Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Laughing, Rolondo reaches for his pack that he’d left by the leg press. “I’m heading out.”
Strange how his words seem to highlight how damn quiet the place is. In the far distance, a phone rings then cuts off. I’m not creeped out, but I don’t want to linger in a ghost town, either.
“What are you doing now?” I ask him.
“My ma’s in town.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, I’m taking her to Commander’s Palace for dinner.” He grins. “The woman’s been after me to go since she got off the damn plane.”
“I know how that goes. My mom was the same. Had to go there and to Galatoire’s.”
Rolondo chuckles. “Went there the other night.”
We both laugh. Suddenly, I miss my mother. Which doesn’t make a bit of sense, since I’m a grown man, she’s been annoying the hell out of me lately, and I’ve been avoiding her.
Rolondo goes to shower, and I’m left staring at the weights without really seeing them. I don’t want to be here. I don’t know where the hell I want to be. But one thing is clear.
I pull out my phone.
BigManny: Can I interest you in a po’boy?
Chess answers almost immediately.
ChesterCopperpot: Do you actually know any poor boys?
BigManny: Cute. Fine, can I interest you in eating a sandwich with this here rich boy?
ChesterCopperpot: I’m at a party right now. Dinner in the form of finger foods and cocktails
Disappointment swims in my chest. I swallow past that self-pitying lump and man up.
BigManny: Another night then. Have fun, party girl
I head toward the locker room where I’ve left my keys. I’ll grab a po’boy and watch some basketball. Tired as I am, a night lazing on the couch sounds about right. I’m almost at my car when my phone buzzes.
ChesterCopperpot: You should come here. There’s plenty of food.
I halt, staring down at the screen. Chess texts again.
ChesterCopperpot: I promise no one will grope you unless you ask.
I smile at that.
BigManny: Will you grope me, Chester?
ChesterCopperpot: No but James would. He’s a huge fan. 😉
BigManny: I’m happy to give him an autograph. But that’s as far as my call of duty goes.
ChesterCopperpot: Fair warning . . . If he asks you to sign his ball, run away.
A laugh breaks free, filling up all the empty spaces in my chest. God, I want to see this girl, but I hesitate. A party isn’t exactly how I want to spend my time with Chess.
The phone rings in my hand. “Chester,” I say with a smile.
Her husky voice competes with the sound of chatter and music in the background. “So? Are you coming or what?”
“Longing to see me, are you?”
“Yes,” she drawls. “I need to reconfirm that your head truly is that big.”
I’m grinning wide now, even though she can’t see me. “Which head are we talking about?”
“I’m hanging up . . .”
“All right. I’ll behave.”
“Sure you will.” Someone shouts loud and shrill in the background. Then Chess speaks again. “So?”
“You sure you want me there? I don’t want to disrupt your evening.”
Chess is silent for a second. She speaks again and sounds stiff, reminding me of the first time we met when she thought I was an asshole. “I don’t extend false invites, Finn. But you don’t have to come. Honestly, it’s okay.”
I think about sitting comfortably at home with a sandwich versus sitting next to Chess in a room full of people I don’t know. There is no contest. “Give me the address.”
* * *
After a quick shower and change at home, I head out to meet Chess. The party is at a house in Uptown, near Audubon Park. Light, misty rain is falling by the time I pull up before the double gallery home, every window blazing with light. Louis Armstrong’s version of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” drifts through those windows and, for a second, it’s as if I’ve stepped back in time.
You get that a lot in New Orleans. Old jazz, older houses, cracked pavements, and gnarly oak trees that drip with moss pull you out of the modern world and leave you feeling haunted by history. I push past the short wrought-iron gate and make my way up to the door.
It occurs to me that I’m nervous as I ring the doorbell and find my hands clammy. I laugh at myself. I’m grilled by reporters at least once a week and never break a sweat. I’ve won national championships with a crowd of one hundred thousand people screaming down at me and didn’t flinch. Yet here, I’m nervous as a teen on his first date.
A woman wearing a purple ’50s-style dress opens the door. For a long second, she stares at me.
“Hey,” I say when she doesn’t speak.
She blinks and then shakes her head as if coming out of a fog. “Please tell me you’re a stripper.”
“Stripper?” I repeat, half-amused and a little confused. Behind her, the house is full of people in dresses or suits, and I wonder if I have the wrong address.