hollow eyes seem to glint in the dim light like he caught a prize he's never had before. The knife nudges up, a threat, and now you can feel the sharp bite of the rusty blade. This is it, this is how it ends. 

Just when you are at the point of giving in fully and your lungs are about to collapse under the weight of it all, a voice, low and dangerous, cuts through the night sharper than the blade against your skin.

“Let her go.” The voice cuts through the air like a blade. Low, velvet-dark, and utterly unshakable. Commanding. Confident.

The attacker stiffens. You feel the unmistakable tremor in his hand, the sudden twitch of uncertainty. You can't see the voice’s source yet. Not with his palm still clamped around your jaw, his knife trembling just enough to press harder against your throat once more. But something in the old man falters as he looks over his shoulder in the direction of the thundering voice, causing the blade to lower.

“Mind your business,” the attacker snarls, his breath thick with panic and rot as he bounces his weight between his feet.

Then the voice comes again, deeper this time.

“This isn't up for debate, old man. I said let her go. Unless you wish to die tonight.”

The old man presses against you harder in an attempt to stake his claim to this stranger and then the hands on you are gone in one single violent jerk. You stumble forward, gasping, hands flying to your throat checking for any signs of wetness. The blade never cut the skin but it kissed too close for comfort. The world around you spins for a moment as your vision tries to focus and your mind catches up to the inhuman speed that man was ripped from you. One second ago, he had you pinned to the wall and the next, he’s being ripped away with such force that the sound of his back hitting the brick wall on the opposite side of you echoes through the alley and your stomach lurches as you hear his bones crack. It all happens in less than a few seconds.

As your eyes refocus and you lift my head, you see him.

He steps into the thin light slicing through the darkness, and for a moment, time hangs motionless. His presence doesn’t just fill the dimly lit space in the alleyway, it simply devours it.

Dressed in black from head to toe a rich, velvet jacket with soft embroidery is the first thing I notice as it accentuates his broad shoulders and muscular arms. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway, exposing a sculpted chest and layers of silver chains, each chain containing a silver coin of some sort. Your eyes land on one of them holding a deep, black stone that rests against his sternum. His dark pants sit tight on his body, yet non consuming, and his black boots are now soundless as he steps closer. 

Odd.

But it’s his face that steals the breath out of your lungs as your eyes trail upwards.

His skin is golden, soft and yet sharp in all the right places. High cheekbones, full lips parted just slightly as he exhales slowly through his nose. His jaw is set tight, tension carved into the elegant angles of his expression. A piece of his long, dark, wavy hair falls over his cheekbone and the rest tumbling in rich, tousled waves past his shoulders.

And his eyes…

Almost black. They're so dark it doesn't even look like the light can touch them without the risk of being sucked into a black hole. Sharp, alert, piercing in a way that looks predatory. His stare locks onto the old man, and you feel the temperature in the alley drop as a slight smirk breaks at the edges of those beautiful lips.

Your attacker tries to get up from the place he had crumbled to, wheezing, stumbling. But he doesn't let him.

He closes the distance in two long strides and presses his black leather boot into the man's wrinkled neck. His actions make it seem like he's amused, like he's playing a game of sorts. He smiles now, barring white teeth that seem to glisten in an unnatural way in the light. The old man is whimpering now, all his earlier filth and cruelty dissolving under the weight of something he can’t explain.

You can’t either. Not yet.

But fuck can you feel it, theres an electric pull in the air like static, that feeling before a thunderstorm barrels through the atmosphere. He leans forward now, applying more pressure on the edge of his boot. You swear you can hear the crack of a bone again and the bile in your throat threatens to spill over, yet you can't look away from the scene in front of you.

“Keep pushing your luck old man,” he growls, his voice rougher now. “I’m a moment away from tearing your throat out and letting the rats finish the rest.”

The man doesn’t respond. He just nods. Or maybe twitches. It's really hard to tell due to the lack of light in the alley. The mystery man lifts his boot releasing the pressure and hold he had on your attacker. The man scrambles to his feet, tripping on dilapidated asphalt as he flees into the dark, leaving nothing behind but a sour stench and the memory of his venom.

