Page 15 of The Party Plot

“Oh, definitely not,” said Mr. Petrowski. “I always had to put him in the chorus. Great at singing, but the boy simply cannot act. He’s too honest.”

You’d be surprised, Laurel thought, watching Casey’s face.

“And what are you up to this morning, Casey?” he asked, hand still on Clementine’s flank. “Important party business?”

“Yeah.” Casey checked his phone. “Actually, I should get back to—”

“Now wait a second, Casey.” Mr. Petrowski held up a hand. “I wasn’t kidding about the tour. I’d be happy to show you around.”

“Right now?” Casey frowned. Several thoughts seemed to pass behind his eyes before his expression evened back out. “I don’t want to impose—”

“Don’t be silly.” Mr. Petrowski patted Clementine’s neck, and the horse replied with a thunderous grunt. “I don’t have any bookings this morning, and the old girl gets bored if she’s got nothing to do.”

“I really—”

“Oh,” Laurel said, seeing an opportunity. “You haven’t experienced Bonard until you’ve been on one of Mr. Petrowski’s tours. Nobody can tell a story quite like he can.”

“Laurel.” Mr. Petrowski put a hand to his heart. “I’m flattered.”

“Actually, I might tag along, if you don’t mind. It’s been so long.” His heart was pounding, and he could feel his neck getting hot. He caught Casey’s eye, gave him a smile.

Casey pressed his lips together, looking like he very much did mind, but Mr. Petrowski was already climbing up into the driver’s seat of the carriage. “Of course not, the more the merrier! Get in, boys, and let me regale you with local color.”

Casey squeezed himself in against the window sash, as far from Laurel as was possible. As the wheels began to roll, he looked resolutely out onto the street, his shoulders stiff, his profile sharp and brittle. Laurel studied the long line of his neck, the delicate shell of his ear. He remembered sucking Casey’s earlobe into his mouth like a piece of candy, peppering his neck with kisses as Casey moved inside of him, slow and decadent and deliberate, then fast and filthy and—

Jesus. His teacher was driving. Laurel couldn’t be thinking like this.

“...Clarissa Bonard died of a broken heart. Or so the doctor claimed at the time, the doctor who was, as you remember, employed by her husband. And some say, on foggy nights, the figure of a woman in white appears beneath the arch, searching for her murdered lover…” Mr. Petrowski looked over his shoulder, a wicked grin on his face. “I’d stay away from the arch at night, boys. A couple of good-looking young men like y’all would be catnip for a ghost.”

Casey rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his iced coffee. Laurel watched his lips on the straw.

“Speaking of catnip, this little hole-in-the-wall has catnip for the living. The best crab in the county, if not the whole state.”

“Casey doesn’t like seafood,” Laurel said.

“What a shame,” said Mr. Petrowski. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

“It is a shame,” Laurel said in a low voice. “You don’t seem to like much. Are you on some kind of a diet?”

Casey made an exasperated noise, picking at a threadbare patch on the seat.

“You don’t need to be, you know. And you are in the South. There’s so much amazing food around—“

“I’m good,” Casey said. “Thanks.”

“Nowhereis a house with quite a history. There was a Madame here during prohibition who ran her business with an iron fist…”

Laurel snuck another glance at Casey. He had sunk into the seat, nursing his coffee. As the tour went on, Laurel saw the tight lines of his posture relaxing slightly. Mr. Petrowski really was an excellent storyteller, his voice melodious and commanding, and he knew the town and its scandals like the back of his hand. The morning haze had burned off, and the sunlight dripped down the facades of the buildings they passed, catching on the sharp leaves of palmettos and the wiry branches of live oaks. The sky was a bright, aching blue, scalloped by wispy clouds. Clementine’s hooves clopped lazily across the cobbles as Mr. Petrowski told them about murder and prostitution, about gangsters and Civil War ghosts and cross-dressing pirate queens. Every so often, a certain turn of phrase would cause a genuine smile to crinkle Casey’s face, his teeth white and straight, his dark eyes shining.

He caught Laurel staring at him and the smile dropped off his face. Laurel’s stomach flip-flopped, his heart jumping oddly in his chest.

“Enjoying the tour?” he asked.

Casey didn’t answer.

“Must be nice getting a break from your busy schedule. My mom is driving you so hard that you forgot to pay the deposit at Landry Hall.”

Casey looked at him sharply. “I’m sorry?”

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