It Burns

Michelle drags me from the building, and as soon as we're outside again, the noise and chaos of Bourbon Street is all I can hear. That changes when she hugs me to her tightly and whispers in my ear, "Don't you worry about what that crazy bitch said, okay, Jennifer? She probably just wanted to say something to counter the happy little fortune she gave me."

I nod, and we continue down the cement walkways, back to a slightly more populated area of Bourbon Street.

It isn't until we're setting foot in our intended destination, a bar named Sam's, that I remember something that shakes me to my core.

I never fucking told her I was from Boston.

Thirty minutes later, Michelle has found her own version of Kevin in the form of a hulking, handsome, smooth talker named James. I, on the other hand, have found more tequila, and I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching me. When I look around the room, it doesn't appear that anyone is looking at me, and I wonder if I'm just paranoid because Beatrice, the crazy witch lady, not only gave me a creeptastic 'fortune' but somehow knew I was from Massachusetts, too.

I'm musing on the shitty turn my evening has taken when I look to my right and see that Michelle and James are exploring each other's throats rather thoroughly, so I walk through the crowd and toward the door, intending to take a break and get some fresh air. I consider telling Michelle that I'll be right outside, but how fucking awkward would it be to tap her on the shoulder mid-make out for that announcement? I decide not to, and walk out of the building quickly, still uncomfortable because I swear to whoever is listening, I can feel eyes honed in on me. It's a sensation similar to what I just felt sitting across the table from Beatrice, and I wonder if maybe everyone from Louisiana except Kevin and Michelle are fucking creepy.

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I shove it away, realizing it's just me being a bitter cow because my night of drunken fun has turned into a night of drunken bullshit, and I don't even have Kevin to molest.

I am staring across the street blindly when that feeling, the one of being watched, increases fifteen-fold, and it's almost like my skin is crawling, I'm so damn creeped out.

I focus, shaking my head just a bit, and directly in my line of vision stands a guy who is staring right back at me. He is too far away for me to really see what he looks like - all I can tell is that he has some crazy ass hair, he's lean and tall, and his eyes are fixed on me with an unswerving focus.

Something in me just intrinsically knows that he was the reason for my discomfort as Michelle was giving James a tonsillectomy. I wonder who the hell this guy thinks he is, and how on Earth I didn't see him in the bar. For a few minutes, my mind is elsewhere, scouring my memories of the seedy little place Michelle is still standing inside, and I am positive I would have spotted him. That hair would be a dead giveaway.

As soon as I realize he's still fucking staring, I determine that I want to give him a piece of my admittedly drunken mind, and begin to make my way across the street in his direction.

He smiles as I look at him and backs away. When he smiles, there's something that flares up in me. It's a kind of "Good-God-woman-get-the-hell-away-from-here" warning, but I ignore it because I'm suddenly really annoyed by this pompous ass who thought it would be okay to give me the goddamn heebie-jeebies all fucking night.

The closer I get to his previous position, the further he seems from it. He's moving backward, not even watching where he's going, and when I see him turn down a street, I don't have a second thought about following him.

Liquid courage, I suppose.

There are still people milling the streets, but it's markedly less crowded here. It seems we've slipped into some quiet neighborhood, and as soon as the noise from the party crowd is gone, he calls out softly, "Hello. Is it wise, do you think, to follow me as you have been?"

His voice is low and melodic, and I find myself surprised at the soft timbre of it.

Before I can think, I spout off, "Well, maybe if you hadn't been staring at me like you were, I wouldn't have felt compelled to give you a piece of my mind."

He laughs lightly and beckons me forward. "You're sassy. I like it. I'm Charles."

"You know, buddy, now is not the time for introductions," I say flatly, and then I want to kick myself because I am moving forward though I could have sworn I had no intention to close the space between us.

When I get closer, I realize that this man is so attractive that it's mildly disorienting, particularly to my alcohol-addled mind. He's tall and thin, but I knew that before I neared him. His hair is the color of a penny, and his eyes are dark and presumably brown. I can't really tell, given the shadows we're standing in. His cheekbones are impossibly high, his lips perfectly shaped, and the lines of his body beneath his clothing are enough to make me wonder what he looks like without any on.

After I feel like a whore for even considering that, given my recent interest in Kevin, I realize something else.

He reminds me intensely of Beatrice. They look nothing alike, and while he is almost frightening somehow, where she was not, they both appear to be from someplace else. Then, I think about the way he spoke: proper and with a bit of an antiquated tone, and I find myself wondering if he's an old man trapped in a young man's body. As ridiculous as it is, I can't shake the thought, and when he speaks again, it actually takes me a second to respond.

"Well, would you like to follow me a bit further?"

I swallow hard and say, "My friends are back at the..." but he cuts me off.

"I promise to have you back at a reasonable hour," he says, and then he smiles, and once again, I ignore the "Get-the-fuck-out-of-here, Jennifer" warning that seems to sound in my head. "Come with me, milady. I have something to show you."

I wonder what this man who doesn't know me from Eve would want to show me. I wonder if maybe he has some fucking weird collection of things, or if perhaps he wants to show me his house. Before I think too deeply about it, I find myself nodding, and I say, "Alright, yeah, sure."

"Excellent," he replies.

I walk up to him, slowly becoming more steady on my feet, and he lessens his smile until it is nothing more than a soft grin, and then he extends his left hand to me. I place my palm against his and almost recoil because his skin is oddly cold. It's what my hands feel like after I've dunked them in freshly fallen snow during a Bostonian winter, and the sensation actually makes me want to shiver. Part of me wants to ask if he's feeling okay, but I don't. How I still have some sort of filter after drinking so much fucking tequila is beyond me. Instead, I allow him to lead me to his right side. He places my hand just inside the crook of his elbow and quietly speaks again. "It's only a few blocks this way."

His arms are just as cold as his hands. I can feel it through the material of his shirt.

I nod, and as we walk, he makes polite conversation. As we move, I'm pretty certain that this is a far cry from the creep who was staring me down from across the street, and part of me wants to call him on it, but I don't. I don't. Instead, I focus on his lilting manner of speech, and the way he seems to be hyper aware of bumps and cracks in the sidewalk as we walk over them. My buzz is slowly lessening, and I'm feeling more normal...and confident that I should be walking the other way, but something in me doesn't want to turn back.