Chapter 3
Lyrix
Stepping off the plane in New Orleans felt like walking straight into a hair steamer. The humidity was no joke. My silk press didn’t even make it past baggage claim. Still, the air felt alive and sweet like powdered sugar.
My Uber driver pulled up in a dented white Impala with jazz music blasting with the windows down. I glanced down at my Heaux Phase Vision Board, folded neatly in my lap, and right there in bold pink letters, it said: “Have sex with jazz echoing through an open window.”
I looked up at the driver. Then back at the board. Then at him again.
Was this how God was going to play it? Was this my test?
Because the saxophone solo was saxophoning, and I was one bad decision away from telling that man to pull over, so I could give him the best five minutes of his life.
But then he started coughing one of those deep, smoker coughs that sounded like regret and menthol.
I looked at the vision board again and crossed my legs tighter.
Okay. So this trip was for spontaneity, not desperation. Message received.
When he caught his breath, he said, “You here to kick off Mardi Gras?”
“Something like that,” I said, wiping imaginary sweat from my upper lip.
He nodded, grinning. “It’s gone be wild all month. You look like you ready for some fun.”
If only he knew.
I smiled politely, trying not to look like I was two seconds from laughing at my own foolishness. “Yeah, something like that,” I said again, because how exactly do you tell a stranger, ‘Actually, sir, I came here to complete a vision board about sexy heaux phase chaos’?
He dropped me off at my hotel. By the time I checked in, unpacked, and reapplied deodorant for the third time, I was already sweating and overthinking. But the easiest vision board task was waiting: “Try a voodoo love potion at a bar and see what happens next.”
The bar was dim and sticky. The air smelled like rum and fried food. A perfect combination.
I climbed onto a stool and scanned the drink menu. “Do you have anything called a voodoo love potion?” I asked. The bartender looked up. He was a tall man with tattoos that looked like they came with backstories, and a smile that said he was trouble.
“You sure you want that one?” he asked. His voice was deep, soaked in that NOLA accent that made my brain short-circuit for a second.
“Why?” I asked. “It’s not on the menu?”
He smirked. “It’s not for tourists.”
“I’m not a tourist,” I lied instantly, setting myself up for hell.
He laughed, wiping the counter. “You lying already. That’s how it starts.”
“I’m just trying to experience the culture,” I said, crossing my legs like I wasn’t already intrigued.
He leaned closer. “The culture or the consequences?”
“Both,” I said without thinking.
He laughed and started mixing something bright purple with a sprinkle of something I hoped was sugar. “You drink this, you might fall in love with the first person you see,” he said.
“Sounds like a scam. I’ve been drinking for years and that’s never happened.”
“You’ve been drinking in the wrong places.”
I didn’t mean to stare at him like he was both the drink and the hangover, but here we were.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Maison,” he said, eyes glinting under the blue neon light. “And you?”
“Lyrix.”
He nodded, like he was trying it on for size. “Pretty name. Sounds like you got a story behind it.”
“Oh, I got a few,” I said, taking a sip. “And a vision board to prove it.”
He raised a brow. “A what now?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He chuckled, slow and amused. “Alright then, Vision Board.”
I smiled, finishing the drink in one gulp. “What happens now?”
He shrugged. “That depends. You fall in love yet?”
I looked him dead in the eye. “Ask me again after drink number two.”
He laughed again, deep and real, and I hated how much I liked the sound.
Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Syn.
Dee did in fact cancel our plans. He also didn’t get paid, so I don’t have the extra to spend. Trip canceled. I hate that man.
I snorted so loud people turned to look.
Maison leaned over the counter, grinning. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said, still laughing. “Just realizing I made the right choice coming here alone.”
He nodded, wiping the counter again, that teasing look never leaving his face. “You don’t sound like you alone to me.”
Something about the way he said it made my heart flip. I slid a twenty across the counter. “Thanks for the drink.”
He nodded. “You might want to keep that receipt. You don’t know what kind of spell you just bought.”
I smiled over my shoulder as I walked away. “If I wake up in love, I’m suing.”
His voice followed me out the door. “That’s why I made sure you got my number.”
It wasn’t even dark yet, but Bourbon Street was bourboning. Bands on every corner, couples stumbling out of bars, and somebody’s cousin trying to give me a shot out of a Gatorade bottle.
I barely made it three steps before I heard a bass drop that made my knees unlock on command. A small crowd was dancing right in the street. One woman in a purple wig, two men in matching tank tops.
