Chapter 3 #2
I rubbed my face and groaned. “Girl, what the hell was that?”
That body shot incident was supposed to be a fun little “live in the moment” moment, not a public exorcism.
I still couldn’t believe I’d licked a man who smelled like poison ivy and motor oil.
And for what? A checkmark on a sticky note?
I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
“This is what I get for chasing experiences instead of peace.”
In my defense, I’d been running on fumes all day.
Early flight. Jet lag. Too many shots on an empty stomach.
My stomach grumbled, reminding me that tequila wasn’t a food group.
I was so excited about getting the things on my vision board done that I didn’t even try to think of a plan.
I just landed, dropped my bags, and sprinted toward chaos.
But deep down, I couldn’t help but laugh.
Because if nothing else, I was living. It was my first time in New Orleans alone.
I’d been a few times for Essence Fest, but that was always with friends or family.
Back then, there was always an itinerary, an auntie with a clipboard, or a cousin who knew all the good food spots and “safe” clubs.
I just arrived. No schedule. No plan. No one telling me where to go or what to do. At first, that sounded freeing. But maybe I’d mistaken being spontaneous for being lost. I squinted and read one of the notes out on the vision board aloud:
“Play tourist and local. Have a man show you the city, and you show him how dangerous vacation hearts can be.”
I groaned, “Why did I write that like I’m auditioning for Waiting to Exhale 2 ?”
Still, that might be a good one to tackle next.
Something low-risk. Something that didn’t involve vomit or a questionable man who didn’t have great hygiene.
I thought about the bartender from earlier—the one who made me that voodoo love potion.
He definitely counted as a local, and he looked like he knew the city like the back of his hand.
Either way, he probably knew people. Maybe he could help me find someone for that “tourist and local” thing.
Either way, my whole “just wing it” plan clearly wasn’t working. I’d been in the city for less than twelve hours and had already humiliated myself, ingested regret, and spiritually evacuated my soul on Bourbon Street. It was time to be strategic about the chaos.
“Okay, Lyrix,” I said, sitting up. “We winged it, we survived, and we learned. Now let’s be smart about being stupid.”
I shuffled off the bed, hair wild, edges on life support, and started digging through my purse. Receipts, gum, lip glosses, and one lonely eyelash fell out. I could still smell tequila on my breath. After a few seconds of rummaging, I found the crumpled bar receipt from earlier.
It was bent, a little sticky, and slightly damp, but there it was. His number was written in handwriting that looked like it belonged to a man.
I stared at it for a minute, chewing on my lip. Before I could talk myself out of it, I was already reaching for my phone. I hit call, silently praying he wouldn’t answer. But, of course, he did.
“Yeah?”
That voice. That deep New Orleans accent that made words sound like slow syrup.
I panicked. “Hi!”
A pause. “Hi…?”
Shit. What was his name again? M-something? Marcel? Malik? Micheal?
“Um, this is Lyrix,” I said quickly. “We met earlier. At a bar. You gave me a voodoo love potion shot.”
He laughed, the sound warm through the phone. “Oh yeah, I remember you. You must’ve forgot my name.”
I smiled, forcing a casual tone. “No, I didn’t forget your name.”
“Mm-hmm.” He sounded unconvinced. “So what is it, then?”
My brain blanked. Completely. I stared at the ceiling like the answer was up there somewhere between the popcorn texture and my dignity. “Anyway,” I said, way too fast, “how’s your night going?”
He laughed. “It’s alright, Lyrix. My name’s Maison.”
I snapped my fingers like I’d known it all along. “I knew that. I just wanted to hear you say it again. You know, for confirmation.”
“Uh-huh.” He laughed again, teasing. “So, are you in love yet? Or are you still in the bed recovering from your little vomit fest?”
My mouth fell open. “Wait—how do you—”
“Oh yeah,” he said, still laughing. “You were hard to miss, sweetheart. Whole bar cleared out like the fire alarm went off.”
I buried my face in my hand. “Oh my God.”
“It’s alright,” he said, still clearly amused. “Happens a lot around here.”
“People just… throw up in public like that?”
“Not usually with that kind of passion,” he teased. “You made it a performance. Ten outta ten commitment.”
I groaned. “I’m hanging up.”
He laughed. “Nah, don’t do that. I’m just messing with you. You good now?”
“Barely,” I said. “But yes. Alive and slightly traumatized.”
“Good. I was starting to feel bad.”
I tilted my head. “So you were watching me?”
“Watching?” he repeated, like he was offended by the accusation. “I was admiring. You was out there bouncing ass and throwing it in a circle. I had to come from behind the bar just to get a better view.”
I gasped, half mortified, half laughing. “You did not!”
He chuckled again, slow and full of trouble. “I did. And it was worth it. You got rhythm, I’ll give you that.”
“Oh, great,” I said. “So I embarrassed myself and accidentally auditioned for somebody’s twerk team.”
“Could be worse,” he said. “You could’ve passed out. That would’ve really ruined the mood.”
I laughed so hard. “You are not making this better.”
“Alright. Alright,” he said, voice softening. “But I am glad you’re alright. You looked like you were having the time of your life before that tequila betrayed you.”
Something about his tone made me smile.
“Well,” I said. “I was actually calling to ask if you could help me with something.”
“Oh yeah? What kinda something?”
“I, uh…” I glanced at the vision board. “I wanted to cross something off a list that I saw. It says, ‘Play tourist and local.’ Have a man show you the city, and you show him how dangerous vacation hearts can be.”
He let out a low whistle. “That sounds like a setup.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m already cursed from the love potion, so you might as well.”
There was a short pause on the line. Then Maison said, “Alright, Lyric. Here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna eat something real. None of that airport snack nonsense. Then you’re gonna get some sleep.”
I laughed. “Oh, so now you’re giving orders?”
“Yep,” he said easily. “And when you wake up, I want you at the bar by nine a.m.”
“Nine a.m.?” I repeated. “Damn, that’s early. I’m on vacation.”
“We got a lot of ground to cover, sweetheart. Can’t start late if we’re gonna do this right.”
I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me. “You say that like you’re planning a field trip.”
“Something like that,” he said.
I was suddenly more awake. “Well, if you know someone else who could play tour guide, you can recommend them. I don’t want to get in the way if you’ve got work or plans or… you know, a life.”
He laughed again. “Nah, you’re good. I help out at the bar whenever I can, but my parents own it. They’ll survive without me.”
“Your parents?” I said, surprised. “Wait, so you’re not the bartender-bartender?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I just fill in when I’m free.”
That caught my attention. “When you’re free?”
“Mm-hmm. I do some consulting work. Remote stuff. Fancy tech nonsense you probably don’t want to hear about.”
I grinned. “Try me. I love fancy nonsense.”
“Let’s just say it keeps me busy when I want to be and free when I don’t. Which means I got time to show you my city.”
Something about the way he said my city did things to me I wasn’t ready to unpack.
“Okay,” I said, smiling into the phone. “Nine a.m., then. But if I show up and you’re not there, I’m writing about you in my journal under men who waste people’s time.”
He laughed again. “I’ll be there. Eat, sleep, and hydrate. You’ll need the energy.”
“For what exactly?” I asked, curious and a little breathless.
“You’ll see,” he said. “Goodnight, Lyrix.”
“Goodnight, Maison.”
When the call ended, I lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling with a grin I couldn’t fight. He was charming in that casual, unbothered way that made it impossible to tell if he was flirting or just being himself. And that, somehow, made it worse.
Tomorrow, I told myself, was the first real day of my Heaux Phase.