Chapter 11 #2
She looked like she belonged in a rock band.
"Boys!" She grinned, walking toward us. "Ready for an adventure?"
"That depends," Beau said. "What kind of adventure are we talking about?"
"The best kind. Music, drinks, and terrible decisions." She looked us over approvingly. "You both clean up nice. Come on, the car's waiting."
We climbed into the sedan, Beau and I in the back seat, Beverly up front giving the driver directions in rapid-fire French. The car wound through the French Quarter, past tourists stumbling between bars, past street performers and restaurants with lines out the door.
Beverly turned in her seat to face us, one arm draped over the headrest. "So, Mason. I have to know—how does a man who looks like you end up spending his Friday nights reading merger documents instead of breaking hearts?"
"I don't break hearts. I'm very upfront about my priorities."
"Which are?" Beverly licked her lips.
"Um, uh, work. Career. Partnership." I glanced over to Beau who was frowning.
"Mmm. Ambitious. I like that." Her eyes traveled over me slowly, appreciatively. "But ambition can be lonely, can't it? All work and no play makes Mason a very tense man."
Beau shifted beside me, his thigh pressing against mine in the cramped back seat.
"I manage," I said carefully.
"I bet you do. You seem like someone who's very good at managing things. Controlling them." Beverly's smile turned knowing. "But doesn't it ever get exhausting? Always being so controlled?"
"Beverly—"
"I'm just saying, a man like you probably hasn't let loose in years. Maybe decades." She leaned forward slightly. "New Orleans has a way of making people forget their inhibitions. Making them remember they're human, not just worker bees."
The car slowed, and I was grateful for the interruption. Beverly straightened, her attention shifting to the window. "Ah, perfect timing. We're here."
The driver pulled up in front of a converted warehouse with exposed brick and tall windows glowing with warm amber light. A simple wooden sign hung above the entrance: "Preservation Hall Annex" in elegant script.
"This place doesn't look like much from outside," Beverly said, climbing out, "but trust me—inside real magic happens."
The club opened up into a cavernous space that felt like stepping back in time.
The brick walls were original, scarred with age and decorated with vintage concert posters and black-and-white photographs of jazz legends.
Edison bulbs hung from the high ceiling on long cords, casting a warm, intimate glow over the mismatched furniture—velvet couches, reclaimed wood tables, bar stools that looked like they'd been salvaged from a 1920s speakeasy.
At the far end, a small stage was set up with instruments waiting—a piano, upright bass, drum kit, and microphone stands. The air smelled like whiskey and something sweet, maybe magnolia from the courtyard I could glimpse through French doors at the back.
The crowd was eclectic—locals in jeans and vintage band t-shirts mixed with better-dressed visitors, couples swaying near the stage, groups of friends laughing over shared bottles of wine.
"This is incredible," Beau said, his eyes wide as he took it in.
"Isn't it?" Beverly looked pleased. "The tourists all flock to the Quarter, but this is where musicians come when they're off the clock. Real jazz, real people, real New Orleans." She linked her arm through mine, pulling me toward the bar. "Come on. First round's on me."
Beverly ordered three whiskeys—neat, without asking what we wanted.
"To productive meetings," she said, raising her glass. "And to whatever happens after."
We clinked glasses and drank. The whiskey burned going down, and I felt it settle warm in my chest.
The band started playing—a sultry jazz number that had bodies swaying on the small dance floor. Beverly leaned against the bar, one hip cocked, her eyes traveling over me with obvious appreciation.
"So, Mason." She stepped closer, her hand landing on my forearm. "Tell me—what does a man like you do for fun?"
"I... work, mostly."
Her laugh was throaty. "Of course you do. But everyone needs to blow off steam sometime." Her fingers traced a pattern on my sleeve. "What do you do when you need to... relax?"
I felt Beau shift beside me, his body radiating tension.
"The gym," I managed. "I go to the gym. Play tennis.”
"Mmm. I can tell." Beverly's hand moved to my bicep, squeezing lightly. "Very disciplined. I like that in a man."
Beau's glass hit the bar with more force than necessary. "I need another drink."
Beverly glanced at him, then back at me, and something flickered in her expression. Her eyes narrowed slightly, tracking between us, and I watched as understanding dawned on her face.
"Oh," she said softly. Then louder, "Oh!"
"What?" I asked.
She stepped back, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Well, this just got interesting."
"What got interesting?" Beau asked, his voice tight.
Beverly looked at him, really looked at him, taking in his rigid posture, the way his hand was clenched around his glass, the muscle jumping in his jaw. Then she looked at me, at the space between us that felt charged despite the foot of actual distance.
"You two," she said, delighted. "You're not just colleagues who happen to have chemistry. You're colleagues who are fucking each other."
"Beverly—" I started.
"Don't even try to deny it. The tension is so thick I could cut it with a knife." She ordered another round of drinks from the bartender. "This is perfect. Better than perfect."
"I don't know what you think you—" Beau began.
"Honey, I saw the way you looked when I touched Mason's arm. Like you wanted to bite my hand off." She handed him a fresh whiskey. "And Mason? You've been staring at Beau's mouth for the last five minutes like it's your last meal."
I had not been staring at his mouth. Except I absolutely had been.
"So here's what's going to happen," Beverly continued, her eyes bright with mischief. "You're both going to stop pretending. Because life's too short and New Orleans is too hot for this repressed bullshit."
"We're not repressed," I muttered.
