15. Cuz We Like to Party
CUZ WE LIKE TO PARTY
TESSA
Bass thrums through the air of Crescent Hall, heavy and hypnotic, like the city’s heartbeat. As Selene and I step through the arched entrance, the Saturday night energy wraps around my body in a wave of thick heat and expectation.
Laughter spills across the room like a cocktail poured too strong—bubbly, intoxicating, and just a little dangerous. This space allows you to quickly lose your inhibitions and good sense.
I inhale deeply, tasting spiced rum in the air, the scent mingling with the faint tang of incense curling from the fortune tellers’ tables stationed in the corners. Costumed guests weave between one another in an unchoreographed dance of excitement. Bond villains in tailored suits toast with martinis, flappers twirl their beaded dresses, and a guy dressed as Mr. Darcy leans against the bar, smirking as if he owns the place.
Selene adjusts the brim of her over-the-top black and white My Fair Lady hat and gives me a look. “This place is a bit wild for a Comic Con after-party.”
“It’s definitely got a vibe ,” I admit, my gaze sweeping across the crowd. It's not our usual polished French Quarter scene dripping in exclusivity. Still, tonight, Crescent Hall hums with a different kind of magic that makes you believe something extraordinary could happen at any moment.
“Carissa should be here.” My voice carries the slightest edge of annoyance. This was her idea, after all. But at the last minute, she bailed, claiming she wasn’t feeling well, more like she wasn’t feeling like dealing with Selene , who has made her stance on the supernatural painfully clear.
Selene smirks. “You know Carissa and I in the same space is always a gamble.”
I roll my eyes and tug her toward the fortune-teller tables. “Fine. Then you get to entertain me.”
She groans. “Tessa, you’re not about to give your hard-earned money to some woman in a scarf and too many rings, are you?”
I stop mid-step and level her with a look. “You’re such a square, Selene. Just because you can’t explain or measure it on one of your drafting tables doesn’t mean the supernatural isn’t real. Sometimes, you need to lean into the unknown.”
She snorts. “Says the woman who’s been running from her dreams for months.”
My mouth snaps shut. My fingers instinctively go to my mother’s pearls, rubbing the smooth beads between my fingertips. Selene’s eyes flick down to the movement, and something unreadable passes over her face, but she doesn’t push.
Instead, she lets me drag her deeper into the crowd, where the music is louder, the air thicker, and the possibilities endless.
The club is a maze of flashing lights, vaulted ceilings, and swirling bodies pressed together in a rhythm dictated by Juvenile’s “Back That Ass Up.” The track kicks in, and Selene and I exchange a look before grabbing hands and wading through the chaos. This song has never disappointed me—it’s a guaranteed sign that the night will be legendary .
The Metropolitan Rooms stretch into each other like a fever dream, each space with its own distinct energy. Room One is all flashing neon, sweaty bodies and pounding bass. Room Two has an air of sultry sophistication—red velvet walls, dark mahogany bars, and a giant brass sculpture of a masked woman framing the entrance.
The moment we step through, an older Black man with a giant stature and mischief in his eyes leans in and hands Selene a drink. Then he turns to me, smiling wide.
“Well, now. That’s the best costume I’ve seen all night. Not everyone can pull off Thumper’s itty-bitty yellow bikini,” he chuckles. He hands me a drink, then leans in conspiratorially. “Baby girl, you’ve made this old man’s night.”
I arch a brow, unsure if he’s flirting or just impressed by the outfit. I cast a look at Selene—dressed to kill as Eliza Doolittle—and she merely shrugs.
“Thank you, sir. Our father loved Bond movies, particularly those with Sean Connery from the seventies.”
He nods and offers his hand to help me up on a nearby barstool. When he turns to help Selene, she turns around and talks to some cute guy who looks just like Regé-Jean Page.
She’s trying to get laid while I’m stuck talking to Grandpa.
I turn and plaster on the brightest smile I can muster while he leans against the stool beside me. “I’m Cecil Boudreaux, the owner of this establishment for the past fifty years. May I ask you your name? If it’s anything other than Beautiful, it’s a misnomer.”
I giggle at his old-man charm. It’s surprisingly what I need tonight.
“No sir, I’m afraid it’s not. My name is Tessa Baptiste.”
Before I can say anything, he grins and offers his hand. “ Tell me baby girl—are you related to Charles Sinclair Baptiste by chance?”
My breath hitches, my fingers tightening around my glass. Daddy .
I smile, but it wobbles at the edges. “Yes, sir. He was my father.”
Cecil slaps his thigh and lets out a booming laugh. “Well, hell! I figured so, you look just like him. Your daddy was the best damn saxophonist ever to play Bourbon Street. In the eighties, he played my Big Room with B.B. King and Ray Charles. The man had the magic, and you look just like him.”
It wasn’t until recently that I could think about Daddy without feeling like I dived into a pool of water that was too shallow. The memories would overwhelm me. But now I can remember without cracking my head open on the despair of knowing he’s not coming back.
I must look sad because Mr. Cecil gives me a proper side hug. “Listen, anything you want is on the house tonight, OK. I owe your daddy from the many games of Tonk that he whooped my butt in but never made me pay. He was a good man. If you need anything, you can ask any of the waitstaff dressed in a white top and black pants for big Cecil, and they'll get me. Our host for the night, Marcus, is about to announce the costume contest winners. I wouldn’t be surprised if you won.” He says the last words with a wink.
“Yes, sir.” I squeak it out between a small trickle of tears.
After he leaves, I take time to get on the dance floor. The joy on everyone’s face cheers me up. It’s jam-packed, and Selene is long gone, bumping and grinding with her cutie from the bar to Cardi B and Meg the Stallion’s “WAP.”
Oh, so now she wants to loosen up!
I don't join her; instead, I sit at one of the bars, people-watch, and drink delicious rum and cokes.
I’m knocking back my third when the music cuts out, and a voice— his voice —fills the space.
I choke on my drink.
No.
It can’t be.
My heart slams against my ribs, and my breath catches as I turn toward the stage. The world around me blurs.
And there he is.
Saul Mensah.
Except here, it’s Marcus.
The man I started believing I’d never see again.
He stands there, a mountain of muscle and raw magnetism, towering at least six feet five inches tall with pure, unrelenting masculinity. His smooth, flawless brown skin gleams under the stage lights. His sharp jawline, dusted with a fresh trim of facial hair, looks even more defined than I remember.
The air shifts, thickening, pressing against my skin like a warning—or an invitation.
Then he opens his mouth again, and that accent—God help me, that accent —hits me like a punch to the gut.
“Alright, everyone, settle down.”
The crowd hushes, but the women still whistle and catcall. I glare at them, my grip tightening around my glass.
What the hell is he doing here?
How long has he been in New Orleans? And why the hell hasn’t he reached out to me?
“Tonight’s best female costume goes to…” He pauses, and I swear I see something flicker across his face. “Ms. Tessa Baptiste as Thumper from Diamonds Are Forever .”
Oh. My. God.
My stomach flips. My body goes hot. I know I should walk away, ignore him, make him feel my absence like I’ve felt his.
But my feet move forward anyway.
And when our eyes lock—when that devastating, panty-melting smile stretches across his face—I know I’m in trouble.
Because Saul Mensah is not just standing on that stage.
He’s standing in my city.
And now, there’s no more running.
For either of us.