Chapter Twenty-One
“ I can’t believe you booked a ghost tour,” Shay said.
“Haunted pub crawl,” Georgia corrected. She sipped a candy-colored cocktail from a skull-shaped cup and poked him in the chest. “C’mon, we’re in New Orleans. Don’t be a downer.”
Aiden traded his novelty cup from one hand to the other, standing on the sidewalk in front of the LaLaurie Mansion.
Swampy heat glued his faded t-shirt to his back and cooked a stale smell into the air.
He tipped his face toward the starless sky and inhaled, thankful for the opportunity to disengage.
Arguing about ritualism, and secrets, and death, again , made him want to put his fist through a fucking wall.
And being close to Shay—angry with Shay, confronted by Shay—sank into his marrow.
He needed to recalibrate, get gross-drunk, follow his bandmates into a spooky, boozy tourist trap, and find his bearings.
I’m in love with you, you stupid fucking Chupacabra , he thought, watching Shay tap Georgia on the nose. You gigantic, beautiful, man-eating demon. You cocky, ridiculous son of a ? —
“You good, man?” Dylan asked, and palmed Aiden’s head. “ Still can’t believe you did this , by the way. You’re lucky you have a good dome. Most people look like big ‘ol eggs.”
Aiden snorted, laughing under his breath. “Yeah, I’m fine. You doin’ okay?”
“Are you kidding? Hell yeah, I’m okay. There’s money in the bank, I’m on tour with my besties, and I just squeezed a couple drops of CBD into this fruity ass drink,” he said, and lifted his brows, sipping from his own skull-shaped cup. “Livin’ the dream.”
Aiden held his drink out expectantly. “Care to share?”
Dylan fished a glass bottle out of his pocket and squeezed CBD oil into Aiden’s cocktail. “This was my first purchase after we got that fat check,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Bought my grandma a new coffee maker, too.”
“How’s she holding up these days?”
“Oh, you know, could be worse. She’s a tough old bird, but her arthritis isn’t getting any better and she’s slowing down. If we keep rakin’ in payments like that , though? I’ll be able to hire a live-in nurse in, like, no time.”
“We will,” Aiden said. “New single, new album in the works, sold out tour. We’ve got this.”
“For once, I think you’re right,” Dylan teased, nudging Aiden with his elbow.
The guide arrived, scanned their tickets off of Georgia’s phone, and ushered three cliques together on the sidewalk, gesturing to the impressive square building, lined with arched windows and woven baskets on the terrace.
Pru jogged across the street, stammering out an apology.
“Sorry I’m late! I was at the laundromat and when I came back to change, I found a bunch of our shit knocked over.
Room service, I guess. No lo sé. I put everything back and hung the Do Not Disturb thing on the door.
Kinda weird, though,” she mumbled, knitting her pink-penciled brows. “Did I miss anything?”
“We’re just about to start,” Georgia said. Her smile quirked, eyes wandering from Pru’s red combat boots to her baggy fútbol jersey, tucked into frayed denim shorts. “Was anything broken?”
“Nah. Someone tipped over my purse and Aiden’s backpack.” Pru threw him a cautious glance. “I put everything away. It’s all good.”
The image of Pru holding his hunting knife came and went. Aiden set his teeth and nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, weird. Thanks for taking care of it.”
“No hay de qué,” she said.
The tour guide clapped and gestured toward the crowded street, directing everyone around the mansion.
The group took pictures in front of famous movie sets and ordered bourbon at Laffitte’s Blacksmith Shop.
People wandered between bars, restaurants, and boutiques, roped in feather boas, holding novelty cups and shopping bags.
Georgia took a selfie of the band, all peace signs, toothy grins, and middle fingers.
At one point, Aiden paused in front of a smoldering flare, glowing red-hot at the mouth of an alley.
Police officers directed foot-traffic away from a stagnant, crimson puddle.
Aiden glimpsed an ankle, snapped and limp.
Two open eyes propped on a shinbone—a body had bent until broken.
“Move along,” an officer said. Aiden blinked, dazed, before the tour guide ushered them into another bar.
Did everyone see that? He glanced around, but Shay laughed with Dylan, and Pru smiled at Georgia, and when Aiden looked over his shoulder, the corpse was gone. How did no one see that?
“Aiden, c’mon,” Dylan called.
The guide told stories about haunted mirrors and flickering basement lights, powerful voodoo queens and bratty brothel owners, and the group meandered through the French Quarter until their last stop: Muriel’s Courtyard Bar.
Two hours had skirted by, filled with drink after drink, echoing music and excruciating avoidance.
Being in proximity to Shay without speaking to him, touching him, acknowledging him had left Aiden sore.
