Page 43 of Bayou Hero
“Yes, but I’m thirty now, and Dad’s retired. He doesn’t get a say, and the MPs are no longer an option. Mom’s only complaint, on the other hand, would be that I’m six inches taller than her so she couldn’t wear it.” She shifted her weight side to side, looked away, back, then asked, “You want a drink?”
Landry gave it a thought or two, though there was no question what his answer would be. He worked at a bar; he lived above it. Drinks were never hard to come by. But drinks with Alia... Even if he didn’t have a taste for alcohol tonight, the company was worth his time.
“Sure.” Pushing to his feet, he dusted his cargo shorts, then took the few steps to the sidewalk. “Where?”
“I—” Another shifting of feet in killer heels, another look away, then back. “I know a quiet place. My car is in the lot back here.”
They were surrounded by bars, and she chose one not in walking distance. Again, not that he minded.
They moved in silence from concrete to gravel to pavement, then she stopped beside her gunmetal gray car, the same one that had been parked in Miss Viola’s driveway on Tuesday. She beeped the doors open, then slid easily into the driver’s seat. As he settled opposite her, true to her word, she slipped the heels off and tossed them into the back.
“I know women are supposed to have a great appreciation for heels,” she said, bending forward to ruefully rub first one foot, then the other. “Mom has never worn anything else my whole life, but damn, I don’t have that kind of pain threshold.”
He watched the silky dress stretch and tighten across her shoulders, gleaming in the thin light of the streetlamps to contrast against the dark expanse of her bare arms. The sight was enough to form a lump in his throat that made him swallow hard. “You know, stores are filled with shoes that are flat or have a low heel that aren’t ugly.” He sounded strained, hoarse.
“Pardon me if I don’t take footwear advice from the man wearing the rattiest pair of sandals I’ve seen in a long time.” Leaning back, she fastened the seat belt—another enticing sight where the belt crossed between her breasts, then across her flat abdomen from hip to narrow hip.
In need of a breath, he took it and wound up snorting. “They’re nowhere near the rattiest. I’ve got way rattier ones at home.”
Her smile flashed as she backed out of the parking space. In a moment they were on Decatur, passing Jackson Square, heading toward the market. The restaurant they’d eaten at last night appeared, then flashed past, and the street got quieter, the sidewalks emptier, the streetlights fewer and farther between.
When she slowed, then turned onto a narrow street, he blinked. “You hang out on Serenity Street?” The neighborhood was small, only three main streets plus one two blocks long that connected them. The original houses had been stately, smaller versions of the Garden District homes—Greek Revivals, Creole cottages, Queen Anne Victorians—but as the crime rate went up, the families moved out and gangs moved in. Fifteen years ago, paramedics had required backup from the police before they would answer a call here. Ten years ago, the cops had required their own backup before coming in.
She pulled to the curb in front of an apparently abandoned house and shut off the engine. “Actually, I live on Trinity. About a half block down. It’s not a bad place.”
“Uh-huh. Miss Viola used to own a rental house at the end of Serenity Street. She wanted to check on it one day, so I came with her. We couldn’t go any farther than this because some guy had gotten shot next door to her house because the beer he’d given his buddy wasn’t cold enough.” Landry got out when she did, looking around while she fumbled for her shoes, then circled the car to join him. “I don’t suppose you’re armed.”
She gave him a dry look, arms held out from her body. “Do I look like I’m concealing a weapon here?”
Yeah, foolish question. But a man could do worse than an invitation to closely inspect a beautiful woman’s body—visually, at least. He couldn’t do much better than an invitation to repeat it physically.
Music and laughter came from down the street, and they headed in that direction. The sounds weren’t from the bar Alia turned into, though—O’Shea’s on the right side of the block—but originated in the yard of the house on the left side, where a dozen or so adults sat under tall oaks and an equal number of kids ran wild around them, ranging in age from barely toddling to watchful teenagers.
On his one trip to Serenity Street, he hadn’t seen a single kid. Their parents didn’t allow them to play outside, Miss Viola had told him, a sorry state from back in the day when it had been a real family neighborhood.