No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1) (24 page)

Instead of a fancy glass, the bartender pours it into a plastic cup with a lid. I feel like one of my nieces with a sippy cup. I post a picture of my drink on Twitter.

MK Landry
@NoPinkCaddy

Doing a little day drinking. #SitesOfNOLA

My drink makes me miss Tripp. I’m feeling generous enough today to send him a text.
Hi! I hope you’re having a good day. I know you’re mad. Call when you’re ready to talk.

I don’t receive a response, but I didn’t expect to.

Walking over, I sit down on the steps of the church. Across from me is a jazz band. The singer has a tambourine. Her soulful voice combined with the horns gets my feet tapping, my hips wiggling, and my pulse racing.
How have I made it thirty years without owning a tambourine?

There’s a young couple sitting near me who look like tourists.

“Hey! Would you mind videoing me?” I ask.

The lady smiles and takes my phone. Moments later, I join the tambourine player, dancing to the music. The band loves my participation and increases the tempo just a bit. As I turn, my purple skirt becomes full swishing around me. The music flows, and I feel nothing but pure joy. It’s a gorgeous day and I should be inside behind my computer; instead, I’m free. My wings are no longer clipped. I can dance and sing any time I wish. I can enjoy the sunny weather without feeling like I should be making money for my ex-boyfriend and his father.

When the song is over, I bow as applause rings through the square. Giving each member of the band a hug, I scurry over to the couple to retrieve my phone. I post the unedited video to my Twitter account with the hashtag SitesOfNOLA.

I’m soaring. I’ve had a great morning that turned crummy, and now a fantastic afternoon. I walk through an alley and down a street. Bars and knickknack gift shops line the sidewalks while apartments begin on the second floor. If I find something beautiful or interesting or even disturbing, I snap a photo.

A guy sits behind an old typewriter. He calls out, “Gorgeous, ten dollars and I’ll write you a poem.”

Smiling, I reply, “Thank you, but not today.”

I visit one of my favorite art galleries. The work is eclectic and fun. One of the artists is working on a piece. Asking if I can snap his picture for my blog, he is thrilled for the exposure. He shows me his favorite pieces, and I take pictures of those.

Creativity is the lifeblood of New Orleans. I bet there’s not another city in the world that is filled with such talented artists, musicians, chefs, writers, and performers. William Faulkner left his home in Mississippi and joined the literary scene here in the 1920s. This is where the famous author was inspired enough to write his first novel as he looked out his bedroom window and onto the church grounds of St. Louis Cathedral. It’s the birthplace of jazz born from voodoo rhythms, African slaves’ drums, and European horns. And, of course, the world can thank New Orleans for twerking.

Soon enough, my drink is empty and so is my stomach. I check street signs at the next corner and realize I’m not far from one of my favorite hole-in-the-wall soul food restaurants. Heading south, I walk about a mile.

When I was kid, my mom would bring Bethany and I to this restaurant to eat lunch the day before school started. Our housekeeper’s daughter worked here, and I always thought it was so fun to visit her. She was about ten years older than me, and I just assumed we were family because every time we went shopping, my mom would pick up new clothes for her also. We went to her high school graduation, and I remember crying when her mom quit when she graduated from college. It was the first time I’d realized that the people who worked in our home were employees and not members of our family.

My mom keeps in touch with both our former housekeeper and her daughter. She has a husband and children of her own. I always hope to run into her when I come to this restaurant.

As I turn the corner, a bright red car catches my eye.

How did he find me?

Leaning against a lamppost is my guy. He’s dressed in jeans, but the sweater he had on this morning has been replaced by a long-sleeved T-shirt that reads
Put Up or Shut Up.
Instead of a fedora, he wears a trucker-style baseball hat.

“Stalker.” I walk to him and kiss his pouty smile.

“Escape artist.” He kisses me back and gives my behind a squeeze.

“I assume you’re joining me for a late lunch?” I ask, still reeling from the fact that he’s standing in front of me. It’s not that I necessarily mind him being here. My heart is still doing funny flip-flops that he’s surprised me. But I didn’t invite him. How in the world did he find me?

“If I’m invited. I feel a bit like I’m crashing a party.” He doesn’t move from the lamppost.

I grab his hand and give it a tug. “Always invited.”

