Page 18 of Love Me Tomorrow

The sun beats down on my head. Nine in the morning and it’s scorching hot already. Hot enough that I’ve left my customary flannel at home and opted for only a T-shirt instead. In other parts of the city, trees line the sidewalks and provide shade, but down here in the Quarter, there’s nothing but narrow balconies, stucco, and the odd potted shrubbery on various front stoops. On Bourbon, you’re more likely to find plastic beads and discarded Hand Grenade bottles littering the ground than you are a fancy arrangement of peonies.

In other words, I should have asked the barista for an iced coffee instead.

Grimacing, I lift my gaze to check the street for oncoming traffic, only for my stride to come staggering to a halt.

Beside the former souvenir shop, on the corner of Bourbon and St. Peter Streets, Mike’s Hard Daiquiri is missing its infamous sign. Hell, it’s not just missing the sign, it’s missing a fucking frontdoor.

What the hell?

I dart across the street, barely avoiding a collision with an oncoming horse and buggy duo hauling tourists around for a French Quarter joyride. Ducking inside the popular daiquiri joint, I call out, “Mike, you in?”

There’s the unmistakable sound of drilling and then a head pops out from behind a wall. “Heya! Who’re you looking for—oh, shit.”

I stare at Tacos-and-Titties Kurt and he stares back at me, and yeah, my stomach right now? It’s rolling uneasily like I’ve just boarded one of the touristy steamboats that sail the mighty Mississippi.

Careful to keep my expression blank, I ask, “Where’s Mike?”

Kurt scuffs the heel of his boot against the floor. “Mike who?”

Christ. “The guy who owns this place.”

“Ohhhh, right. Him.” More shoe scuffing commences, though this time it’s accompanied by a good ol’ boy,aw-shuckswhistle that instantly grates on my nerves. “Yeah, last I heard he bought himself a one-way ticket to Aruba. Don’t think he’s coming back anytime soon.”

Hell would have to freeze over before Mike Fairfield willingly gave this place up. He’s been serving daiquiris for longer than I’ve been tattooing over at Inked, and it’d take a huge payout for him to consider leaving, even for the sandy beaches of—

Hold on.

My gaze zeroes in on Kurt. “You’re not next door.”

It’s not a question, and the kid must think I’m some sort of new-age bank robber because he immediately throws his hands up in the air and confesses, “ERRG bought this place too!”

Wait . . . this placetoo?

I sweep the room with a hasty once-over. The daiquiri machines are gone. The once shiny floors are covered by plastic tarps. And hell, but I don’t think there’s been a day in the last decade that Mike hasn’t playedTwo Piña Coladasby Garth Brooks from sunup to sundown. The silence permeating the room only drills home what Kurt is saying: Mike peaced out for sand, oceanfront views, and some piña coladas of his own, all—I’m assuming—at the expense of the Edgar Rose Restaurant Group’s checkbook.

Fuck. Me.

Twisting around, I toss my lukewarm coffee into the garbage can chilling by the empty doorway.

“Wait! Where are you going, man?”

To have a little talk with the daughter of Satan, that’s where.

Ignoring Kurt, my feet haven’t even hit the sidewalk before I’m slipping my phone from the front pocket of my jeans and scrolling through my contacts for the one name I haven’t called in months.

Fact is, ERRG doesn’t do coincidences. Self-proclaimed “small business” or not, the Edgar Rose Restaurant Group is a conglomerate here in New Orleans. I don’t trust, not even for a second, that they ran Mike Fairfield out of his daiquiri shop under fair circumstances. Sure, he must have agreed to whatever exorbitant sum they threw at him—but beyond that?

Edgar RoseIVdoes not play fair.

I learned that during the few months that I dated Amelie. I may be quiet, more emotionally withdrawn than my twin, but I’m no idiot. Amelie liked dating me because I wasn’t the sort of guy her dad wanted coming around the house. We were casual—our relationship so laid-back that it barely constituted as one in the first place—but I always wondered if Amelie understoodwhyher dad hated me so much. It wasn’t just the tattoos and my blue-collar upbringing.

Nah, Edgar Rose disliked me because he’d taught me a hard lesson in fairness years earlier, when I briefly worked as a busboy at one of ERRG’s restaurants and he had me arrested for a theft I didn’t commit. Two months spent in jail, and not even a single apology when the judge finally dismissed the charge, much to the old man’s disgruntlement.

The Roses are treated like untouchable royalty here in New Orleans, and I had firsthand experience in playing the part of pawn.

So, yeah, fair? Not exactly a word that Edgar Rose knows real well, if at all.

With the phone pressed to my ear, Savannah’s callback ringing, I wrench open the door to Inked and come to an abrupt stop for the second time this morning.

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