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Despite endless assurances, I haven’t even got the final okay on the venue yet, even though Malcolm Gerrintch, the head of property services for North Star Sports and Entertainment Venues absolutely promised me that I would have all of the paperwork finalized and in my hot little fingers yesterday.
Whatever happens, I’m still short almost ten thousand dollars, and I have no clue where I’m going to find it. But I am going to do it. Whatever it takes.
Thirty poor little children have had the most miserable year, and I am determined that they’re going to have a chance of one day that is just for them. One day with something good. One set of memories they’ll actually want to keep. A Christmas party that can bring at least one little glow of happiness into their lives.
I am ready to do anything, anything at all, to make a huge success of the annual traditional Foundlings and Unfortunates Christmas Kings Mega Entertainment party.
Chapter Three
Danny
A Cajun fiddle starts up with an accordion. Sandrine LaFleur, the pretty singer, has a glint in her eyes, and it sets off sparks in my pants as she stamps the heel of her boot on the boards of the stage. At the beat of the drum, she throws back her head and shows her silky white throat.
I’m licking my lips as she calls out, “Laissez les bons temps rouler!”
Her Creole accent makes me smile. Her eyes make me tingle. The sway of her ass makes me hard.
Light is low in the bar. Outside the bar’s opening hours and with almost nobody here, there’s a big echo. For my taste, it’s the best sound a band can have. Although the raucous bustle of the place when it’s bulging full of evening drinkers and good-time New Orleanians, all handing money over the bar, runs a tight second place.
Ida, my bar manager, watches me with a sly smile from across the room as she nods to the rhythm. She knows what I like.
I’m distracted, trying to split my focus on a news stream on my phone. News from the chilly, snowy Northeast. I’d sooner sit back and watch the singer of Les Etoiles Qui Rit roll her snaking hips and her scrumptiously generous ass as the band tries out.
What goes on in New England doesn’t interest me too much on the whole. I’m pretty happy with my life in the Quarter. Between my bar and my clubs, I have good music and vibes, Louisiana and New Orleans cooking, and plenty of games of every kind to keep me busy.
Business has been good for me, in the clubs as well as out the back. There have been no serious turf wars in NOLA all year, and we’re coming up to the holiday season.
Christmas in New Orleans is a great party time. Cozier and kind of warmer than the gonzo wildness of Mardi Gras, and quieter than Jazz Fest. I have no desire to be anywhere on earth other than Bourbon Street or somewhere pretty nearby.
I’m trying to watching the news channel, looking to see if anything comes up about a certain couple of trucks that should be making an uneventful and inconspicuous drive down this way from Canada. So far, no news is good news, and I hope it stays that way.
Right now the feed features a tug-at-your-heartstring feel-good piece about a local charity to do something for disadvantaged kids. I love that. It’s what happens everywhere at Christmas.
In surveys that measure the USA’s ‘most Christmassy places,’ I’m always glad to see that the amount of charitable activity often features in the top two and always in the top three. It warms my heart to think of the people who do good in this toughest of nations.
The live streaming news story makes me impatient, though. Now I wish I’d had the sense to call up a clip from earlier rather than watching live. Then I could have just scrubbed through and seen if anything came up about the trucks I’m watching for.
I could get back to watching Sandrine’s tits bounce, and give my full attention to the beat and the smoky, hoarse melody in Sandrine’s throat.
In the corner of my eye, the scene flips to an interview with some girl. Mon DIEU! My heart jumps into my mouth, and I’m fumbling with the phone, trying to make the stream pause. When I find it, I scrub back. I run the interview in slo-mo.
The mischievous shadows in those bright green eyes. Those full, round tits. That mouth. Encroyable!
I scrub back to the start of the interview again. At the same time, I scramble in my pockets for my earbuds. It’s hard to find them. My erection has set a road-block on my pocket.
When I finally pull the buds out, I hear the melody in her voice. She says, “To bring the spirit of Christmas to life for these poor children,” and her eyes plead into the camera. She’s looking straight at me. My cock is straining, pointing back at her. There’s a sigh in her voice as she says, “I need all the help I can get.”
Her eyes flash and burn right into my heart. I’m already reaching back to pick up my jacket.
While I head for the door, Ida’s voice calls after me. “What about the band, Danny? Are we going to hire them?”
I don’t even look back as I call over my shoulder, “You’re in charge, cher. You decide.”
“Wait,” Ida shouts, with a laugh cracking her voice, “how long are you going to be?”
“Ask me when I get back.” Before the door swings shut, I tell her, “If I don’t see you, have a great Christmas.”
As I jump into my Jeep Wrangler, I’m already calling the airport.
