Misconduct(43)

Every bar in the Vieux Carre was open, and the streets were flooded with people, despite the heavy rain.

The French Quarter was the highest point in New Orleans, so it rarely flooded, not that flooding would stop the residents. The electric charge in the air only incited the already thick lust for life that flowed in their veins.

Just give them an excuse and there was a party.

Patrick dropped us off at Père Antoine on Royal Street, a block off Bourbon, and I rushed her inside, doing a piss-poor job of not ogling her beautiful legs, decorated with drops of rain, as she followed the hostess to a table and I followed behind.

I sipped my Jameson neat and watched her trail her fingers along the edge of the tablecloth in front of her, her lips moving slightly. The cloth was white with small flowers sewn into the design.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She looked up, her eyes wide.

“I…” She closed her mouth and then opened it again. “I was counting,” she admitted. “It’s kind of a habit I’ve been working on stopping, but sometimes I still find myself doing it.”

“What do you count?”

Her head turned, her eyes scanning the room as she spoke, as if she was afraid to look at me. “I count my steps as I walk sometimes.” She looked down, smoothing her clothes as she went on. “My strokes when I brush my teeth. The number of turns when I use a faucet. Everything has to be an even number.”

I set my drink down. “What if it only takes three turns to get your desired temperature with the faucet?”

She glanced up. “Then I do shorter turns to get to four,” she shot back, a hint of a smile on her face.

I narrowed my eyes, studying her.

She blushed, looking embarrassed as she leaned her elbows on the table and took a drink of her gin and tonic.

Why couldn’t I get a reading on her?

Her face was oval shaped with high cheekbones, and she had big blue eyes that always seemed covered by some kind of filter. I couldn’t look at her and tell what she was thinking.

Her top lip curved downward, making her bottom lip look pouty, both the color of a sullied pink that I wanted to feed on.

Her shoulders were squared, and her jaw was strong, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes, and her breathing was shaky.

So much like a strong woman, but the vulnerability and temper were that of someone who worked very hard to never really face the world.

She wanted me but acted like I could easily be replaced.

I thought about her when we were apart, and I wanted to know that she thought about me too.

“So why do you do it?” I pressed.

She shook her head, shrugging slightly. “It’s soothing, I guess,” she placated.

“Have you talked to anyone about it?”

She met my eyes, holding the glass in her hand as she leaned on the table. “I have. Sporadically,” she added. “Most people like me function just fine, and when I’m busy, I forget about it. But at certain times” – she paused, watching me – “I regress.”

Certain times? Did I make her nervous?

“It just makes me feel better,” she explained. “And sometimes, it’s just a habit.”

I nodded, understanding. “So you count things. What’s your favorite number?”

“Eight.”

I laughed a little. “Didn’t have to think about that, huh?”

She blushed, giving me a timid smile.

Licking her lips, she reached for the container of sweeteners and pulled some out, setting them side by side on the table.

“Can’t have two,” she told me, looking at me with amusement as she explained, “because if they separate, then they’re alone.” She slid the packets apart, proving her point.

Then she grabbed two more, lining them up with the others. “Can’t have four, because even if there’s two in each group, it’s still only one couple in each group.”

Her voice turned playful, and she seemed to relax as she got caught up in explaining her secret obsession.

She took out more packets, making two groups of three. “And you can’t have six, because if you separate them into two groups of three like this, then there’s three in each group, and that’s an odd number.”

Her eyes widened, looking like that would be the worst thing ever, and I laughed.

She took out two more packets, making two groups of four each. Eight packets total.

“Eight is perfect.” She grinned, fingering the packets to make sure they were straight. “Two groups. Four in each group making two couples in each group.”

And she looked up, nodding once as if everything were perfect with the world.

I couldn’t help it. My lips curled into a smile because she was the f*cking epitome of intriguing. So sexy, but if you blinked too long, she was transformed and you realized everything you thought you knew about her barely touched the surface.

She hooded her eyes and looked away, smiling to herself. “I’m crazy,” she admitted. “That’s what you’re thinking.”

I let my eyes rake down her bare neck to where her shirt fell off her shoulder. The hardened point of her nipple poked through the thin fabric, and I knew she wasn’t wearing a bra.

The shirt was the only barrier, and that turned me on more than the idea of her naked did.