Page 4 of Blood & Bedlam

“Oh my god, thank you! You’re the best!” she beams, and I snort because he looks over the moon.

Too bad Makenna has terrible fucking taste in men, and this poor dude who grew up down off Tchoupitoulas doesn’t stand a chance. Frankie still has stars in his eyes as he calls up one of the barbacks to cover me in a trial by fire, before sending us on our way.

The city is ass to elbows as we wind out, heading toward our apartment off Conti. It’s chaos of the highest order, but there’s something endearing about seeing the costumes and revelry in the sunset. It’s hot, as usual, with barely a breeze in the entire goddamned state of Louisiana, but I don’t protest as I follow Makenna home, or when she throws me in the shower to wash off the grime of the bar, or even when she brushes and curls my dark hair within an inch of my life.

Seeing the city so full of revelry and wonder has my heart sinking just a fraction, and I struggle to stop the spiraling thoughts from dragging me down. It should be illegal to be depressed surrounded by so much life, but lately, everything has felt stagnant, like the world is moving around me and I’m stuck like the rejection letter from the New Orleans Academy of Fine Arts that’s pinned to my wall with a dart.

“What’s wrong, love?” she asks, her golden eyes bright as she stares into mine, applying the last of the lipstick to my mouth. The color is a deep burgundy, nearly black in the shadows, and pairs well with the gown she’s designed for me to show off. I shake out my thoughts and plaster a smile on my face.

“Nothing, just zoned out. I’m good. Are you happy with the look?” I ask, gesturing to my face, but Makenna straightens and looks down at me from above. She’s known me since we were seventeen, and both ended up in the same foster home. We never had anything, so we held on to each other and now, all these years later, that still holds true, but it means no shit gets past her.

“First, yes, of course, you’re stunning. Second? That little brush-off ain’t gonna cut it. What’s going on in that head of yours?” She sounds stern, and I bite down on my lip because even though I’ve been thinking these things for a while, I haven’t said them out loud. Saying them out loud makes it real. She waits.

“I guess I’ve just been feeling a little lost lately … sleeping like shit, work is just the same groundhog day over and over. I’m twenty-seven—I can’t be a bartender forever. Not that the career ones aren’t legitimate—more power to them and their craft—but my heart isn’t in it. I don’t know what to do, and it’s like the world is just flying by around me but I’m stuck on the sides watching. Like I don’t really belong anywhere,” I confess. Makenna brings her hands to her hips.

“You aren’t stuck, Reine. You’re purposely standing still. You’re not following your passion, and it’s killing you,” she offers kindly. “When we were younger, you were always like, reserved. Withdrawn maybe, and I chalked it up to what you’d gone through when you were in the system, but it followed you into adulthood. You should be making art. All the time. We should be seeing your work in galleries, not just Jackson Square when you let me sell your pieces. You hide behind your walls, and I think it’s suffocating you now, not letting anyone in.”

“I let you in,” I defend. Makenna rolls her eyes.

“You don’t really have a choice, because I kicked that fucking door down and refused to let you push me away,” she counters, cocking her head to the side.

We both know it’s true.

“When was the last time you went on a date? The linguini pockets guy?” she asks, and we both grimace at the memory of my last disaster date, where the man literally tried to convince me to put the leftover pasta in my pockets because he didn’t believe in using take-out containers. “It’s your birthday, Reine. You’re rocking the hell out of that dress, and there’s gonna be so many men tripping over themselves to even talk to you tonight. You need to let loose, get fucked by some hot stranger, and then in the morning let me introduce you to some of my curator friends. I already told you Monica loved your stuff.” Makenna grabs my hands in hers, pleading, but my impostor syndrome and insecurities flare up at the mention of my art.

“They rejected me. A school that focuses on finding talent decided I wasn’t talented enough.” I can hear the defeat in my voice, heavy, blinding as I gesture to the cream-colored paper with four sentences’ worth of polite rejection typed up.

