Fairest (7 page)

I thought about nights I'd let the dogs sleep in the bed with me, because I was scared and lonely. Once we had money but before we moved, there had been a few times I'd come to the door with my daddy's shotgun loaded and cocked. I smiled, thinking there was no way Linc had known anyone who'd done that.

“Daddy was home on weekends, though. We'd go fish, just hang out and watch football or movies, and catch each other up on our week.”

“When did your stepmom come onto the scene?”

“They got married just before I turned thirteen. Daddy bought a big house in downtown Savannah for Lizette, and we moved. Hold on,” I said. I got onto the elevator and didn't want to talk while I was in there with three strangers. Once the doors opened for my floor, I waited until I was back in my room before I continued speaking. “Okay. Where was I?”

“I heard an elevator. Are you in a hotel?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Skye,” he said in a singsong way.

“Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?” I laughed and tossed my purse onto the bed.

“You
are
in a hotel. Where are you?”

“Nunya,” I said.

I heard him laugh. “So, you
do
have a naughty streak. Stepmom must know where you are, though.”

“She does.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Please, Skye,” he mock-whined. “I won't be able to enjoy drinking or sleeping if I don't know where you are.”

“I doubt that.” I punched the TV on and sat on the end of the bed.

“Well, what are you doing wherever you are?”

“Going to a concert tomorrow night.”

“Well, now I want to go. Where are you?” he pleaded. “Just tell me. Come on. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me, Skye. Tell me.”

“Oh, good grief! I'm in New Orleans.”

“Holy shit,” he blurted so loudly I jerked the phone away from my ear. “You can't be in New Orleans by yourself. Skye, that is totally not safe and really dumb, especially after the hurricanes.”

“Why? I stay in New York all the time. It can't be worse.” I shook my head and then felt ridiculous for doing it. “I'll be fine. I'll be in Savannah on Tuesday.”

“Call me or text me when you get there,” he said. “I'm guessing Whit doesn't know about this.”

“Why would he? God, why did I even answer the phone?”

“Because you like me.” He sounded so smug. “Admit it.”

“I don't like you. You're honest, and I appreciate that. It doesn't mean I like you.”

He coughed in disbelief. “You like me.” In the background, I heard someone, maybe Mike, yell for him. “My public awaits me. I'll miss having you as a pool partner and bed buddy.”

“No you won't,” I said, using the toe of my left sneaker to tug off the back of the right one.

“I don't lie to you. I may be an asshole, but I'm an honest asshole. You just said.”

“Bye, Linc,” I said.

Before I could hang up, he said hurriedly, “I took your sleep T-shirt. Bye.” Then, he ended the call, and I stared at my phone, fighting the urge to call him back and cuss him out.

When I got up and searched my bags, I found that the T-shirt—the one of my father's that was old, hole-filled, and softer than baby's skin—was missing. I felt strangely nervous. I didn't sleep in it often, as fragile as it was, but when I was all alone, like I was now, I liked to wear it. It was silly, but I thought of it kind of like armor.

After a bit more searching, I found a regular, white T-shirt that didn't belong to me. When I lifted it and sniffed at the chest, it smelled faintly of Linc's cologne. He'd swapped our shirts, probably when I was in the shower. I never even noticed that he changed, although I should have. He never wore anything old or with holes.

I was unhappy, but after washing my face and brushing my teeth, I slipped into the shirt. It wasn't as soft or large as mine was, but it felt oddly comforting. I poured myself a large glass of water, piled blankets on the bed, and snuggled into it.

I watched Food Network for a few hours, only interrupted by trips to the bathroom, trips for more water, and answering two texts. In one, I replied to Whit that I made it just fine. In the other, Linc told me he was wearing my T-shirt. I told him I found his and was wearing it. His reply was only a smiley face. I laughed, snuggled further into the blankets, and watched TV until I fell asleep.

* * * *

In the wee hours of the morning, my phone rang. I slapped my hand around on the bedside table until I found it. I pulled it under the covers with me and without looking, I answered, “Mmpf.”

Linc said my name, sloppily. Probably drunk. “Skye,” he said again more clearly.

“What, Lincoln?” I asked, barely awake and listening.

“Were you asleep?”

“Yeah.” I let the phone rest on the mattress so I didn't have to deal with it.

“Sorry, kinda. Look, will you go out with me?”

“Linc,” I complained.

“Just once.”

“You had to call me at this hour to ask me that?”

“I can't sleep,” he said.

“K, sure. Bye.” He may or may not have called my name a few more times, but I was already on my way back into my dreams.

* * * *

I got up late the next morning and had breakfast at the Café du Monde in the mall. I munched on
beignets
and sipped chicory coffee. The combination woke me and erased most of my lingering loneliness. Refueled, I left the mall through the large arch leading out to Poydras and Riverfront Park. I stood there by the river for a while, finishing my coffee and watching the ferry. The muddy Mississippi was high with spring thaw.

When the coffee was gone, I checked into the pre-paid ticket line at the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas. I began my tour by feeding parakeets. I smiled as I watched the sea otters and penguins play, and I stood opened-mouthed as I dipped my hand into a tank to pet a stingray. I also caught glimpses of rescued sea turtles.

I mesmerized myself with tanks of fish. I felt peaceful as I watched them glide around the coral and each other—even the sharks and octopuses. I stared at the tanks for what felt like hours, and I wondered if that was why doctors always had fish tanks in their offices. It was soothing and entertaining at the same time.

