Page 1 of Highball and Chain

Shanna

Cinderella never doubtedher social skills. A new dress and glass shoes gave her all the self-confidence she needed to walk in and dance with the prince. Too bad I didn’t have a fairy godmother or a pumpkin carriage to get me through my best friend’s engagement party.

Who am I kidding? It’s going to take a lot more than pixie dust to survive tonight.

I’d rather have a root canal than spend a night hobnobbing with New Orleans’ rich and infamous. Then again, high society events and dentistry had a lot in common. Both were agony made barely tolerable by copious amounts of numbing agents.

Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for the newly engaged couple. They’d managed to do the impossible, find love.

Me? I’d long since stopped believing in knights in shining armor riding in on white horses to save the day. Heck, if my prince ever did arrive, he’d be a misogynist pig, and his noble steed would shit on my lawn.

Nope. I didn’t believe in love and romance any more than I believed in fairy-tales. I’d learned to doubt men when my father left. My doubt had solidified into a cynical distrust when I started working for a private investigator.

I loved my job…most of the time. Tonight? Not so much.

Two hours hiding behind a planter in a hallway of the Bourbon Orleans Hotel could do that to a girl. If I didn’t shoot some video of the mayor and his flavor of the week soon, I’d never make it to Maggie and Gabe’s party on time.

Over the previous few days, I’d photographed the elected official with a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead—variety was the spice of life after all. Tonight’s spice was an Amazonian woman with dark hair and legs that belonged in the WNBA.

Most of the good citizens of New Orleans knew their mayor was a cheating piece of crap, but I needed proof. So far, I’d filmed them exchanging documents and what I assumed were envelopes of cash. However, Mrs. Carter wasn’t interested in her husband’s dirty politics.

Pictures might be worth a thousand words, but for me, an incriminating video was a month’s rent, and the difference between pasta at Antoine’s and ramen noodles.

The mayor and the brunette exited their room without as much as a boob graze, but I took a couple of photos to document the time.

I hiked my bag higher and strolled down the hall. My boss had taught me the key to maintaining one’s cover was to blend in, act like you belonged, and deny, deny, deny. Alex was a top-notch private investigator, but he knew squat about being a female in a male profession.

As such, I took a slightly different approach. I stood out and acted like I didn’t give a flying fig.

The couple stepped into the elevator. I picked up my pace and jammed a size eight Doc Marten in the closing doors. Once inside, I ignored their frowns and swiped right to activate my smartwatch spy camera. Aiming the lens at the couple, I pretended to scroll through my phone and prayed for him to break his freaking vows.

Jefferson Carter, father of three, and husband of twenty-six years, did not disappoint. He kissed the Amazon like he was trying to eat her face off. Seriously, I’d seen cows chewing cud with more finesse.

The recording rolled the entire time. Gotcha, asshole.

The elevator stopped, and we stepped out. The mayor and the woman turned right while I faked a left and ducked back once they were out of sight. Peeking around the corner, I eased my watch into position and continued to record them. Afterall, when proving infidelity, quantity often trumped quality.

The brunette’s eyes went wide. “Hey! Stop!”

Busted.

Carter didn’t scare me, but his playmate looked like she could pick me up and toss me out the window without chipping her nail polish. I made a break for the exit and didn’t stop until I reached Royal Street. Heart pumping, thigh muscles screaming, I bent at the waist to catch my breath.

The bells of St. Louis Cathedral chimed seven times, reminding me I was late for Maggie and Gabe’s party. The Marchionni-Guthrie nuptials would take place in Sicily, but the couple’s mothers had strong-armed them into holding a pre-wedding event—a black-tie event. My jeans and T-shirt weren’t going to cut it.

Lucky for me, I’d been a boy scout in a former life. Always be prepared.

I headed down Royal and ducked into Landry & Sons Antiques.

The owner, and one of my oldest friends, glanced up from his paperwork. “Shanna, what a surprise.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Jack.” I pointed to the backroom without slowing my pace. He might or might not have groaned, not that I cared. I had places and people and all that jazz.

Five minutes later, I emerged from the stockroom in a vintage dress that would make Jackie Kennedy drool and a pair of second-hand Jimmy Choo knock-offs. “How do I look?”

He quirked a single brow and motioned for me to turn. “Wrinkled.”

I smoothed the fabric over my hips. “It was in my bag all day.”

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