The Next Morning
New Orleans was one of those places I knew I’d never fully appreciate until I experienced it firsthand. No amount of personal stories or episodes of Treme could convey the flavor of a city so rich in historic culture as seeing it in person could.
I was staying at an upscale hotel in the French Quarter, which could only be described as interesting. The area, not the hotel. I use the word interesting because, at certain times of the day, Bourbon Street and its adjoining cross streets emitted a distinct odor, a foul smell, like someone had just taken a giant piss in a frying pan and set it on a stove over high heat.
Foul smell aside, the city drew me in, pumping a healthy dose of nostalgia through my veins from the moment the plane touched down, and it was easy to see why the Big Easy was a tourist phenomenon. The jubilant jazz music wafting through the streets was unparalleled to anything I’d experienced before. And I’d seen and heard plenty in my thirty-eight years.
I was kicked back on the bed, scouring through a magazine for freefall skydiving companies, when Finch walked in. Finch was actually his surname. His first name was Gregory, but when I’d read his full name aloud two years earlier during his job interview, he’d corrected me saying, “It’s not Gregory. It’s Greg.” I preferred Gregory, so now he was Finch.
Finch could be described as the Clark Kent of the military. Or retired military, I should say. On the outside, his forty-five-year-old schoolboy charm and simple, understated style made him appear sweet and amiable. Beneath the façade, however, was a trim, toned man who was loyal, perceptive, and didn’t screw around. After twenty years of faithful service in a special ops unit in the military, he’d returned home to find his not-so-loving wife six-months pregnant. Only problem? He hadn’t seen her in nine. Broken and lost, he filed for divorce and walked out of her life forever. Three weeks later, he walked into mine.
Finch plopped down on the bed next to me, pressing a crooked finger to the middle of his eyeglasses, centering them on the bridge of his nose again.
“I have no idea how you see out of those things,” I said.
“What do you mean?” he replied. “I see just fine.”
I set the magazine I was perusing on my lap and leaned forward, sweeping a few of his stick-straight, blond locks to the side with my finger. “Your bangs almost touch the tip of your nose. It’s like hair gone wild. I know you wanted a change from the military cut, but this is getting a bit extreme, don’t you think? I can’t even see your eyes sometimes when you’re talking to me.”
He frowned, which I suspected had little to do with my comment and more to do with something else.
“What’s bugging you?” I asked.
“What?”
“The look on your face. Something’s wrong.”
“Your mother called.”
“Again?”
He nodded. “Third time this week. If you’d call her back, maybe she’d stop calling me.”
“It’s easier if she calls you. Then I don’t have to talk to her.”
“I’m your bodyguard, not your personal assistant.”
I laughed. “She doesn’t see the difference.”
“Can you just call her?”
“I will.”
“When?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Soon.”
Finch raised a brow. “I don’t believe you.”
Truth was, I didn’t believe me either. I’d avoided her calls for two weeks. I knew what she wanted. The same thing she’d wanted for the past month. My answer was the same as the last time I talked to her. I didn’t see the point in rehashing it. “I’ll call her. I just haven’t made a decision yet.”
“You’re running out of time.”
I sighed. “I know. I know. Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”
“Sure, if you promise to call her.”
“I’ll call her,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
He crossed his arms. “Today, Joss.”
“Fine. Today.”
“And don’t ditch out on me again, okay?”
“You mean last night? I wore a hat.”
“A hat doesn’t protect you.”
“It does if I’m not recognized.”
He sighed. “You need to let me do what I was hired to do. Otherwise, there’s no point in me being on this trip.”
“I asked you if you wanted time off. You didn’t.”
I’d grown so used to his shadow I’d forgotten how it felt not having him around. The night before, when I’d heard about Alexandra’s book signing, he was asleep. I decided I was fine on my own, and I slipped out. I arrived back at the room an hour later and found him awake and unhappy. Very unhappy.
My attention shifted to a newswoman on TV. I swore she’d just uttered something about Alexandra Weston being found dead in a bookstore bathroom. Frantic to learn more, I smoothed a hand across the bedspread, fishing for the remote. “Where’s the control for the TV? Have you seen it?”
Finch glanced around, then lifted his right butt cheek. He reached down, grabbed the remote control, and handed it to me. A wide grin spread across his face. “Guess I sat on it. Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘pain in the ass,’ doesn’t it?”
He laughed. I shook my head, smacked him on the arm with the remote, and increased the volume on the television just in time to hear the news anchor say, “Today the world is reeling from the loss of bestselling true-crime author Alexandra Weston, who was found dead inside a restroom last night at Bienville Street Bookstore. We’re still waiting on more information from the police.”