“Hell,” I said, tossing my purse strap over my shoulder. “Why not?”
Before I knew it, I was in the middle of the crowd, throwing it in a circle like I was trying to summon the ancestors.
The bounce music was loud, fast, and disrespectful in the best way.
Somebody yelled, “Ayyye! Work dat lil’ thang then!
” and I lost every ounce of self-control I had left from therapy.
My ass was shaking, my hair was sticking to my forehead, and I was smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. One woman handed me a shot.
“Welcome to New Orleans, baby!” she shouted.
“Thank you!” I yelled back, because apparently I was in a musical now.
Then another woman handed me a second shot. Then a third. At that point, I was making friends, taking selfies, and declaring one of them my “trip twin” before realizing I didn’t even know her name.
For the first time in months, I felt free, unfiltered, and wild, like I was finally living my own damn story.
Somewhere between dancing and trying not to lose my phone, I made my way toward a bar to grab another drink. That’s when I saw a man taking a shot off a woman’s stomach. She was laughing, the crowd was cheering, and suddenly I remembered my vision board.
“Do a body shot off a stranger on Bourbon Street.”
I blinked at the scene, my brain whispering no while the tequila said yes, bitch, yes. I turned to one of the women from earlier and said, “I wanna do that.”
She grinned like I’d just said something crazy. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I’m here for the experience.”
She laughed and clapped her hands, and suddenly the men standing around turned toward me like hyenas at a buffet. Everyone started shouting, “Who she gone pick? Who she gone pick?”
The woman smiled and said, “Your choice, baby.”
I looked around. None of them were fine. Not one. But I didn’t fly and use my PTO for nothing. I came for the plot.
One man was already unbuttoning his shirt like this was Magic Mike: New Orleans Edition, so he was immediately out.
Another was dancing like he was trying to win custody of rhythm itself.
Pass. Then I saw a quiet, unimpressed man standing slightly to the back with his drink half full and his energy giving “I was dragged here to babysit my friends.”
Perfect.
“I’ll take him,” I said, pointing. He blinked, surprised.
The crowd cheered while the music started again with something fast and nasty.
I downed another shot for courage. The women helped me line the salt and lime, everyone cheering and hollering like this was the Super Bowl of bad decisions.
The man lifted his shirt halfway, looking nervous.
“You ready, baby?” one of the women asked.
I nodded, already too deep in to turn back.
I leaned down, took the shot, and for some reason.. some dumb, spirit-of-the-heaux-phase reason—I licked his skin too.
Why? I don’t know. Maybe I thought it’d be sexy.
Maybe the tequila possessed me. All I know is I tasted sweat, dirt, and a faint trace of regret.
His skin was hot and sticky, and the second I pulled away, I realized my tongue felt…
wrong. Like his skin had rubbed off on mine. There was residue. Actual residue.
Everyone was clapping and screaming, “Ayyyeee!” and “She wild!” and “That’s how you do it, baby!”
And I wanted to smile, I really did, but my stomach was doing the electric slide in reverse.
I swallowed hard, blinked twice, and tried to hold it together. Then I gagged so loud like a cartoon character. Then I gagged again. And before I could stop it—
I threw up everywhere. On the bar. On the floor. On somebody’s shoes.
The music stopped. People screamed and scattered like roaches when the light came on. Somebody yelled, “Oh hell naw!” and another voice said, “She done baptized the bar!”
I stood there, mortified, wiping my mouth with a cocktail napkin that was definitely not enough for what just happened. The woman who gave me the shots was half laughing and half horrified. “Girl, you alright?!”
I nodded weakly, tears in my eyes. “Yeah. I think my spirit just rejected him.”
By the time I made it back to my hotel, I was sticky, humiliated, and ninety percent sure I’d left a piece of my dignity somewhere on Bourbon Street.
I didn’t even turn the lights on. I kicked off my shoes, undressed, and face-planted straight into the bed because it felt like the city had personally jumped me.
The last thing I remembered was mumbling, “never again,” into a pillow and when I opened my eyes again, the room was dark except for the glow creeping through the balcony curtains. I blinked at the clock on the nightstand. 8:47 p.m.
Damn. I’d taken a nap-nap. I sat up slowly, my head pounding and my mouth dry. I pulled the comforter tighter around me and stared out the window. The view was amazing and New Orleans was just getting started.