He drank his cocktail—cognac, gross —in one go, and tried not to smile when Shay set his hands on either side of the bar, framing Aiden’s hips.
“Are we still fighting?” Shay asked, angling his mouth toward Aiden’s ear.
He tipped his chin and met Shay’s eyes. “Were we fighting before?”
“I’d consider that a fight, yeah.”
A bartender dressed in fine black pants and a white apron stepped in front of them. “Can I get you two anything?”
“What’s the house favorite?” Aiden asked.
“Well, you’re in New Orleans. Have you tried absinthe?” the bartender asked.
Shay made an uncertain noise.
Aiden lifted a brow. “The green fairy drink? Will it make me trip?”
“There’s only trace amounts of thujon in the brew, so no,” the bartender said, smirking. “At least, I’ve never seen anything. But it’s potent. Tastes like liquorice.”
“Bummer. I’ll still give it a go,” Aiden said.
Shay sighed. “Make it two.”
The bartender flipped matching crystal glasses onto the bar, stirring lemon twists into green liquid. Shay leaned into him, chest to Aiden’s back, hips snug against his ass, and set his chin on Aiden’s shoulder. Sugar cubes dissolved under a blow torch and dripped into their drinks.
“I bet everyone’s talking,” Shay murmured.
Aiden swallowed the urge to snap, and said, simply, “Just wait. ”
“I’ll back off if you want me to.”
“It’s fine, Shay. My pride can take the hit, remember?”
“Why do I feel like you’re still mad?”
“Because you’re too perceptive for your own good,” Aiden said. He turned and caught Shay’s lips, kissing him firmly on the mouth. “Wait for it,” he whispered, and kissed him again. “Wait for?—”
“Absolutely motherfuckin’ not,” Georgia crowed, squawking out laughter. “I cannot believe you were right. This is bullshit, man. Bullshit .”
Aiden braved a glance at the corner table. Georgia shook her head and slapped a folded green bill into Pru’s palm. Dylan opened his wallet and did the same, blowing out a defeated breath.
“Called it,” Pru said.
“Is this how you got him back in the band?” Georgia called out. She wolf-whistled, resting a martini glass against her mouth. “It is, huh? You batted them long, pretty lashes, didn’t you? God damn, Moore.”
“Leave it alone,” Aiden said, helplessly. “That’s not true.”
“It’s a little true,” Shay teased.
“Sell-out,” Georgia sang.
“It was only a matter of time,” Dylan said, gesturing to Aiden and Shay with his dewy beer glass. “Shay is a vocalist.”
Aiden paid the bartender, who looked entirely amused, and snatched his drink, knocking past Shay’s arm. “All right, you know what? Dish it out. Go ahead.” He plopped into the chair next to Pru and gulped his drink, flavored like a garden. “Get it over with.”
“You don’t date bandmembers,” Georgia said, jabbing her finger at him.
“And, I mean, to be fair, I was pretty sure you were gonna kill Shay. Like, legitimately,” Dylan said .
Shay took the last empty seat. “He did.”
Dylan shot him a weak smile.
“Jacob is going to lose his mind,” Pru said, matter-of-factly. “Especially if you go public. And there’s no not going public these days.”
Georgia cackled at the high ceiling. “You signed a three-year contract,” she snapped, pointing at Shay. “So, when you two get sick of each other and put an end to whatever this is—” she circled her hand around them both “—there’s no escape. You’re stuck, bro.”
Shay opened his mouth, but Georgia cut him off.
“I can’t believe you’re anger-banging Shay Bennett,” she said, and shook her head at Aiden. “I mean, I can. I certainly can. But after everything. . . ?”
Shay’s eyes slipped shut. “Anger-banging,” he repeated, stifling a laugh.
“You, shut the fuck up,” Aiden said, and swatted Shay on the sternum. He swallowed the rest of his drink, gesturing from Georgia to the bar. “You, come with me.”
“Uh oh,” Dylan said.
Pru grimaced. “Yikes.”
Shay sighed, like always. “Let ‘em work it out.”
Georgia stood and pushed away from the table, blazing eyes fixed on Aiden as he led them to the far end of the bar.
He’d tried to avoid this situation. Georgia, looking at him like that , and his heart aching horribly behind his ribs, wishing he could reach into her memories and scrub away every shitty thing he’d ever said about Shay.
Everything he’d meant and hadn’t. Everything he’d done and regretted.
He took her by the shoulders and leveled his breathing.
“I’ve loved him since we were fifteen,” Aiden said. “But you know that already.”
Georgia clucked her tongue. Anger drained, gentling her fiercely beautiful face. “Obviously. Everyone knows, Aiden. You weren’t very subtle. But he. . . He broke you, okay? Not broke like ouch, broke like shattered.”
“I’m a big boy, Georgia. I can take care of myself.”