Page 49 of She's Like the Wind
My friend Reggie was playing, and I’d said I’d show up if I could.
Naomi and I had been there several times. She liked their moody jazz ambiance and their absinthe selection, which was legendary.
“I love the atmosphere.” She waved a hand around at the vintage surroundings. “Here it feels as if the past might lean over your shoulder and whisper to you.”
“Baby, if you hear anything from the past,actuallywhisper to you, it might be a haint or probably, and more likely, the absinthe talking.”
“You’ve got no sense for history,” she teased.
I kissed her softly. “Maybe if I drink some of you, the absinthe will flow in my blood, and I’ll hear a whisper or two.”
Reggie played with the famed TrumpetMafia—New Orleans brass legends in the making. They were a bunch of local horn players who believed more was more, and blended jazz, hip-hop, funk, and gospel into an explosive sound that felt like a second-line parade crashing into a block party.
It wasn’t unusual to see eight or more trumpet players onstage at once, trading riffs and weaving harmonies so rich and chaotic it felt like the music had a pulse. Their sets were part celebration, part battle cry, and always an act of joy.
Reggie, in his signature porkpie hat, was all swagger and soul as he led the call-and-response lines, his trumpet practically an extension of his body. Every note punched the air unapologetically, unforgettably alive.
Tonight at the Mahogany, they were playing a stripped-down set—just four horns, keys, and drums—but the energy was no less electric. You couldn’t hear Trumpet Mafia and stay still. The room hummed with life, feet tapping, bodies swaying, history being made in real time.
I wasn’t in the mood for music or much of anything else. But I’d shown up all the same, agitated as hell—burning from the inside out because of Jonah, who’d thrown gas on an already smoldering fire just by existing too close to Naomi.
Reggie knew Aurelie—hell, the whole damn city knew Aurelie—and he was also in Naomi’s orbit, which was probably why my ass was currently parkedon a barstool, pretending I gave a shit about anything besides the woman I’d spent months trying to forget.
I was here for her.
I was here to steal a glance.
I was here to breathe in her orange blossom scent.
I was here because I was half-mad with wanting.
I was here because I was lovesick.
And there it was again—that four-letter word I’d been choking on for weeks.
Love.
Goddamn it.
The club had a large open window behind the band where smokers congregated, making the place thick with sax and cigarette ghosts.
One set ended and then another began; and like always when it did, a hush fell through the room like someone had dimmed the world outside.
Music curled through the air like smoke itself—low, mournful, sensual. The opening notes of ‘Round Midnightslid from Reggie’s sax, all broken glass and velvet. It made me want to rewind the last six months of my life so I could have Naomi sitting next to me.
Why was I fighting this so hard? I could just go to her and…what? She wanted forever, and I didn’t even know what that meant. I couldn’t give her what she wanted if I didn’t even understand that kind of commitment, not when people left you.
“Hey, handsome.” Claudine settled against the bar, facing me. She was in a tight dress—any other day I’dbe ready to haul her to the nearest bed and fuck her into the mattress. But I knew now that no other woman would do and thinking about fucking anyone but Naomi made me sick to my stomach.
God, just kill me now!
“Claudine,” I murmured.
She took the drink from my hand and sipped it. Her lips were glossy, red. She looked good. I couldn’t give a damn even if I tried.
“Lagavulin, nice and smoky,” she purred; then half turned to catch the attention of the bartender. “I’ll have a mint julep, baby.”
It was a New Orleans thing, calling everyonebaby. If you went to Cajun country, everyone wassugahorsha.