The air in the alley way grows cold against your skin again as you realize it's just the two of you now and who's to say this man has good intentions for you too. As he snaps those dark eyes over his shoulder at you, you instantly push yourself back, scraping against the ground until your back hits the brick wall again and your blood runs cold in your veins. 

The man doesn't move at first and you just stare at him, trembling. 

Adrenaline and fear fills your body. Something buried low in your belly that rises to the surface as this man slowly turns to face you. Your mind is screaming at you; he isn't safe! Run!

His voice comes again, softer this time. It surprises you a little.

“Are you hurt?”

You swallow hard, trying to form words through the fog.

“I… I don’t think so.”

He nods once and his eyes trace all over your figure. You feel as if he's disrobed you.

"You shouldn’t be out this late," he said, voice low and stern. “Not around here. Not alone.”

You blinked up at him, “What makes you think I’m alone?”

“Hush.” His jaw clenched. Your lie is falling on deaf ears apparently. 

There was cruelty in his tone, one that made it feel like he was scolding you like a petulant child and it annoyed you. He shook his head, lips tightening. “This part of town’s not what it looks like after midnight. You’re lucky I was nearby.”

The fear and adrenaline running through you bled into annoyance; distaste. Who the hell was he to be talking to you like you were fucking four years old? Granted, what the fuck was he doing out here this late, looking like this. 

“Lucky?” You sneered, standing from your spot on the asphalt and brushing off the tiny rocks pressed into your skin.

He raised a brow at your tone, the corner of his mouth twitching with apparent amusement and only spurring your brows to furrow further. He stayed still, gaze flicking from the curve of your jaw sweeping up to your eyes, he was intrigued?

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Lucky.”

You crossed your arms and scoffed. “I don't know if lucky is the right word.”

He stepped closer to you then, his confidence growing as your display of fear diminished into thin air in front of him. His voice dropped again, smooth as good bourbon.

“Fortunate actually, you’d be in a lot worse position if I hadn’t shown up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What, you want a fucking gold star or something?”

His lip twitched and you caught another glimpse of his unnatural white teeth. “No,” he said simply.

Your jaw clenched at that. “And what exactly were you doing lurking in an alley after midnight?” you snapped. “Looking to play a hero? The ‘young vigilante saves damsel in distress’? Or was it just good timing?”

For the first time, something flickered in his expression, calculation maybe? He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his voice was softer. Too soft.

“Fate,” he sneered, a wicked smile dancing on his full lips. “Call it that.”

You rolled your eyes, arms crossing over your chest. You weren't sure if you’d rather that man still have a knife pressed up against your throat or this infuriating man. 

This god damn handsome, but infuriating man. 

He looked at you now like he could see straight through every layer of heat and fear and defiance still clinging to your skin. And for some reason, you could feel some of your defiance slowly melting away. 

“Look,” he started as his eyes scanned the alleyway. “Let me walk you home. That way I can make sure you get back to where you need to be safely.” 

You scoff and blow a strand of hair that fell into your face, “And what? Risk you stalking me after you learn where I live? Not a chance.” 

You held your chin high though the chill under your skin lit like wildfire as he approached you a bit more, the heat of the air almost dissipating like his aura carried ice. And then it hit you out of nowhere, it seeped into your bones like the radiant sun. His cologne.

Warm verviter and musk, a small trace of clove. It was the kind of scent that wrapped around you before you could decide if you liked it, and then left no room for doubt once it did.You breathed in deeply without meaning to. God. It was heady and masculine, but not overwhelming. It didn’t just smell good. It smelled like pleasure. Like a dagger to your resolve.

And just like that, the pulse in between your legs betrayed you.

He was utterly intoxicating to you now. You wanted to taste the skin on his throat. Shit, you wanted him to taste the skin on your throat. It felt like you had to bite your lip to stop the involuntary moan that was about to spill from your lips as he came to stand in front of you now. 

The silence stretches again, even more charged than before. His gaze drops to the way your arms are wrapped around yourself, the subtle tremble in your fingers you’re trying to hide. The smirk now reaches his eyes.

“I’m not fucking asking. I’m walking you home.”