We walk into the restaurant and wait in line for counter service. I hand him a menu and begin pointing out the things I like. “Their po boys are to die for. They also make their own sausage, and it’s very good. I’ll order us some red beans and rice and we can split it.” I pause for a second. “I’m not actually sure what kind of food you like. You know what? I bet you can read the menu and choose something awesome for yourself.” Tucking my menu behind his, I give him another peck on the lips.

“Excuse me,” a high-pitched voice squeals.

Aaron and I look up from the now shared menu. There’s a girl bouncing up and down behind us who looks to be around my age. She’s pretty and dressed in a business suit.

“Are you Johnny Knite? Oh my God. Of course you are. I heard you were in town and I was hoping to see you, but I never thought it would be here. You are so gorgeous. I have all of your music and I’ve seen you in concert like three times. And oh my God, you’re so gorgeous.” It’s like one long run-on sentence. She digs in her purse and pulls out a Sharpie. “Will you sign the menu?”

Who carries a Sharpie in their purse?

“Absolutely,” Aaron says, and he takes the thick paper from her hands. He scratches
Johnny Knite
across it.

The line moves up, so we all take a couple of steps forward.

The girl snatches the menu back, clutching it to her chest. “My name is Suzanne, and I have the Twitter handle JohnnyKniteIsMine. How are you doing after rehab and all? I mean, I was so worried about you. I prayed that you would get better. Oh my God, that was probably inappropriate to say. Don’t mean to be. Sometime I just gush. Is she your girlfriend? I thought you didn’t date anyone. By the way, I think you are like the coolest dad. I wish my dad was as cool as you. I mean, I just love you and think you’re awesome.”

Aaron looks at me with the
V
between his eyes. I take his hand giving it a little squeeze, letting him know not to worry about me.

He breaks our contact and turns to the girl. His whole demeanor changes. Instead of the casual Aaron I know, he shifts into this cool guy named Johnny. His thumbs go into his jean pockets and he puts all his weight on one leg while the other bends. Even his shoulders change. They round back, and his chin dips as if he’s posing for a magazine cover. Johnny flashes her a sexy little half-smile. “What’s your favorite song?”

The line moves up again so we’re next to order.

Her face is flushed and her eyes bright. “Oh my God, there are just so many. I like some of your less popular songs that you don’t play in concert like ‘Fish in the Sea
,
’ ‘Behind Doors’ and ‘See Me
.
’ And I love that one song which made you famous yet you won’t play it in concert anymore. Why not? Me and my girlfriends want to know.” You can tell this girl is really a fan. I feel a bit guilty that I’m the one sleeping with him. I’m sure she would agree that life is unfair. She’s not a two percenter, like me. She’s bought his music and paid to see him live.

She reminds me that Aaron is also Johnny. I’ve only had the opportunity to spend time with Aaron but I’m going to have to see Johnny’s life.

He licks his lips before replying, “I don’t play ‘Angel Eyes’ in concert anymore because the girl who I wrote it for asked me not to.” Even his voice is different. It’s smoother, less raspy, and even deeper.

“Oh my God! Are you that girl?” Her green eyes swing in my direction.

“I . . . I . . .” My head swivels toward Aaron, looking for guidance. I mean, it’s obviously not me. We just met, but I’m not sure how he wants me to reply. And, just for the record, I’d also like to know who that girl is. He told me he has never had a girlfriend.
Hmmm . . .

With a sexy smirk, he says, “I’ll never reveal her identity.”

Mercifully, it’s our turn to order, and the woman behind the counter couldn’t care less that Johnny Knite is going to be eating the restaurant’s food. She looks haggard and as if she just wants to make it through the lunch rush.

“Order for me,” he says, handing me the menus.

The counter is high—like almost to my chin. I raise up on my tiptoes to speak. “We’d like a side of red beans and rice, cabbage, a soft-shell crab po boy to split, and a bread pudding.”

“Drinks?” she asks as she writes up our ticket.

I look at Aaron. He says, “I’ll have an iced tea.”

“I’d like a bloody Mary.”

The
V
forms between his brows again.

“What? They’re like known for them.” Plus, I’m celebrating my new life.

The woman hands me a number and I walk away to grab a table—preferably one in the back corner. Aaron pauses, giving the fangirl a hug before joining me.

