Page 97 of Born to be Wilder

Three sets of wary eyes blinked back at me, the widows all checking me over to make sure I was safe.

“All clear?” Marge barked. “He try anything funny?”

“All clear,” I said. “Lawrence was a perfect gentleman and did an incredible job.”

“Can we… can we see it? Or maybe not because you’re, you know… naked.” Doris whispered the last word.

“Of course you can see it.” I walked forward and tipped the box enough to give them a view. They pressed their heads together, all gazing at the masterpiece that was me.

The room went quiet.

Doris pressed both hands to her mouth.

Sylvie said very softly, “Oh, Alice.”

Marge looked at it for a long time without speaking, her jaw working slightly, and then she looked at me, giving a slight nod. “Incredible.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Doris whispered.

“We need to get that back to Bertha safely,” Sylvie said after she stared at it for a few more long moments. “That’s too beautiful to risk getting damaged.”

Marge snapped into military mode. “Alright. It’s a mad house out there. Threats in every direction. Drunk people stumbling. Drinks everywhere. Thieves hiding in the shadows. I’ll carry it. No one is getting this masterpiece from me.”

I chuckled but didn’t argue, handing her the box. “Thank you, Marge.”

She marched toward the door, the widows following behind her. I turned to Lawrence.

“Thank you. Truly. You are an incredible artist, and if you ever decide you want to make some money sketching and painting, I have very rich friends who will pay a lot of money for your work.”

He considered my words, then shrugged. “You know where to find me if you want another portrait after your battle.”

I breathed in, then out.

After my battle.

And there would be an after. There had to be.

I glanced at the widows waiting at the door.

I had too much to live for.

“Thank you, Lawrence. I’ll be back.”

“I know you will. And good luck, Alice. You’re very brave.”

“No,” I whispered, looking at the girls waving at me to follow. “I’m just very well-defended.”

He nodded, and I followed my widows back out onto the wild streets of New Orleans, the painting of me protected until we made it safely back to Bertha for a night of rest before the big finale tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty

I’d spent years in Vegas, and the lights and madness of my town were nothing compared to the crescendo of Mardi Gras. If Friday night had been a party, Saturday night was a full-scale assault against anything rational or moral or real. It was like walking through a giant cartoon… the kind that looked like the artists had tripped on acid and nothing but swirling colors and pink elephants and madness filled every inch of the screen.

But this wasn’t on a screen. It was around us, like a technicolor explosion blew up a glitter factory, a feather factory, and a light factory all at once, creating a tapestry of colors and sounds and sights I could hardly believe.

Marge pressed her hands to her head, spinning in circles, a sea of people on Bourbon Street everywhere we looked. “It’s… I don’t even… Where do we… This is… It’s… it’s… CRAZY!”

Her face was unmasked joy, which was the opposite of Doris, who looked like she might faint at any moment.