“Lead the way.”
Ty stared at Zane for another few breaths. Then he stepped past him, brushing his shoulder against Zane’s as he set off through the carousing crowd.
Ty didn’t say a word as they prowled toward the far edge of the French Quarter, heading to the little two-block area of Frenchmen Street and the adjoining Faubourg Marigny. Zane knew how Ty felt about going to see Ava again, and Zane wasn’t too happy about it either. There was a good chance she’d be holding a grudge, and with good reason. Zane knew what kind of lies had to be told when you were undercover, and now, thanks to Ty, he realized how badly it hurt to be on the receiving end of them.
But their options were few and far between, and Ty seemed to think she was in danger.
At least he’d be along to make sure she didn’t throw another knife at Ty. If she did, she’d have a couple to dodge herself.
So, forearmed and forewarned, Zane followed Ty out of the lively French Quarter into the more sedate residential area of Marigny.
Ty turned onto a cobblestone alley of stone walls covered with ivy and blooming flowers. It really was gorgeous down here, with the gaslights and wrought-iron gates and ambiance galore. Even the shards of glass in the concrete on top of walls and fences, meant to keep revelers out of private yards, had its own charm. New Orleans had character. Zane hadn’t really appreciated it when he’d been here with Becky. He’d been more concerned with watching her, observing the joy of the experience through the way she lit up.
He often found himself doing the same thing with Ty. He enjoyed the way Ty lived through every pitch at a baseball game more than he enjoyed the game itself.
How much of his own life had he forgotten to live as he watched the people he loved?
The crowd thinned until they were the only ones on the street, offering them less cover. Ty took Zane’s arm so they’d look more like a couple returning home than two fugitives skirting the shadows. He felt stiff as he did it, as if he expected Zane to rebuff him. Zane’s breath was hard to catch. He had never imagined being alone with Ty feeling so awkward.
“Places this side close down at two,” Ty said. He abruptly turned into a narrower, shadier alley.
Zane slowed, scowling at his surroundings. His arm slipped out of Ty’s as Ty kept walking. “Hey.”
Ty stopped and turned, and Zane had a flash of memory, a picture of Becky, her hair bouncing as she turned, her eyes shining.
Zane stared at Ty’s hazel eyes, shocked into silence.
“You okay?” Ty asked.
Zane shook his head. “I think I’ve been here before.”
Ty raised an eyebrow and looked down the alleyway. “Lots of these back alleys look alike. This is a local place, pretty far off the tourist path.”
Zane glanced at the cobblestone and the plain stone walls. He nodded. “Yeah.”
Ty continued down the alley, and after a few dozen yards he stopped at a weathered wooden door set into the crumbling stone wall. The carved sign that hung over the door read La Fée Verte.
Zane stared at it. He was almost certain that had been the name of the dive Becky had dragged him to all those years ago.
Ty pressed his shoulder against the door, and it creaked open accusingly.
Within was the same large room Zane remembered from his dreams. It was still ill-lit and crowded with tables, and the single microphone stand still stood on the stage in front of wine-colored curtains.
Candles flickered in hurricane lamps on the tables, only now it seemed they were battery powered. Years of wax drippings still decorated the tables.
Zane glanced around, stunned. He turned where he stood, staring at the stage, his mind recreating that night, the man he’d watched and found himself attracted to, the first man he’d ever realized he might want, the man he’d almost unconsciously based most of his sexual encounters on since. He could still see the man standing on that stage, wide shoulders, playful smirk, shining eyes, and a beautiful voice.
“Ty.” Zane gaped at him.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“It was you,” Zane whispered.
Ty looked around the bar, brow furrowing.
“Ty, it was you. The man I saw singing, the one I told you about . . . it was you, wasn’t it?”
Ty’s eyes strayed to the stage, then back to Zane. He didn’t look all that shocked. There was a bang from the back and a curtain behind the bar wavered.
A dark-haired woman poked her head out to call, “We’re all closed up now. Try Bourbon Street.” She disappeared behind the curtain again.
Ty and Zane both stared at the curtain before sharing a glance. “It was you,” Zane whispered again, still rocked to his very foundations by the revelation.
“It couldn’t be. You said it was your anniversary. I wasn’t here yet in July.”
“It was for our anniversary. We came in December because it was easier.”
Ty stood motionless, eyes on Zane for a long moment before he glanced back at the curtain. It wasn’t but a few seconds before the curtain swayed again, and the woman shoved it aside as she stepped out. She was on the shorter side, with long hair so black it was almost blue in the smoky haze. A fluffy white feather was tucked behind her ear, and on closer inspection, several more feathers of various colors appeared to be part of her hair too.
Her dark eyes were lined in kohl, masking their real color, and it was hard to tell in the dim light but she seemed exotic in a way, like there may have been Native American blood in her. She was athletic and curvy, certainly Ty’s type, wearing black pants that hugged her hips and a laced corset for a top. Her body was tense as she stared at them.
Zane glanced from Ty to her and back. She was surprised, that was clear, which told Zane she wasn’t behind the hex Ty was sure had been put on him.
“Tyler Beaumont,” she said.
“Hello, Ava,” Ty responded. Zane knew he was nowhere near as calm as he sounded.
She moved suddenly, vaulting over the bar and running toward him. Zane almost moved to block her, but Ty didn’t flinch as she launched herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He grunted in pain, stumbling beneath her weight as she hugged him.
She let him go and slid her feet to the floor, then smacked Ty with an oath that sounded like mangled French. When she pulled back for another smack, Zane reached out and caught her wrist midair. Ty’s guilty conscience may have been willing to stand there and take it, but there was a limit to how much Zane would allow, even if he did want to do the same right now.