As soon we’re out of ear shot, he says, “So why did I have to stalk you to find you?”

“What? I want to talk about the fangirl.” I have so many questions I want to ask.

We sit down at a table for four, but he’s next to me. His demeanor has shifted back to into that of the Aaron I’m familiar with. His voice is not as deep, and it’s raspier again. He’s no longer the model or the bad boy rock star. Aaron is back to being Aaron, still cool but much more real.

He gives her general direction a dismissive wave of his hand. “That just is what it is. You said you couldn’t have lunch with me. You said you were working all day. I dropped you off at your building. The next thing I know you’re wandering all over the city by yourself.”

My teeth grind together. “How do you know all of that?” I ask as I tilt my head to the side.

This time he gives me the dismissive hand gesture which just makes my body hot with anger. I reach under the table and flick his crotch.

His eyes grow wide with surprise. “Ouch. Don’t do that again,” he says, leaning away from me.

“Then don’t dismiss me when I ask you a question.”

“Okay . . . okay . . .” he replies as he grabs his phone and unlocks it. “I set up Find My Friends on your phone.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I shake my head. “Stalker. And for the record, I haven’t quite made peace with the idea that you were a fan of NoPinkCaddy and arranged to bump into me. Creepy. Not to mention that you funded Bethany’s charity. It’s all a little much, Aaron.”

He ignores my accusations. “It notified me when you left your office. I thought you were coming back to my house, but when you didn’t I had to find you to make sure you were okay.”

I grab his face and turn it so he looks into my eyes. “Quit ignoring me. I’m not okay with being stalked.”

He seems to deflate and grow very serious as he rests his phone on the table. “What I did was no different than what that girl just did to me. Fans think they know you and seek you out.” He pauses and takes my hand, squeezing it as if he’s trying to prevent me from leaving him. “Let’s be real, MK. You put your life on social media. Did you expect not to have fans?”

Thinking for a moment, I reply, “Sure. Yeah. I guess. I just didn’t think I would ever be stalked by them.” I emphasize the word
stalk.

His jaw looks uncomfortably tight. “And that’s why I worry about your safety constantly. If it was so easy for me to meet you, what about all the fucking lunatics out there? You’re beautiful and smart and just about the ideal girl in any fucking creep’s eyes. And you live your life like some kind of free spirit, a vagabond. I’ve watched you walk down the street. You’re not checking over your shoulder and aware of your surroundings—you’re too busy dancing with homeless men and picking goddamn flowers.”

I think Aaron just admitted he followed me home Sunday morning. Wow. I didn’t notice. Maybe I am the free spirit, the vagabond he’s accusing me of being. But I’m not conceding on this point. I can’t be followed. “Aaron, I’ve survived thirty years on this planet without someone watching over me. It’s not your job to be my guardian angel.”

He leans forward and whispers in my ear, “And it’s a good goddamn thing you did, because you were waiting for me to ensure I could keep you alive for at least another sixty.”

I’m so frustrated. How can I make him see that tracking me using my phone is wrong? It makes me want to leave it in random places just to drive him crazy. I’m consumed by the desire to rebel—to punish him for being unreasonable. But then I realize he does make a somewhat valid point if I look at his argument through my thirty-year-old adult eyes. He did find me online and was able to meet me by studying my site. If there were some crazy person out there who found me particularly interesting, it wouldn’t be hard for him or her to locate me.

“I appreciate your concern, I really do. What will make you feel better so you don’t track me like I’m a teenager or lost dog?” I give myself a mental pat on the back. That was a very mature way to try to work through this issue.

He bites his bottom lip and his eyes cut to the ceiling. After a bit, he responds, “I don’t think there’s anything, at least that you’re ready for yet.” He’s so sincere when he adds, “Yeah, sweetheart. It’s really this or I hire you security.”

My mind screams
oh my God! You’ve got to be kidding me.
On the outside, I keep my cool. “Let’s table this for another time.” Like when we’re alone and I can yell and scream and stomp my feet.

With a nonchalant shrug, he says, “Okay.” He grabs a sugar packet out of the plastic holder and starts playing with its edges. He taps it on the table and twirls it between his fingers. I think he’s using it like a guitar pick. “I mentioned in the car I wanted a nickname. You just called me guardian angel. I think angel, for short, will work.” The word
Angel
rolls off his tongue.