Page 11 of Luck of the Draw

The paper-thin skin of the old woman’s forehead drew into deep creases, and tears welled in her eyes. “Dear, sweet child. Time is short. You must let him love you.”

Skye jerked her arms away. Him who? The asshole she was trying to get away from? The other assholes who controlled him? “You’re on crack, lady.”

“Time is so short, dear one.” The woman took a step backward. “Let him love you.”

Skye’s stomach dropped like a stone.

What the hell did she mean by time is short?

Never mind. Time was short, and this was wasting hers.

Beyond that, love was just another weapon. That’s how Jesse used it. That’s how everybody used it. And nobody would ever get near her with it again.

Skye started to back away. “I need to g—”

“Your heart knows there is more for you. You will find it. Love will lead you to your true destiny. It is beyond the realm of your imagination. But only when you are able to let go of the past.”

The weight of eyes was suddenly heavy on Skye’s back, like someone back there was staring at her, and she whipped her head around.

There was nobody.

Sparse tourists meandered on the opposite side of the street. A car rolled by. The music from deep in the Quarter kicked up a notch, a low moan of a trumpet drifted through the air, and a frigid gust of wind barreled down the alley, blasting Skye’s ponytail and whipping it around her head.

She turned back around, and the old woman was gone. The alley was empty. Bells jingled from what she guessed was a store entrance, and the trumpet up the street broke into an upbeat parade revelry.

Skye darted her gaze in every direction.

Jesse was there. He had to be. He was somewhere in that alley or on that street, and he wasn’t alone, and she needed to get the fuck out of there.

Skye jogged back out onto the street, dragging the small suitcase as it bumped along on the broken concrete, still whipping her head around, but she found only the visual storm of color and light and frenetic activity. Pulling open the door to the Erin Rose, Skye leaped inside and made a beeline for the ladies’ room.

She looked in the mirror.

Sigh of relief.

Her makeup hadn’t budged during the long, misty walk. She folded up a paper towel, dampened it, and then dabbed her neck. Her hands shook, and she dropped the paper into the sink three times before she finally took a deep breath.

“Focus,” Skye told herself. “You have work to do.”

She dropped her head low, swallowing and sucking in another deep breath, and then she lifted her chin to stare at herself.

You are a caged animal.

In her own blue eyes, Skye could see the shadow of years and years and years spent in that cage.

No more cages. Not anymore.

She tugged out the ponytail, shook her hair, and then combed her fingers through it. Smoothing it back into the elastic, she left it a little loose this time; a little sultrier. She adjusted her camisole and cardigan, turning slightly from side to side, throwing her shoulders back to lift her small breasts.

If she’d ever had the extra money, she would’ve gotten a boob job.

Hell, if she’d had extra money she would’ve eaten more, and then she would probably have more tits and ass than this pitiful set-up. But every woman in New Orleans had tits and ass, and Skye decided being a smaller size made her unique. And in her current predicament, it helped her fly under the radar. A woman with a bodacious figure stood out in the crowd no matter what she wore. A slender girl could hide until she was ready to get someone’s attention.

And with one last adjustment, it was time for Skye to grab someone’s attention. She had a very specific type in mind for her target, and she knew a slightly touristy Irish pub in the Quarter was exactly where he’d be.

Exiting the bathroom, she dragged the suitcase, strolling in a carefree manner with a casual smile, and sidled up to the bar. Two middle-aged women sat on stools to her left wearing Mardi Gras beads and sipping hurricanes.

One of them tilted their glass toward Skye. “Hey, girl! Welcome to the party!”

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