His Uptown Girl

“This could have happened anywhere, but feel free to convince me otherwise.” She almost groaned at the suggestion he must convince her. Sounded as though she’d issued a challenge. Like she wanted to spend more time with him.

You’re overanalyzing. He’s not into you, Eleanor, baby, so forget about the imaginary vibes. Stick to your guns on the opposition to the club and finding Mr. Fortysomething with silver temples and a pet wiener dog.

“Well, I’ve got a bath to finish and some z’s to catch. Good night,” she said, walking backward.

Dez’s gaze sparked. “I’ll take that image with me.”

Good God. He had a dimple in his right cheek—a small one that begged to be kissed. Her body thrummed at the thought of placing her lips in the slight indention...and on other parts of him. Eleanor stopped in the middle of the street. “Flirting will get you nowhere.”

Or maybe it would get him a free ticket into her bed.

“You seem like the kind of woman who needs a little flirting in her life.”

“Me?” she asked.

“Oh, definitely.”

Undeniable purr. No mistaking his intent. Dez had tossed out a sexual overture, and suddenly she climbed on a roller coaster, embracing that pent-up expectation as the car ticked up the incline, knowing the plunge would soon take her belly away.

“Well, then, I—” Eleanor didn’t really know what to say. She hadn’t flirted since Bill Clinton’s administration. Maybe she needed to buy Flirting for Dummies. “See you later.”

And then she hurried back to her car like some buttoned-up virgin who’d just caught the eye of the football captain. Pathetic. Screw Flirting for Dummies. She needed a copy of Cosmopolitan, stat.

Beneath the feeling of being sort of lame was the celebration she wasn’t a withered, used-up old hag just yet. The hot guy liked her. The hot guy thought she needed some flirting...and maybe more. So, yeah, there might be hope for Eleanor Theriot.

CHAPTER THREE

DEZ SLID ONTO a worn stool and held up a finger. “Scotch and soda.”

Bigmouth Sam waddled toward where Dez sat at the end of the bar. Sam wagged his head like an old hound dog. “That’s heartache medicine. You got a sweet thang I ain’t know about?”

Dez tapped the bar. “Nah, just need something to make me forget about the money falling out of my pocket.”

Bigmouth Sam swiped the bar with a damp cloth and leveled bloodshot eyes at him. “Hate to say—”

“I told you so,” Dez finished for his friend. Bigmouth Sam had run the Bigmouth Blues Bar on Frenchmen Street for over forty years. The bar was an institution, frequented by musicians and tourists alike, revered for its strong drinks, smoked oysters and sassy-mouth waitresses wearing short skirts and tight T-shirts that read Open Wide. And that was the icing for the serious cake of music that was served nightly. The older man had talked a rare blue streak trying to stop Dez from opening a club. He’d said it would suck out his soul and take his money with it.

Maybe Big Sam was right.

But Dez was as stubborn as he was talented and couldn’t be convinced. He knew this about himself and accepted it. Besides, he wasn’t all the way alone in the venture—Reggie Carney, a Pro Bowl lineman for the Saints, was his silent partner. Somehow, having a partner, one with some clout, comforted. “Guess I’m a slave to my mistress. I don’t want a different gig at a different place every night.”

Johnny Durant elbowed his way between Dez and a pretty-decent-looking coed and called to Sam, “Give me a Heiney and put Dez’s drink on my tab. The tips are hot tonight, my man.”

Dez held up his glass, clinking it against the icy bottle Sam handed Johnny. “Get it while it’s good, bro.”

“Damn straight,” Johnny said, downing several gulps. Perspiration glistened on the man’s brow. Most drummers who played like Johnny D would be drenched by now, but Johnny was a cool cat, sliding out easy tempos, his voice verging on a croon, his songs tight with a traditional bass line. “You got any new stuff yet?”

Dez’s gut twisted. Everybody wanted new stuff from him. Didn’t matter where he played, who he ran into, what he delivered behind the piano, everyone wanted something new. Something different. Something revolutionary.

But Dez had run out of new long ago.

