Page 12 of She's Like the Wind
The lingerie was still here, still beautiful.
But the woman who wore it for him? Well, she felt very far away.
I took another sip of champagne and closed myeyes. I needed to keep my mind off him and get back to work. That’s what I needed to do.
Burlesque Noir was coming. There was prep to do. Mannequins to dress, feathers to steam, sparkle to polish.
But for now, I let myself sit in the ache.
Just for a moment.
CHAPTER 5
Gage
Iwasn’t planning to walk by Aire Noire.
But my feet had a different idea. They always did when it came to her.
The sun was sliding low over Royal Street as tourists were being told the oft-repeated story about how haunted the Andrew Jackson Hotel was.
The guide’s voice floated above the clatter of carriages and the buzz of the street:
“…and here’s where guests reported waking up to find furniture moved, windows opened, or their blankets tugged away in the middle of the night. Some even say they heard the sound of boys laughing, running down the halls—but there haven’t been children in that hotel for years.”
A few people chuckled nervously.
One man took a photo, just in case.
I knew what the guide would say next, I’d heard itmany, many times, as had anyone who was born and raised in New Orleans.
A woman staying alone in the hotel in the nineties snapped pictures of her room to show her family back home. When she got her film developed, there was a photo she didn’t remember taking. It was angled from the ceiling, as if someone had taken it looking down on her while she slept.
“She swore she never took it,” the guide continued conspiratorially. “She swore she’d been alone. The hotel staff chalked it up to a trick of the light, a faulty camera, a misplaced negative. But those of us who’ve lived here long enough know better.”
I chuckled as people looked at the hotel, and one person asked. “So, the hotel is open to guests?”
“Absolutely. I mean, guests hear the boys laughing from time to time, but that’s just part of the experience.”
I couldn’t help being amused when the guide ominously declared, “Some ghosts want to be seen. Others want you to know they’re watching.”
I strolled by the corner of Royal and Toulouse, and my eyes fell on the window of Aire Noire.
Jesus!
The display stopped me in my tracks like a fist to the chest.
It was bold—naughty, but not vulgar.
It was something else. Sensuality that made your mouth dry and your heart ache at the same time.
A mannequin in a peach silk robe was perched on an antique chair, legs parted just enough to make it intentional. Between her thighs lay pearls, long and languid, like a dare. The mannequin’s wrist was set as if she were about to touch herself. A coupe glass stained with lipstick sat beside her, and love notes—torn and inked in French—were scattered like fallen confessions.
Across the window glass in gold script, it said:C’est Mardi Gras, chérie—sois audacieuse.
It was both a middle finger to propriety and an invitation to taste the forbidden.
It was art.It was classy. It was raunchy.
