February 2017
When the Cessna Citation II touched down at the FBO in New Orleans, the idiots surrounding Claire Fonteneau let out a whoop.
“Your dad’s plane is awesome.”
“It’s actually my mom’s plane,” Claire said.
“Ooohhh. Senator wears the pants in the family.”
Her brother’s fraternity brothers high-fived and laughed as if this was somehow funny.
“You better not post anything tonight,” her brother said. “Mom’ll kill me if she knows I brought you.”
“Yes, dear brother.”
“Dude,” one of his friends said. “Chill.”
“Dude,” her brother said back. “She’s fourteen.”
Claire flipped them both off, hopped down the jet’s stairs and into her waiting Uber.
“Be back here by one a.m. Wheels up at two a.m.,” her brother yelled.
Claire slammed the door and texted her friends, who were already waiting for her on Royal Street. OMW bitches.
The Uber dropped her on Canal because traffic was insane. Claire jumped out and walked the rest of the way into the French Quarter. Beads were flying from balconies down to moronic girls with their tops lifted. Bourbon was wall-to-wall costumes and masks and hammered tourists. It was perfect.
Until some drunk dickhead stumbled into the back of her.
She wheeled around and froze when she saw him. Not a drunk dickhead. Shit. Then he did something odd. He took her picture with a Polaroid camera.
“Not cool,” she yelled at him over the roar of laughter and music. “Give me that.” If that picture got online, her mother would kill her.
He smiled, held it over his head. “Come and get it.”
She stepped closer, reached up, and in the next instant, felt something sharp jab her in the neck. Her vision blurred. She rubbed at the spot as the man leaned in and said, “I forgot to ask you to say cheese.”