Page 94 of Born to be Wilder

The widows shared a worried look.

“Ladies, we’re doing this. Come on.” I started after him, my desire to have his talent capture me exactly as I was overruling that tiny part of my brain wondering if he was in fact some serial killer who baited unsuspecting women by showing them his beautiful sketches and then assuming they’d ask to go back to his place for a nude.

Then I chuckled at the ridiculous thought.

Lawrence walked just far enough ahead that with the music drowning out everything around us, he couldn’t hear us talking.

“I’m telling you, maybe he’s not gonna chop us up and put us in gumbo, but we still haven’t ruled out vampire. New Orleans is teeming with them! He’s got that dark, moody thing going.”

“He’s an artist,” I said as I dodged a man in a hot dog costume. “He looks like a dark, moody artist.”

“Or a dark, moody vampire,” Marge argued back, stopping for a moment to look at the couple tongue kissing so intently he looked like he was going to swallow her head whole. His hands were up her shirt, feeling her breasts like there weren’t thousands of people surrounding them.

“Where are your mothers!” Doris shouted at them as we passed, but they didn’t hear her and never came up for air.

I wondered if I would still be able to feel Alejandro’s hands on my breasts when this was over. I loved every bit of his touch, so gentle. So passionate. I ached for it even now. Would I ache for it for the rest of my life if I lost all sensation?

“He did have a point that we are more likely the killers,” Sylvie argued. “But just in case he’s a serial killer⁠—”

“Or a vampire,” Marge added.

“Yes, a serial killer or a vampire. I’m sending clips of everything to Tom. He’s staying up and is actually quite invested in our little escapade.”

“Does he think Lawrence is safe?” Doris asked, her face puckering with disgust as a man on his knees puked up something green and horrifying.

She instantly gagged.

Which made me gag.

Then Sylvie gagged.

The three of us hurried past the site, retching as we caught back up to Lawrence.

“None of you would have made it as nurses,” Marge sneered. “Pansies.”

I took several breaths, trying to quell the unease in my stomach from the horrifying sight.

Sylvie, now finished with her gagging as well, finally answered Doris. “Yes. He thinks we’re probably fine as long as we keep our wits and catalog what we’re doing with him.”

Lawrence walked up to a doorway of a tall building, then punched a code into the lock. It swung open, and he gestured for us to follow him, the widows sharing a worried look. Sylvie snapped a photo of the building number and sent it to Tom, but I marched right past inside the building that must have been a hundred years old. Maybe more.

We got to his apartment, and he wiggled the key in the old lock. The door creaked as he opened it. Sylvie took a photo of the number twelve on the door before following me inside.

“Make yourselves comfortable.” Lawrence flipped on a light, illuminating the simple but clean living space. “I usually do my painting and sketching over here in the spare bedroom. My roommate is in the military and deployed right now, so it’s empty.”

“That’s perfect.” I followed him toward the room.

The widows squished together right behind me, following so close I could practically feel their breaths on my neck.

I stopped, and they bumped into me. “I’ll be okay on my own in there,” I said, and their faces all bloomed with mirrored horror.

“Alone? No way!” Sylvie argued.

“You’ll be right out here if I need you, but this is a moment I want with just me and Lawrence.”

Marge scowled, and when Lawrence stopped at the old red door and propped it open, gesturing for me to head inside, she pointed her fingers at her eyes, then at him. Then she made a stabbing motion.

He just chuckled and went inside the room.