Page 27 of Room Twenty-Three: Tangled & Teased

No way!

I spin to the men as they talk together. “I’m getting outta here.”

“You can stay inside,” Jove growls.

I shake my head. “You told me nobody knows I’m here. And to be sure, I’ll tie my hair up and wear the biggest sunglasses and a hat. Just let me do something alone.”

Jove stops talking for a moment and I hope he isn’t about to change his mind. His stare is on my pleading face for a while before replying, “She’ll be fine. Nobody knows she’s in New Orleans. Even her father thinks we’re in New York.”

Atty shakes his head. “If you promise to keep your face covered.”

Beau tosses his car keys in the air and interrupts Atty. “I’m sure Erin is going to be a good girl today.”

I could be a bad girl if you let me.

But you’re not.

“Where is your cell?” Jove asks.

My hand swipes at the rear pocket of my jeans, and I pull out my phone. “Here.”

“I’m putting a tracker on it. Do not turn it off,” Jove growls. “And if you feel you’re in a predicament, no matter how trivial. Press the ‘home’ button for five seconds and it will send a signal to us.”

“I’ll be fine here. Nobody knows my real name and nobody will recognize me.”

Atty grunts his disapproval.

“We really need to go,” Beau says, glancing at his watch.

After following them to the front door, I watch until the three men get into the car. Then I sprint upstairs to my bedroom.

Right now, I’m grateful they’re allowing me to roam around New Orleans for a few hours. Rather than hang around the house while they investigate the missing girl. Today, they’re going to talk to the missing girl’s friends after speaking to the Dean.

Like the good girl I am, I pinned my hair into a high bun and plonked a large straw hat on my head. Finishing my look with a pair of sunglasses that takes over half of my face.

I never expected New Orleans to be chilly, but I need a sweater over my tee-shirt to brave the cool air.

Once I see their car leave, I grab my purse, checking I have enough money before I leave the house, and stroll to the stop for the tourist bus. I was going to order a cab, but if I won’t be in New Orleans for very long, this way I can at least sight-see on my way to the French Quarter.

We’re staying in a house on St. Charles Avenue, and it’s the St. Charles Streetcar that arrives first. It looks like the trams that graced the Victorian era.

I pay the fare and take my seat.

Along the journey I take in the city’s historic architecture before the journey grinds to a halt at Canal Street, the last stop. Which is fine as I want to walk the last part of the journey. I want to capture Bourbon Street before I meander my way down to Café du Monde, where I plan to sip coffee as I watch people from the terrace.

Bourbon Street is a vibrant tourist destination. With colorful architecture, stucco walls in the colors of the rainbow. The buildings have wrought-iron balconies, some being more elaborate than others. But it’s the sound of jazz music filtering through the air, drifting from the bars and from the musicians playing on the corners as I pass, that gets my attention.

Suddenly, thoughts of New Orleans disappear as memories of my cousin play on my mind. Losing her life at the hands of Mafia men, the same men who will probably do the same to me.

I glance all around me. Nobody looks out of place. But the fear is there, because everyone knows that these men never stop. They will do whatever it takes to get what they want.

I pull my hat lower over my face.

You’re safe here, Erin.

I turn onto Conti Street. Classical music replaces the sound of jazz music halfway down the street. My feet pad to the same soft music that I danced to during my time as a ballet dancer. The memory causes me to swallow a pang of sadness and also a lump of anger. There was no injury that should have forced me to quit, only the hateful words of my father.

I follow the sounds, hoping it’s not from a relaxed bar. That’s when I see a signboard for a ballet school, the arrow pointing to a quiet corner of the French Quarter. Intrigued, I follow the signs and make my way inside, and I’m greeted by the sight of young girls in tutus and leotards. Their faces brimmed with happiness and determination as they practiced their pliés and pirouettes to the sounds of Tchaikovsky.

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