“Boston,” he said, leaning against the bar to signal the bartender. “This conference was part of my promotion package. I’m the vice president of Customer Insights at DataX Ltd.”
Stacy waited as the bartender took Peter’s order, poured him an Abita Amber, and then hurried off to serve the ever-increasing crowd. “Congratulations,” she said, holding out her glass to him. “Promotions make all those long hours worthwhile.”
They toasted one another and drank. She sighed contently as the cool liquid slid down her throat. Drinks just tasted better in New Orleans.
Peter placed his beer on the bar and moved a little closer to her. She caught a whiff of his cologne, something spicy and sharp in her nose. “I’m thinking about buying myself a Porsche to celebrate when I get back.”
She blinked and gave him a small smile in reply. Something about his admission set her teeth on edge, for no reason. People were entitled to buy nice things for themselves. There was nothing wrong with that.
“I’ve never been to New Orleans before,” he went on, flashing her a winning smile. “I’d like to see some of the city before I leave.”
“It’s a great city.” She took another sip of her cocktail. “I used to live here. I loved it.”
“Did you? Why did you leave?”
A spark of interested illuminated his eyes. He was an attractive man. She didn’t understand why she wasn’t feeling any real connection with him. She wanted to. “This is a great place and I would’ve loved to stay, but the only industry here is tourism. I wanted my first job to be with a big firm, somewhere where I could interact with a lot of people. I needed to be in New York.”
“I understand. My first job was with one of the oldest marketing firms in Boston. Of course, I was recruited during my junior year at Brandeis, but it made sense to stay anyway. I knew even in high school that Boston was where I’d make my mark.”
Stacy nodded, not really sure how to respond, or if his statement even required a response at all.
“So, since you lived here, you must know some great places.” He touched her wrist, a light brush of his fingertips. “Maybe you can show me around.”
He was arrogant for sure, but he was also good-looking and ambitious, a well-dressed companion with a ready smile who would do well at company cocktail parties. Those were definitely good traits in a man. Boston was not all that far from New York. If things worked out, it would be very easy for them to see one another often. They might be able to share a very advantageous partnership and maybe even something more. She met his gaze and gave him a wide smile, open and inviting. She might be able to make this work. “I could do that.”
“You know what I’d really like to see?” he asked, leaning closer to her, giving the conversation an air of intimacy.
“No, what?” she asked, doing her part and moving closer to him.
His gaze flicked over her and there was much more than just professional interest in his eyes. “Bourbon Street.”
Stacy couldn’t help but recoil. “Why?”
He grinned like a little boy. “I hear it’s wild.”
“It is…something.” She took another sip of her drink, trying to think of a way to derail this train of thought. She did not want to deal with Bourbon Street, with the stink and the sordidness, the amateur drunks and assorted vermin. “But there are better things to see in the French Quarter.” She flashed him what she hoped was a meaningful look. She’d never really been a very good temptress, but she did try on occasion. “Private courtyards and gardens.” She paused for effect. “Dark bars.”
He shook his head, oblivious to her attempt at seduction. “Yeah, but Bourbon Street. I don’t think I could miss that.”
“Hey,” a petite, raven-haired woman in a group next to them called over. She was stunning, just one of those perfect women with flawless skin, shiny hair, and deep blue eyes. The sexy girl-next-door fantasy in real life. “Did I hear that you’re going to Bourbon Street? We were just talking about walking over. We should all go together!”
“Yes,” Peter said, nodding enthusiastically. “That sounds excellent.”
The eagerness in Peter’s tone made Stacy frown. This was not a positive development. “Super,” the woman said. “What are your names?”
Stacy knew everything was lost by the way Peter smiled at their newfound companion. “I’m Peter, and this is Stacy.”
“I’m Melanie.” She looked to Peter and flashed him a brilliant, white smile. “This is perfect. Going in groups is the best, don’t you think?” She turned back to the other people she was with. “Come on everyone, let’s go!”
Peter gave Stacy’s shoulder a quick squeeze, finished his beer in one gulp, and motioned toward the exit. “After you.”
Right now she had a decision to make. She could go along with the group, return to her room and spend the night alone, or try to meet some other people and persuade them not to go to Bourbon Street. She looked at Peter’s eager grin and told herself that it wouldn’t be too bad. At least it wasn’t Mardi Gras or Jazz Fest or even a Saturday night. She could do this. And maybe he was worth it. She gave him a single nod and followed him out of the bar.
The group left the hotel and walked up Canal Street. Two blocks later, they arrived at their destination. Bourbon Street was just as she remembered—loud music and neon lights, frat boys in muscle shirts and girls in crop tops, the stench of beer and pine-scented antiseptic cleaner, the sidewalks littered with garbage and puke. Their little entourage stumbled into the first club they found, which had “Play That Funky Music” blaring from the speakers. Stacy shook her head. Some things truly never changed. Bars on Bourbon Street would play that song until some ultimate, catastrophic apocalypse finally managed to wipe the city out for good.
The barker at the door proudly announced that the club was now offering their world famous three-for-one happy hour. The vodka tonic Stacy ordered was served in a plastic cup the size of which was rarely seen outside of a 7-Eleven. It contained more alcohol than any human should probably ever consume in a single serving, and she was glad to see that in addition to the bad music, the drinking culture had not changed either.
She headed toward the back of the club, outside into the little courtyard area where the music was somewhat blunted and she was less likely to have a drink spilled over her. The others followed, people in the group talking amongst themselves and goggling at the drunken antics on the dance floor. Peter had fallen back to walk alongside Melanie, and they ambled slowly, their heads close together, taking softly. Stacy sighed. So much for the whole reason to participate in this journey. Not that she could blame him. Melanie was gorgeous. Still, the rejection stung. Not that it would’ve worked anyway. The distance between them would have eventually become a hassle.
She sipped her cocktail, watching the dance floor light up red, then blue, then green as the strobe light pulsed over the dancers. Once again, she had a choice and none of her options were all too appealing. She could go back to the hotel and try to find a new group of people to talk with, she could go to bed, or she could stay right where she was and basically drink alone.
“Let’s go someplace quieter,” Peter shouted over the music and everybody agreed.
She followed them back out onto Bourbon Street, seriously considering her next move. Should I stay or should I go now? She let the chorus play out in her head and in that one millisecond pause, a drunken man wearing only jeans shorts and plastic beads lunged at her from the crowd. She sidestepped around him and almost collided with a woman exiting Pat O'Briens. The woman squealed and Stacy veered off the sidewalk into the street. A group of tourists