“Oh, fuck them,” she scoffs, bending down so we’re eye level. The golden flecks in her irises dance with the strokes of browns and blacks, the tiniest hint of moss in her eyes as she peels me apart in that way of hers.

“I know art. Fuck them. You need to get out and experience, my girl. Meet real, flesh and blood men instead of getting lost in the eyes you dream up.” Her hand gestures to the sketchbook thrown haphazardly on my bed, where I keep my most private art. The eyes in question, deep set and slate gray, show up all over—in the margins, front and center, haunting that sketchbook like they inexplicably haunt my dreams. It’s not the first time she’s offered to hook me up, but I always feel icky about the prospect. Monica works for one of several galleries in Uptown, and she runs in similar professional circles as Makenna. It always felt like a pity ask, but now?

I think my pride might be low enough to take it.

“Let me call Monica,” she pushes.

I blow out a breath.

“Okay.”

To her credit, Makenna doesn’t make a big deal out of my acceptance. She knows I’m proud, and she knows that letting her do this is tough for me. So instead, she helps me into the absolute killer dress she designed for me, and I give her all the flowers she deserves because she outdid herself. The silky fabric hugs my silhouette, with deep red lace that creeps up my shoulders and bands around my neck. The corset is tight, but bejeweled with what looks like rubies, sparkling and glinting in the light. My favorite part? The little beads of red that dangle elegantly down the lines, looking like crystallized blood cascading over my curves. For once the pallor of my skin doesn’t make me look like a ghost, the deep red a stunning complement to the pale.

I look fucking good in this dress.

Tomorrow, I’m going to finally let Makenna make a call, really do something about my art. And tonight? I just might let myself have an orgasm that isn’t self-induced for a change. It’s that little boost of confidence that I carry with me on the ride to the ball, let it sustain me when Makenna gets lost mixing and mingling with other fashionistas of the city. Everyone is dressed to the nines, the music is loud, the drinks flowing, and every era of vampire lore is represented at this vamp-themed Halloween throw-down. I settle in, people watching. Styles range from full-on gothic to modern leather and more, but every one of them looks like they could have come off the runway in Paris. My fingers itch to sketch out some of these outfits, the characters wearing them. This is art.

Makenna is a social butterfly, pulling everyone around into her orbit, including the Europeans from Italy, models I think, who’ve taken up residence with us. Their accents are thick, their eyes and hands free-roaming, so I press closer to my best friend to avoid any unwanted touching. She’s chatty and comfortable, downright flirty, but there’s something about them that sets me on edge. Call it street smarts, or the side effect of growing up in the constant vigilance of group homes, but these folks are setting off every alarm bell I have, despite how hot they are. I’m pale but they’re pale, nearly translucent under the strobing lights. It’s the contacts they have in their eyes that really brings the creep factor, a deep red that’s nearly black. I avoid looking at any of them for too long on instinct.

I scan the room, looking to see if there’s anyone who might catch my eye, when a deep voice scratches uncomfortably against my skin.

“You should come with us to the afterparty.” One of the Italians leans in too close, his fingers caressing Makenna’s elbow as he pulls her slightly into his side. His nose nuzzles along her cheek, and the hair on the back of my neck stands straight up as warning bells blare in my mind. Being a bartender in the Quarter gives you a certain sense about people, and I fight the urge to snatch her back from his grasp.

There are four of them to one of us at this table, and I suddenly don’t like that we’re too close to the back wall with no line of sight past the dance floor.

“Your friend should come too,” he sing-songs. Makenna giggles. I snap my attention to her, panic and adrenaline flooding through me when I realize her eyes look glazed over, like she’s drunk even though I know she’s only had the one vodka and lime she’s currently nursing.

“Hey, Makenna? I think I see Frankie. We should go say hi,” I lie, threading my fingers around her arm, gently pulling her back. The dude with the slicked-back hair and his grip on her turns his gaze on me. My unease intensifies.

“I don’t think she wants to go anywhere,” he purrs. My lip curls up in disgust.