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“Oh, that.” He started walking and she quickly fell into step beside him, casting glances at him, clearly awaiting an explanation.
“She was just referring to the fact that we—” he paused, then said quickly and rather proudly, “are performers. Because I’m in a band. So she considers us all, you know, contemporaries.”
She considered his explanation. “So why wouldn’t she consider the Chers contemporaries, too?”
“She’s just jealous of all the changes and other female impersonators’ success. Rivalry, I guess.”
Josie Lynn nodded, seeming to accept his explanation. Thankfully. There was no way Drake was going to tell her that Madame Renee Chevalier had been a vampire even longer than he had. Vampirism was going to stay out of the topic of conversation completely. Because first, she’d think he was totally mad. And second, if she didn’t, she’d be scared shitless. Neither a good option.
“So do we head to the nightclub on Royal?”
“I think we’d do better to see if I can get into my apartment,” Drake said.
“What? Not willing to go into the nightclub dressed like that?”
He shot her a look, although truth be told, he would be glad to get into some pants that weren’t squeezing his balls quite so much.
“I can’t say these are the most comfortable clothes I’ve ever worn,” he said, wriggling himself to adjust things a little, which didn’t help. Everything was smooshed against the unforgiving plastic. “But mostly, I think we are probably going to need cash. And I also wanted to see if Cort, my roommate, you know, Katie’s husband, is there.”
Josie Lynn gave a nod, and he realized he was probably overexplaining.
“Anyway, I’m hoping he might know or remember something. Maybe he saw something odd before we all started tripping.”
“Where’s your apartment?” She said, looking around like she wanted to keep their mission moving. So much for actually becoming comfortable around him.
“This way,” he pointed. “On Toulouse, on the block just across from The Dungeon. So maybe we should go to my place, hit The Dungeon to see if we can get any info there, then to Queen Mary’s.”
They started down Bourbon, dodging groups of revelers, a few drunks who’d gone way beyond revelry and damn near into oblivion. Then a bunch of religious fanatics waving signs and telling everyone they were going to Hell. Just an average night on Bourbon.
“Hey, Legs.” An obviously inebriated guy in his mid-twenties who, given his Saints jersey, appeared to be a local, grabbed Josie Lynn’s arm as they walked past.
“I like the short little dress you got going on here,” he slurred, his bleary eyes still managing to look focused enough on her. “Why don’t you join me and my buddies?”
“No thank you,” Josie Lynn said, her voice hard and annoyed. She jerked her arm out of the man’s grasp, but he only reached for her again.
“Hey dude, leave her alone,” Drake warned.
The guy gave him the once-over, then glanced at his two buddies before saying, “What are you going to do about it in your shiny, bright blue pants?”
Then he returned his attention to Josie Lynn.
“Come on,” the drunk coaxed. “I’d love to have a chance to see what’s under all those pretty ruffles.”
Drake didn’t wait for Josie Lynn’s response. Instead he grabbed the arm of the man that held her and twisted it, so the rude drunk was not only no longer touching Josie Lynn, but also not even facing her.
“I said leave her alone.” Drake jerked the man’s arm upward just enough that the drunk cried out in pain. “Now are you and your friends going to move along and not bother this lady anymore?”
The man didn’t answer right away, and Drake couldn’t help jerking his arm again.
“Alright,” the man shouted, the pain in his shoulder clearly making him more willing to answer promptly. Drake cast looks toward his two friends. Neither looked inclined to jump to their friend’s defense. In fact, they both kept glancing around them as if they hoped no one was even noticing the tussle. Yeah, they were no threat.
Drake jerked his arm one last time, then released the drunk. “Just get out of here. And try to remember your manners, will you?”
The jerk shot him an angry look but said nothing more. His buddy urged him to just come on, and the guy did, staggering off into the crowds.
Drake turned back to Josie Lynn. “Are you okay?”
Josie Lynn answered with a furious glare, then she started walking in the direction of his apartment.
Drake stood there, stunned, then jogged to catch up with her brisk, determined pace.
“Cupcake? Why are you mad at me?”
She stopped so suddenly and spun toward him so fast that he almost mowed her over. Instead he caught her shoulders, both to balance her and to stop himself.
“Can you please stop calling me that?”
“Okay,” he agreed readily. It was an honest mistake anyway.
“I could have handled that,” she said, her tone not angry or irritated, but rather flat and resolute.
Drake frowned, confused. Okay, just a moment ago she had clearly been angry with him, and now she seemed guarded, pulling up a wall of strength. It made no sense.
“I have no doubt you could have handled it. I saw the gator deal. But I was just trying to help.”
“Well, don’t.”
She started walking again, and again he followed, although this time he didn’t rush to catch up with her. He couldn’t figure her out. In Madame Renee’s she had willingly accepted his protective touch when that letch Donald had been giving her a look like he’d like to eat her whole. Yet, he stepped in when some drunk dude was actually getting physical and she was pissed. Women were confusing at best. This one was utterly mind-boggling.
He started to hasten his pace to catch up with her, especially since she was going to walk right past Toulouse, when another man approached her. This man was tall and barrel-chested. Far more intimidating than the silly drunk.
What the hell? All this male attention was getting to him. She was definitely cute—well, beautiful if you asked him, but damn there were plenty of pretty women on Bourbon. Why did men feel the need to approach his lady?
His lady? Okay, where had that come from? And he needed to stop that kind of thought right away. Josie Lynn wasn’t even close to his lady. She could barely stand him.
Still he felt his protectiveness—and possessiveness, if he was being honest, rise up again like hackles on a feral dog.