A demanding and handsome prick is still a prick nonetheless. 

You hesitate, your brain screaming and pleading to not let this stranger any closer. “Why?”

“Because I’m not allowing you to risk your safety again tonight.” he says, and there’s no room for argument in his tone.

Your stomach flips. Something about the way he says it, like he’s annoyed you were in danger. Like you had gone looking for it on purpose and it inconvenienced him.

“I don’t even know you,” your sass returning from your involuntary moment of weakness for this man.

He tilts his head slightly, his eyes rolling. “And we are going to keep it that way, mark my words. But that doesn't change the fact that I am walking you home tonight.”

Your mouth opens and then closes again. He did make the point to save your life tonight when he didn't have to, you suppose you owe him this much. 

There’s a beat of silence. He softens, however, just barely. “Just..please let me walk you home..”

You want to argue. You should. But weighing out your options once more, you suppose letting him walk you home wasn't going to be the worst decision you made this evening. You were curious about him anyhow, and a part of you, a very small part, wasn't ready to let him go just yet.

He steps beside you, his presence solid and strange, that heady cologne of his continuously casting a spell on you that turned your insides into mush. He presents an elbow for you to hang onto, that cocky smirk dancing on his face again as he looks down at you. You hesitate for a moment and then wrap your hand around his bicep. That hesitation only lasts a breath before your fingers curl around the offered arm.

And suddenly, the world feels tipped off its axis.

His bicep is solid under your touch, strong muscle that isn't just toned but almost hard as granite. The kind of muscle that doesn’t come from hours in a gym, but from some inexplicable, functional strength. If it wasn't for the noticeable warmth radiating off of him through the velvet jacket he was sporting you would've sworn he was carved of said granite. He doesn’t flinch or shift as you take hold and grip your fingers a little tighter. 

And as the two of you begin walking down the quiet shadowed street, you can’t help but feel like you’ve just welcomed something into your life you don’t fully understand but would consume every fiber of your being. You can't put your finger on the weird spark fluttering in your chest, curiosity blooming further that is mixed with an odd sense of comfort. He feels familiar to you all of a sudden and you can't put your finger on why. 

You continue to walk in silence for a while. Your footsteps echo on the pavement whereas his remains oddly silent. You steal a glance at his profile, focusing on his sharp yet soft nose, those pouty lips. The very apparent furrow in his eyebrows makes him appear like he's deep in thought, same as you.

He must feel your stare for he breaks the silence between you. “You should stop looking at me like that,” he says, his voice low, eyes still ahead.

“Like what?”

“Like you're trying to figure me out.”

You swallow. “Maybe I am. Maybe I want to know your story. Your name, the name of my savior.”

God, you sound like a lovesick teenager. You don't recognize the soft voice spilling from your lips. What kind of spell does he have you under? 

A beat of silence, a breath. Then, softly, he says, “That’d be a mistake darlin’.”

You round the corner and the lights of Frenchmen Street bleed into view, warm and golden in the distance. The Patrons Dive is just beyond the block now. You can almost hear laughter still floating in the distance.The Patrons Dive is completely dark now, the main door closed up and locked for the evening, the glow of the open sign now sitting dark and lifeless. The gold Buick was missing from where it was parked earlier and you hadn't realized how late it was until now.

He walks you right up to the side door, the entry into the stairwell up to your new home. His jaw flexed, tight, as his eyes scanned the streets around you. “Lock it. Don’t open it until the sun’s up. Not for anyone.”

“Wha– why..” 

“There are far more dangerous things around here than that man you met in the alley, it would be best not to stray again.” His gaze, sharp as he glances back at you.

You open your mouth, heart catching somewhere in your throat. “Wait…”

His brows lift in a silent question.

“…What’s your name?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you for a long moment like he’s fighting an internal battle, hesitation, and then. “It’s Jake.”

“Jake,” You whisper it back, “Will I see you again?”

“Hopefully not anytime soon darling,” he said with a soft playfulness dancing on his lips, and then he was gone. Just like that, disappearing around a street corner like a goddamn wisp of smoke. 

You knew then that you had to see him again. 

You would throw yourself into the devils lair to do so.