"You color-code your file folders chronologically within each color category. You're the definition of repressed." She took a sip of her drink. "But I can work with that."
"Work with what?" Beau asked warily.
Beverly's smile turned feline. "Well, I came here tonight thinking I might take one of you home. Preferably Mason, because look at him—he's gorgeous and clearly wound tighter than a clock. I was going to offer to help him... unwind."
Heat crept up my neck.
"But now?" She looked between us. "Now I'm thinking why settle for one when I could have both of you?"
I choked on my whiskey. Beau went very still beside me.
"Excuse me?" I managed.
"Both of you. My place. Or yours, I'm not picky." Beverly's expression was pure invitation. "I'm very open-minded, and you're both extremely attractive. Plus, the tension between you two would make it incredibly hot."
"Beverly, we're not—" I started.
"Into women? I figured. But you are into each other, and that's even better." She leaned in, her voice dropping. "Come on, boys. When's the last time either of you did something spontaneous? Something a little dangerous?"
"This is insane," Beau said, but his voice had gone rough.
"Is it? Or is it exactly what you both need?" Beverly's gaze was knowing. "A night where you stop thinking about consequences and just feel something?"
The music shifted, something slower and heavier, and I could feel the bass in my chest. The whiskey was making everything feel loose, warm, possible.
"I have a better idea," Beverly said. "A test, if you will."
"A test?" I asked.
"Kiss each other. Right here, right now." She gestured to the dance floor. "If there's nothing there, we all laugh it off and I go find someone else to dance with. But if there is something..." She smiled. "Then you stop lying to yourselves."
"Absolutely not," I said immediately.
"Why not?" Beverly challenged.
"This is ridiculous," I said, but my heart was pounding.
"Then prove me wrong. Kiss him and show me there's nothing there." Beverly's smile was pure challenge. "Unless you're scared?"
Beau turned to look at me, and in his eyes I saw the same war I was fighting—fear and want and the desperate need to stop pretending.
"Mason," he said quietly. "We don't have to—"
"Are you scared?" I asked him.
"Terrified."
"Me too."
The whiskey made me brave. Or maybe it was the music, or the city, or the fact that I was so tired of being careful. I took Beau's hand and pulled him toward the dance floor.
"Wait, you're actually doing it?" Beverly called after us, sounding delighted.
I didn't answer. Just kept walking until we were in the middle of the crowd, bodies moving around us, the music wrapping us in a cocoon of sound and heat.
Beau's eyes were wide. "Mason, what are we—"
"Shut up," I said, and kissed him.
Not the desperate, frantic kiss from the bar. This was different—slower, deeper, intentional. My hands cupped his face and his arms came around my waist, pulling me closer. His mouth opened under mine and I tasted whiskey and heat and something that was purely him.
Someone bumped into us and I didn't care. The music swelled and I didn't hear it. The world narrowed to this—Beau's hands on my back, his tongue sliding against mine, the groan coming from deep within his chest.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"Fuck," Beau whispered.
"Yeah."
His hands were still on my waist, mine still cupping his face. We stood there, foreheads pressed together, and I could feel his heart racing against my chest.
"Mason—"
Beverly appeared beside us, and I'd forgotten she existed. "Okay, wow. That was..." She fanned herself. "I'm woman enough to admit when I've lost. You two don't need me. You barely know I'm here."
"Beverly—" I started.
"No, it's fine. Actually, it's better than fine. This?" She gestured between us. "This is the real deal. And I'm not about to get in the middle of that." She squeezed my shoulder. "Go. Take him back to your hotel. Stop overthinking everything and just be with him."
"Are you sure?" Beau asked me, one eyebrow lifted.
"Honey, the way you two were just kissing? I'm surprised the sprinklers didn't go off." Beverly thought Beau was talking to her. "I'll see you tomorrow at the meeting. But right now? Get out of here before you scandalize the locals."
She disappeared into the crowd, and suddenly it was just Beau and me, standing in the middle of a dance floor in New Orleans, his hands still on my waist.
"So," Beau said, his voice rough. "What now?"
I looked at his kiss-swollen lips, at the way his pupils were blown wide, at the question in his eyes that wasn't really about what we'd do next. It was about everything. About whether I was really ready to stop running, to take the risk, to let myself have this.
"Now?" I said, my hand sliding down to lace with his. "Now we get the fuck out of here."
His smile was blinding. "Your room or mine?"
"I don't care. Closest one."
"Mine's closer."
"Then yours."
We barely made it out of the club.
The cab ride back felt like it took seventeen years. We sat on opposite sides of the back seat, not touching, both vibrating with tension. Every time the cab hit a pothole, our knees would bump, and I'd feel that contact like an electric shock.
"Mason," he said, his voice low.
"Yeah?"
"If we do this—"
"We're doing this."
"But if we—"
I reached across the seat and grabbed his hand, lacing our fingers together. "No more ifs. No more what-ifs or maybes or complications. Just us. Tonight. Okay?"
Beau squeezed my hand. "Okay."
The hotel lobby was a blur. The elevator ride to the seventh floor was torture. And when we finally reached our rooms, Beau's hands were shaking so badly he dropped his keycard twice.
I took it from him, swiped it, and pushed open the door.
"After you," I said.
Beau stepped inside, and I followed, the door clicking shut behind us.
We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, the air between us crackling with possibility.
"So," Beau said. "What happens now?"
I closed the distance between us and kissed him—hard and desperate and full of every ounce of want I'd been holding back.
"Now," I said against his mouth, "we stop talking."