Page 6 of Captive Heart

I cast a glance over my shoulder as Jazmine pulls away. She honks and I raise a hand in thanks. Exhaling a deep breath, I pull my key from my booty shorts and let myself in. After locking the three deadbolts behind me, I turn and survey my humble house. My bed in one corner. My art studio set up in another. Then the rest of the place is taken up by the small kitchen and dining room table. All of it is overlooked by a large window that looks directly out onto the rocky, empty beach. There is never anyone outside, even in the middle of summer like it is now. Not enough sand and too many brambles for anyone to enjoy it.

It’s not much, but it’s what I call home these days.

I toss my key in a bowl on the dining room table and change into sweats. I wrinkle my nose. I should start looking for jobs immediately.

But I don’t. Instead, I lie down on my bed, pulling my sleek black cell phone off the rickety bedside table. I want to talk to someone.

Maybe see a friendly face. My brother is one of two people who has this new prepaid cell phone’s number. Not my mom. Not my dad. Not any of my friends from my partying days.

And if I’m not mistaken, Lawrence will just be getting off his shift bartending on Bourbon Street about now. I send him a text —hey. how are things?

But I wait for ten minutes with no real answer.

I look at the screen and a notification pops up. It’s from Etienne, the other person who has my number.

Degas. Title isIn A Café. $5000. Interested?

I stare at the screen, nibbling on my lower lip. Etienne is someone who I used to know in my old life.

Someone who I forged paintings and wine labels for, before I was almost murdered by my insane fiancé. Before I fled, leaving behind questions surrounding the death of my best friend and my sudden disappearance.

Etienne feeds me little bits of work, here and there. He keeps the lights on in my tiny house, if I’m honest about it.

Pursing my lips, I type out a reply.

$7500. You source appropriately-aged oil paints.

Putting the phone on my chest, I sigh. I close my eyes, drifting off into a fitful sleep, all the lights on in my apartment.

Chapter3

Hades

In the short walk from the air conditioned sedan up the block towards the bar, I feel the intense heat of the New Orleans sun beating down on me. Eros is right on my heels, taking off his jacket as we walk down the street.

“It’s hotter here than fucking Turkmenistan,” Eros mutters. “Who the fuck wants to live in this heat?”

“It’s something about being on the water,” Ares chimes in. “It’s stifling everything.”

“Turkmenistan is on the water, too, ye daft idiot.”

Ares growls at him. “Fuck ye. I’ll fight ye.”

Making it to the doorway, I pause and look back at both of them. “Shut the fuck up. We are about to enter this bar, on good authority that it’s where Constantine likes to hang out. So, get yer shit together and do what yer supposed to do. At least try to appear both silent and intimidating.”

At my sharp words, both of my brothers straighten their spines. Ares sneers and plays with his tie clip. Eros grimaces and flexes his hands.

“Aye,” they say as one.

I run my hand down my suit jacket and turn to pull the heavy metal door open. Outside didn’t look like much. Inside the bar is the opposite, though.

An immediate gust of air conditioning hits me as I walk in, looking around at the dark bar. Everything about this place is sleek and chic, from the black walls to the elegantly and minimally designed back wall of the bar. Bottles seem to float in the air, the ledges of floating shelves stacked all the way up the wall. There are a few tables and booths to my right. To my left is a glass door that leads to a neatly maintained patio space.

My gaze locks onto a familiar looking figure standing with his back turned to us. Blond hair. A white button up. Slim fitting jeans. Those god awful red snakeskin boots.

Constantine turns his head, showing the briefest flash of surprise. Then he gives a big, toothy grin, one of his front teeth glinting faintly silver.

In the back of my head, Constantine is superimposed over that of Rory Lyon, the first of many bullies I’ve come to know in my life. By contrast, Constantine looks puny, but my fists still tighten as I stalk over to him.

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