Everything started with the storm. After years of collaboration on other people’s albums, Dez had written some good solo stuff. His turn in the spotlight had been washed away by Hurricane Katrina. He’d been in the studio cutting the demo two weeks before the storm hit. And then everything, the only recording that had tasted like magic, that had the whole music scene in New Orleans buzzing, had been destroyed. The entire studio had been under five feet of water. No demo. No debut.

His grief had lasted for almost a year, and every time he tried to write music, he failed. He couldn’t feel it anymore. What had once flowed in him like life’s blood had vanished.

Old standards weren’t a problem. Those melodies weren’t his. He hadn’t poured his soul into those runs, into those words, so he’d gotten a gig playing at a hotel bar in Houston, subbing in for other bands when he could get the work. The few visits home he’d made to fulfill his obligations with a youth music program called Second Line Players or to back up Trombone Sonny at a festival or two, only filled him with a weight he couldn’t explain or drink away.

And then he’d met Erin Garcia.

And shut himself off from his dreams, jumping into a life he’d never imagined—a life of grilling burgers, going to movies and making love on Sunday mornings. He’d gone to work overseeing her father’s upscale restaurants, paying a mortgage on a house they’d bought together, taking the dog for a walk every night, scooping up poop and convincing himself he could walk a new path and forge a regular-Joe life.

But even that couldn’t make him whole again. Eventually, he’d realized he couldn’t take his city out of his bones nor could he pretend to be someone he wasn’t. Maybe he had more of his rambling daddy in him than he thought...at least when it came to settling down with one woman. Or maybe he’d hidden long enough from who he was...a songwriter and musician.

“Come play with me, man,” Johnny D said, jarring Dez from his thoughts. Johnny jerked his head in the direction of the old upright standing in the corner awaiting a loose-limbed rollicking New Orleans rag.

“Nah, man, I ain’t in the mood,” Dez said, downing the rest of the Scotch, willing the fiery liquid to wash away the memories, as well as the image of the shattered glass outside Blue Rondo.

“Horseshit. You’re always in the mood. Let’s go,” Johnny said, slapping his shoulder and disappearing into the crowd, heading for the stage.

Bigmouth Sam jerked his head. “This crowd wants a beat, but do ‘Take Five’ for last call.”

Dez slid off the stool. “I want to find my bed, man.”

Bigmouth Sam grinned. “Yeah, but you’s a Batiste, and music’s in that blood. You ain’t turnin’ down hittin’ that piano any more than I’d turn down hittin’ Beyoncé if she’s standin’ here wantin’ it.”

Dez snorted, grabbed an almost-empty bottle of Crown and turned. “Beyoncé’s married and so are you.”

“You think thatta matter to me? Hell, naw. And I charge for that drink.”

“It’s my fee for playing,” Dez called over his shoulder, slugging back a few gulps of the Crown as he made his way to the piano. Several ladies eyed either him or the bottle of booze appreciatively. Maybe he’d take one of them home...or maybe he’d just go back to his place uptown and enjoy the peace of his bed and the cool satin sheets he’d bought a few weeks ago.

Johnny had started without him, backed up on guitar by Jose Mercury, who played enthusiastically if not technically sound. Denny Jay handled the bass and Carl Van Petzel took a break from the piano at a nearby table. He held his drink up with a grin as Dez passed him, sat down at the bench and joined in on “Where Y’at?” settling into the groove, letting the music flow through him. It wasn’t like before, but he allowed the chords to wash over him, heal him, soothe those pains he’d never faced with the sweetest of balms—music.

It was the only way to feel again.

Maybe the only way he’d ever get back to his own music. Ever since the waters had come and tried to wash New Orleans away, Dez hadn’t been able to find what had made him who he was—the man who could create, tying beats and chords together with reckless abandon that somehow worked to create a distinctive sound of funk, jazz and blues with a thread of Bounce.

The fact of the matter was Dez Batiste could play the piano, but he’d lost his mojo.

* * *

ELEANOR SET THE PHONE on the desk as Blakely outlined all the reasons she needed a new Valentino bag, and picked up the freight slips on the new shipments from England. Two tables had been damaged beyond repair and she’d need to file a damage claim with the shipping company.

“Mom? Hello?”

Eleanor picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

“Were you even listening?”