Misconduct

Pyrotechnic fantasies? No.

I had lots of fantasies, pyrotechnic and not, but how obvious would I be to tell him that? It was a cheap response to a leading question. I wouldn’t be so obvious.

“I don’t want to start fires,” I assured him, staring at the Degas with the flute against my lips. “I just like standing in the middle of burning rooms.”

Tipping back the glass, I finished off the champagne and turned to set it down, but he took the base of the flute, stopping me.

“How long would you stay?” he inquired, his eyes thoughtful as he took the glass from my hand and set it down on the table. “Before you tried to escape, that is.”

“Longer than anyone else.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“How about you?” I questioned. “Would you join the mayhem in the mad rush for the exit?”

He turned back to the painting, smirking. “No,” he answered. “I’d already be outside, of course.”

I narrowed my eyes, confused.

He grinned at me and leaned in to whisper, “I set the fire, after all.”

My jaw ached with a smile I refused to bestow on him. I didn’t like surprises, but he was interesting, and he looked me in the eye when he spoke to me.

Of course, I wasn’t as interested in his answers as I was in his ability to keep the conversation going. I could indulge in small talk, but this was more fun.

I let my eyes drift away from him.

“I’m sorry you don’t like the artwork,” he said, regarding the piece on the wall.

My thigh quivered with the vibration from my phone, but I ignored it.

I cleared my throat. “Degas is a wonderful artist,” I went on. “I like him. He aimed to depict movement rather than stationary figures in many of his works.”

“Except this one.” He nodded to the piece of the lonely woman sitting in a bar.

“Yes, except this one,” I agreed, gesturing to L’absinthe. “He also tried to show humans in isolation. This one was called ugly and disgusting by critics when it was unveiled.”

“But you love it,” he deduced.

I turned, slowly moving along the wall, knowing he’d follow.

“Yes, even when he is copied by bad artists,” I joked. “But luckily no one here will know the difference.”

I heard his quiet laugh at my audacity, and he was probably wondering whether or not to be insulted. Either way, he struck me as the type of man who didn’t really care. My respect probably wasn’t what he was after.

I felt his eyes wash over my back, following the lines of my body down to my hips. Other than my arms, my back was the only part of my body left bare by the fabric and crisscross work.

Turning through the open French doors, I walked onto the wide, candlelit balcony. The music inside slowly became a faint echo behind us.

“You don’t really care about Degas, do you?” I asked, turning my head only enough to see him out of the corner of my eye as I walked to the railing.

“I couldn’t give a fuck less about Degas,” he stated without shame. “What’s your name?”

“You don’t really care about that, either.”

But then his hand grabbed mine, pulling me to a stop. I turned halfway, looking up at him.

“I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answers to.” It sounded like a warning.

I curled my fingers, feeling my heart skip a beat.

While I’d gotten the impression this man had a playful side, I now understood he had other faces, too.

“Easton,” I acquiesced.

Turning back around, I pressed my hips against the railing and gripped the banister, feeling him behind me.

I breathed in, the scent of magnolias from the ballroom filling my nose along with a tinge of the ever-present flavor indigenous only to the Quarter. Aged wood, stale liquor, old paper, and rain all combined to create a fragrance that was almost more delicious than food on a quiet morning walk down Bourbon in the fog.

“Wouldn’t you like to know my name?” he asked.

“I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answers to,” I replied quietly.

I felt his smile even though I couldn’t see it.

I stared out over the Quarter, nearly losing my breath at the sight.

A sea of people covered Bourbon Street like a flood, with barely enough room to turn around or maneuver through the masses. It was a sight I’d rarely seen in the five years I’d lived here, preferring to avoid the French Quarter during Mardi Gras in favor of the local hangouts on Frenchmen Street.

But it still had to be appreciated for the awe-inspiring sight it was.

The streetlamps glowed in the late-evening air, but they served only as a decoration. The neon lights of the bars, jazz clubs, and restaurants – not to mention the throngs of beads flying through the air from the balconies and down to waiting hands – cast a colorful display full of light, music, excitement, and hunger.

Anything went during Mardi Gras. Eat what you want. Drink your fill. Say anything, and – I blinked, feeling him move to my side – satiate all of your appetites.

Mardi Gras was a free pass. One night when rules were taboo and you did whatever you wanted, because you’d wake up tomorrow – Ash Wednesday – ready to purge your sins and cleanse your soul for the next six weeks of Lent.

I envied their carefree revelry, wishing for the courage to let go, stop looking over my shoulder, and laugh at things I wouldn’t remember in the morning.

“Such chaos,” I commented, observing the crowds stretching as far as the eye could see down in the street. “I’ve never had a desire to be in the midst of all that.”