It was around noon when I finished my tour of the aquarium, and if I'd had the time, I might have caught a cab ride to the actual zoo. Instead, I decided to take the five-block walk along the river toward the French Quarter. Since it was Monday, adults were at work. Most teens and college students who were on Spring Break chose to go to the beach for their holiday. I imagined that, when they saw me, people wondered what I was doing. It made me smile and feel just a bit naughty, as Linc said.

When I reached Jackson Square, I made a point to walk around and take in the architecture of the cathedral, shops, and theaters. I bought pralines and nibbled while artists painted and street performers acted or played instruments. I wished that I had talent at something artistic, but I couldn't draw. I'd never had any music lessons, and I couldn't sing.

I had no idea what I wanted to do when I graduated from Irstwitch. I hadn't given any serious thought to where I wanted to go to college, much less what to study. I took advanced math, science, and language classes, so I knew I wasn't dumb. Nothing about those subjects spoke to me, though. As I watched a man ride a unicycle and play guitar at the same time, I wondered what he thought he would be when he was younger. Maybe he always wanted to be a street performer, but I doubted it. From the looks of him, it was a hard life—maybe even harder than being a shrimper.

Feeling tired from my long walk and over-sugared from breakfast and pralines, I took a cab back to the hotel. When I checked my e-mail on my laptop, Lizette had messaged me to make sure I made it to New Orleans okay. I shot her a message back, apologizing for not calling or texting her sooner. I told her that my flight to Savannah wouldn't leave until two the next afternoon, so not to expect me too early. I had a few school-related e-mails reminding me of papers and projects, but I had already completed them before the break, just so I wouldn't have to worry about them.

Since the concert didn't start until nine, I decided to take a nap. When I got up, I had a new text from Linc. “Have fun. B crfl.”

I rolled my eyes at it, considered responding, and decided against it. Instead, I ordered room service. After I devoured my steak and baked potato, I pulled my hair back into a ponytail. I slipped my hotel room card into the quick bag I carried instead of a purse. After carefully wedging it between my phone and wallet, I checked to make sure I had my pepper spray and slipped the long strap across my body. I shrugged into my hoodie, both to keep the chill off and to conceal the bag.

As I left the Hilton, I smiled to myself, thinking how my father would absolutely die if he knew I was walking the streets of New Orleans after dark. Ahead of me, there were three couples, and I stuck close to them until we passed all the beggars on Canal. I was practically skipping by the time I made it to the House of Blues.

* * * *

I sang my heart out. I yelled until my voice cracked, and I went hoarse. The crowd and the music filled me, making me happy and chasing the loneliness away.

* * * *

I walked along Decatur, smiling and enjoying the emotional high and the way my ears rang just a bit. I hummed the chorus of
If You Only Knew
. I stopped in the street, simultaneously trying to soak in the vibes of the city and trying to decide if I should venture to Bourbon Street. It was late, but I was too amped to sleep.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my ponytail. More quickly and calmly than I ever imagined I could, I reached into my bag, pulled out the pepper spray, and squirted it over my shoulder in the direction I prayed was my attacker's face was in.

He roared in pain and let go of my hair enough for me to pull it free. When I tried to shove away from him, he blindly reached for me and succeeded in getting hold of my necklace. It cut into the back of my neck, and then the chain broke. My attacker yelled at someone nearby to get me. “Get Skye,” he said, calling me by name as he waved my necklace around in the air and rubbed at his eyes.

I turned and bolted into the nearest building. I paid no attention to what it was as I flew through it, past customers and clerks, through a black, hanging curtain and a stockroom until I found the back door. I burst out of it and into a small employee parking lot. I ran across it and into the back of another building.

Heart pumping and legs churning, I slammed out the front of that store and right into a group of people. Without speaking, I shoved through them and a few other groups into another storefront.

Someone yelled at me to stop, but I didn't. I kept going in one store and out another until I ran into the front of an empty building. Abandoned, probably by whoever owned it before Hurricane Katrina, the place smelled stale and faintly of sewage. From what I could tell, it had been a small hotel.
Hotel, hotel…I should go back to my hotel
.

“He knows your name,” I said quietly.

I realized I was still depressing the pepper spray. It was empty, and I dropped the can on the floor of what had once been a lobby. I couldn't think. My heart pounded in my neck and ears, and my throat was raw.

My attacker had called me by name.

When my mind calmed enough for me to think, I feared that he might have been watching me the whole time and followed me. He might know where I was staying. When that hit me, I became violently ill right there in the old, moldy, stinking, deserted hotel.

My eyes welled with tears, but I didn't cry. Instead, I found the staircase and went up to the top floor. The hallways were dark and empty. I proceeded with caution. Coming across bums on the street or crazies out in the swamps of Savannah was one thing. Intruding on a crazy, homeless person was another.

When I opened a door to a room, I whispered, “Hello?” and got no answer. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. The place seemed completely deserted, even of furniture.

I peeked out the windows, but all I saw were people walking the street. No one appeared to be searching for someone, so I decided I was in the clear. My adrenaline gone, I felt drained and numb. I sat down on the floor and stared into space for a while.

When Bob called me to let me know he took care of Skye, I thanked him, carefully hung up the phone, and leapt out of bed. I whooped and danced my way to the kitchen. I opened a bottle of Dom Perignon and drank to my fortune. I took the flute and the bottle with me back to my boudoir and continued my celebration by trying on a new diamond tennis bracelet and matching earrings. According to Bob, soon, very soon, I would be getting Skye's pendant in the mail as confirmation. I grinned at myself in the mirror.

I was thirty-five, but I looked hot. I worked out and took excellent care of my skin and hair. I was in top condition
—
in better health and form than most women in their twenties were. With Winston's bad health, it was only a matter of a few more years before his clogged arteries killed him. Then, I would have all his money, and I could have any man I wanted.