Page 68 of One Night with the Biker

“Boo on you,” I replied. “She made groceries, went round the corner by her mama and them—dem actually—was a Who Dat, drank Hurricanes, feared hurricanes, walked on the neutral ground, second-lined, sucked the heads and ate the tails, screamedthrow me something, misterand didn’t show her tits, ate seafood on Fridays and beans on Mondays, said novenas and kept holy water even though we weren’t Catholic, distinguished the two buildings on each side of the Cathedral—the Cabildo and the Presbytère, loved Tabasco, po’ boys, and anything Zatarain’s put out, had a bunch of wodies, tried her best not to use the Crescent City Connection, enjoyed the Natchez, and cursed anyone who said NewOrleens. It’s NewOrluns.”

“Goddamn, all that in five breaths. Impressive, even if I don’t know half of what the fuck you mean. Fuck, most of what you mean.”

I smirked. “Only thing I’ll tell you tonight is what it means to be a Who Dat.”

“This should be good.”

“You know how we’re part of the Chiefs Kingdom?”

The suspicion in his eyes tickled me. What the hell did he think I’d say?

“Yeah,” he said, his tone matching his look.

“A Who Dat is a Saints fan.”

His perfectly arched eyebrows lifted. “The football team?”

“Certainly not a religious saint. Yes, the football team, Reese.”

“Well, goddamn. And that’s the only thing you’ll clue me in on?”

“I’ll answer one more question.”

“Two.” He batted his lashes at me and I giggled. “Pretty please, babe. I cooked you a delicious meal.”

“Fine,two,” I conceded around laughter.

“What the fuck is a wodie?”

“A wardie.”

“Ainsley!”

“Wodie is derived from wardie.”

He glared at me.

“It means friend, pardner, road dog. Usually from the same ward as you.”

“Got it.” He smiled at me, the tenderness in his eyes morphing into desire. “Should I be happy when you tell me you want to suck the head and eat the tail?”

“If you want to watch me eat two or three pounds of boiled crawfish, sure,” I said with a straight face.

“I hate fucking crawdads,” he said. “Even when my father hosted boils, I couldn’t take them. I’d help cut the mushrooms and onions, Measure the kosher salt and vinegar. Shit like that.”

“What foolishness is this?” I demanded. “Mushrooms? Vinegar?”

“The recipe for boiled crawfish. You know? The usual shit.”

“You’re delusional,” I said with a disapproving snort. “I’ll admit that you had some better recipes during our comparisons, but this definitely isn’t one of them. To boil crawfish properly, wodie, you need andouille, bay leaf, garlic, potatoes, corn—”

“Our recipe calls for potatoes and corn.”

“Cayenne pepper, salt, crawfish boil, onions, lemons, celery, and whatever other seasoning you’d like.”

Reese pushed back from his seat at the table. “No matter, babe,” he said, gathering our dishes and bringing them to the sink. He walked to the freezer and pulled out a half gallon of vanilla ice cream. “Those little suckers aren’t for me.”

“I love them.”

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