Page 1 of Hunt You Down

Chapter One

“Ouch! Dickhead!” I rolled over, massaging the back of my head. A heavy weight had just jolted me from the first decent sleep I’d had in months. My younger brother, Dylan, smirked at me from across the room, and the shoe lying on the bed explained the pain. So much for brotherly love.

I lobbed the weapon back at him, then buried my face in the pillow. Judging by the thunk, he easily dodged it. I pulled the blanket around me and rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the haze of sleep.

“Get your lazy ass out of bed, man!” Dylan yelled, tugging the blanket away. “It’s Mardi Gras!”

Begrudgingly, I pried my eyes open, lights dancing over the pristine white walls of the hotel room. The festivities were in full swing, and I was surprised to find that I’d slept through most of the day.

I pulled myself to sitting. It was barely dark, but the music outside was already bumping. We were lucky enough to get a room a couple blocks away from Bourbon Street, and I’m sure if I’d bothered to look across, I’d have a perfect view of the fun. The floors vibrated with the pulsing bass, the lights flashed outside the window, and the smells of the best Cajun and Creole food in the country seemed to bleed through the walls. My stomach rumbled in response, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten in what seemed like forever.

As I untwisted the sheet from my legs, another shoe smacked into the wall beside my head.

“Come on! We’re going to miss everything!”

I peered over my shoulder again. Dylan perched in the doorway that connected our rooms, leaning against the frame. Since he’d just turned twenty-one, I’d brought him on this trip as a late birthday present. Despite being younger than me, he’d been my top support system these last few years. It was the least I could do for him.

His dirty-blond curls were freshly washed, hanging damp in his face. He wore his best jeans, his t-shirt barely visible beneath the stack of beads hanging around his neck. Clearly, he was eager to do something with them.

As I bypassed him on the way to the bathroom, a quick peek into his suite revealed his head start on the fun. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on his nightstand next to a bottle of Sprite. Rosy cheeks and glossy eyes signaled that he was well past tipsy, but I knew he was more than responsible.

“Actually,” I said, turning on the shower, “you go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

I knew he wanted to bring someone back, and I was more than prepared to let him have it. I hated crowds, and the thought of going out during Mardi Gras terrified me, but I was obsessed with all things New Orleans. After everything I’d been through, I was determined to see what I’d been missing. And it started by getting myself in the middle of that parade, even if it scared the shit out of me.

“Are you sure?” Dylan asked, though he was already turning toward the door. Given everything, my brother was understandably hesitant to leave me on my own.

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

After a quick reminder to grab his wallet and phone, Dylan left me to my thoughts. I stood under the steaming spray, attempting to let the hot water wash away my anxiety.

I’d never been out of my small hometown in Georgia. I’d hardly even left the state, but look where that got me.

Instead of giving into my fears, I tried to envision my past washing down the drain with the soap rinsing away from my body.

Once the water chilled, I stepped out and dried off, scrubbing at my mousy hair with a spare towel. Not that much could make it look less like straw. As I moved to leave, something on the counter caught my attention: a dark blue bottle, one that stood out against the other hotel toiletries. I shrugged and picked it up, turning it over in my hand. It was heavy, with winding silver script: Smoky Blues. I traced over the letters with my finger. What the hell? I popped the gold cap off and sprayed some onto my neck and wrists, pleasantly surprised by the scent. In spite of the name, it was a woodsy, earthy fragrance. Mindlessly, I slipped the bottle into my pocket.

I stepped into my shoes, slipped on my leather jacket, and walked out the door. I knew Mardi Gras was a busy time of year, but I was vastly unprepared for what I stepped into.

Instantly, I plowed into a wall of people. I’d heard the stories, knew what could happen, yet I was still caught off guard at how many bare chests I ran into. The night had barely started and there were already so many beads flying around that I could hardly see. I spotted a break in the crowd and worked my way down Bourbon Street, searching for something to soothe the intense growling in my stomach.

As I pressed through a bundle of people, I spotted a bar across the road. The streets were so crowded, there was no point in bothering to find a crosswalk.

I was beginning to regret this entire trip. Maybe I should have sent Dylan by himself.

Working my way through the sea of writhing bodies on the cobblestone, I kept the bar in sight. No one cared much when I bumped into them, but I still apologized anyway. I turned a corner, slamming face first into a rock-hard wall. Wait—that was a person. I stumbled, scrabbling at their chest for support.

“Shit. I-I’m so—” My thoughts trailed off as I realized who I’d run into. Tipping my head back, our eyes met, and I think I discovered my new favorite color. Deep, swirling pools of glittering emerald green hypnotized me.

The man steadied me with his arms around my waist. “Don’t worry about it, babe, I’ve tripped quite a few times tonight myself.” Holding me close, he took in a deep, audible breath. “You smell delectable. What are you wearing?”

His voice was deep, thundering even over the loud music. And damn, his Cajun accent kicked up butterflies in my stomach. I studied the rock-hard thing I’d bumped into: his chest. His tight black button-down vest clung to him flawlessly, seeming tailor-made for him. The buttons strained against the fabric, ready to pop off at one wrong—or right—move. The shirt was tucked into a pair of skintight distressed jeans that left nearly nothing to the imagination. Flawless, golden-brown skin seemed to glow under the neon lights. He had a head full of jet-black corkscrew curls that fell over his face, but not enough to cover those striking green eyes. Blushing, I returned my attention to his face, his dazzling smile just as bright. Damn, he’d caught me checking him out.

He raised a brow at me expectantly. Shit, he’d asked me a question. I fumbled for words, trying to remember what it was. I could see the tiny blue bottle in my head, the gray script etched into the glass, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what the words said. I seemed to have forgotten my name. Remembering that I’d tucked it in my pocket, I reached for it, only to have him stop me by offering a hand. “I’m André,” he said with a flair to his voice I’d never heard before, “and you look like you could use a drink.”

“I-I⁠—”

“Don’t worry baby, you don’t have to talk.”