Page 6 of Love Me Tomorrow

So, yeah, it was rough.

Painful, my brain supplies helpfully like the asshole it is,it was brutally painful.

If I have to guess, I’m hedging my bets that Savannah is engaged by now. Which is good. I hope some douchebag actually put a ring on it because then I can move on. No more hoping she might waltz into my parlor, grief written all over her face when she begs me for another chance after all these months of radio silence. No more purposely skipping over Channel 6 wheneverPut A Ring On Itairs on Wednesday evenings. No more pining for a woman who—

Crack!

My head snaps to the left, to the shared wall between Inked and the kitschy souvenir shop next door, just as the antique barge board gives way and a sledgehammer bursts through.

Burststhrough. As in, I’m staring at a set of fingers currently trying to wrangle the massive tool back through the concave hole about four feet off the ground.

Christ.

“Shit!” shouts a panicked voice from the other side of the wall. “I’msogetting fired for this.”

Shirley darts a concerned look my way. “Maybe I should come back tomorrow?”

“And miss the present I bought you? Not happening.” I push off the stool, letting it roll to the side as I rise to my full height. I strip off my latex gloves and toss them in the garbage. “Plus, don’t think I’m lettin’ you leave without filling me in on whether or not Peggy’s husband died by orgasm.”

“He didn’t. Die, that is.”

“Huh. Looks like silver linings do exist.”

“But he’s not allowed to have sex for a while,” Shirley tells me, watching avidly as I approach the shared wall. I wrap a hand around the sledgehammer and give it a good tug. It comes loose easily, and when I peek through the hole, I see nothing but bright lights and hear nothing but four-letter curse words. “You know,” my client adds, “because of his heart and all.”

“Hey, you win some, you lose some.”

Shirley laughs again, and when I turn back to her, I see her give a little shrug. “Maybe I could watch some TV while I wait?” Her eyes soften with hope. “You know I love me someJudge Judy.”

“Remote’s on the receptionist’s desk.” I jerk my chin toward the front. “Have at it.”

“And if anyone comes by looking for you?”

Aside from potential walk-ins looking for a spur-of-the-moment tattoo, no one is coming by unannounced. Gage is working a beat, Lizzie is filming some makeup video for her YouTube channel, and aside from the two of them, it’s not like I get a lot of random visitors. I swing the sledgehammer in an arc. “Tell them you’ve buried my body in the courtyard and stolen all of the goods.”

Giggling, Shirley practically sashays around me to pluck the TV remote off the front desk while I head for the door. Knowing her, she’ll be so immersed in the world ofJudge Judy, she’ll forget that she’s even waiting.

Stepping out onto Bourbon, I’m immediately assaulted by theclip-clopof horse hooves, the hollering for Mardi Gras beads—even though it’s June—from up on the second-floor balconies, and a scent that my twin once dubbedeau de French Quarter.

Sewage. Booze. Vomit. Humidity.

It’s a special fragrance that speaks to the soul and reminds me of my later teenage years, when Gage and I used to sneak into the strip clubs with our fake IDs and order rounds of shots like we were high rollers.

Now, Gage is a cop for the NOPD’s Special Operatives Division, and I—well, the last time I got drunk down here in the Quarter—or, anywhere, really—was the day I arrived back in town from my one and only trip out to the West Coast.

Because clearly my last night in LA wasn’t enough to erase the burn of Savannah’s rejection.

Resting the sledgehammer’s wooden handle on my shoulder, I nod to one of the street performers who always hits up this intersection, then cut left. The glass windows of the storefront next to Inked are completely blacked out.

I try the door with a jiggle of the handle, and Lady Luck must be on my side because it swings open without issue.

Option Two would have been to use the sledgehammer.

One glance is all I need to know that someone is doing some major rehab. Gone are the walls featuring Cajun spices and Voodoo dolls. The shelves of T-shirts, highlighting punny New Orleans phrases, have also disappeared, along with the alligator heads that once sat by the cash register. Instead, the floors are stripped down to the concrete slab and the walls are bare of paint and stucco to reveal the fragile, original, nineteenth-century brick-between-post foundation.

The touristy shop that routinely sent me customers every night is no more.

Damn.

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