“Room’s not ready,” Gabe says through a mouthful of cereal as soon as I step into the main room.
“I didn’t expect them to be,” I say, scooting around him and Sam. I dump my stuff onto the pile.
Gabe shrugs. “Guess the king rooms are.”
“King rooms?” I ask in confusion.
Sam pours me a bowl of Cheerios and hands me the jug of milk. He points a plastic spoon toward Romeo. “We’re with Gabe this round. Riley and Allie are flying down today. Justin and Romeo went in on another room, since the tour only pays for one room, so they could each have their own.”
“Oh,” I say, doing the math in my head and taking a bite of cereal. They’ve been apart from their girlfriends for over a week and a half. Geez, hooked at the hip much? How are they going to last six weeks? Maybe the ladies wanted to visit the Big Easy. I know if I were going to visit my rock star boyfriend, it would be here or New York. I’d have to toss a coin to decide. I lift my cereal bowl to Sam. “Thanks.”
He nods as Romeo comes over to us.
“They have only king rooms ready,” Romeo says. “They’re putting your stuff in our rooms so you can take showers and change. Your room won’t be ready until after four.”
The bellboys start moving our stuff and we finish clearing out of the bus because Gary has to fill it with gas and water before parking it at tomorrow’s concert venue. Everything belonging to Sam and me ends up in Justin’s room on the ninth floor. We take turns in the bathroom while Justin talks to room service. I hear words like “flowers” and “champagne” and “chocolates” being thrown around as he paces the length of the room. I turn on my laptop and finalize a new blog post while Sam showers. I want to get out of this room and into the city streets. Obviously, Justin has some serious romantic plans happening, and I’m eager to give him some space.
Sam comes out of the bathroom and gives Justin crap about being pussy whipped, then we head to Romeo’s room on the twelfth floor.
Gabe and Romeo are watching TV, but it’s obvious that Romeo is distracted. He hardly says a word when he reads over my blog post—unusual, to say the least—and he’s constantly checking the time on his phone. He must be waiting for a text from Riley. Once he okays the post and I load it for the legions of fans, Gabe, Sam, and I make a quick exit.
“It’s eleven o’clock,” Gabe says as we get into the elevator. “What the fuck are we supposed to do for five hours?”
Sam and I both look at him like he’s nuts.
“Dude,” Sam says, “we’re in New Orleans. Music, booze, tits, gambling, food . . . twenty-four/seven. You name it, they got it.”
“Yeah,” Gabe says in a sarcastic tone. “You looking to get high?”
Sam shoots him a scornful look. “Like I’m going to walk around the streets of New Orleans and ask about scoring. I may be a dumbass, but I’m not that fucking stupid, asshole.”
Scoring? Pot seems a little out of the realm of scoring.
Adjusting his ball cap, Sam turns to me. “Where do you want to go, Peyton?”
Everywhere. “How about we start with the French Market?”
“All right,” Sam says, pulling out a little guidebook from his back pocket.
“French what?” says Gabe.
All of us pause as we step out of the elevator and into the huge, ornate lobby. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Satin couches and wingback chairs fill the space. And a small fountain gurgles in the center. I may be sharing a room with two idiots, but for a minute I’m filled with gratitude to be here. I’d never be able to afford to stay in this place on my pathetic restaurant salary. I don’t even want to imagine the price of one night, let alone three.
Sam reads over a page in the book, then glances at Gabe. “French Market,” he says. “Sounds like it’s basically got tourist junk and food.”
Gabe curls his upper lip in revulsion.
As we pass the fountain, I’m seriously contemplating taking off by myself if everything we do is going to trigger an argument.
Sam taps a map in his book with his finger. “It’s not too far from Bourbon Street.”
Gabe’s face is blank.
“Tits and booze.”
Gabe nods, slowly agreeing. “All right, let’s go.”
We catch an old-fashioned trolley that runs along the edge of the river to the French Market. The thing is fabulously antique-looking but has air conditioning, lucky for us. Late June in Louisiana feels worse than August in Michigan. Humidity hangs like a limp rag in the ninety-degree heat.
After roaming the stalls at the market, where I buy my mother a key chain shaped like a fleur-de-lis—the flower that represents New Orleans—and a Jazz Festival T-shirt for Jill, we decide to try the various food booths. We each pick something to sample and share. I go with boiled jumbo shrimp. Gabe picks crab hush puppies. And, of course having to be goofy, Sam brings back fried alligator. It’s not too bad, but the thought that it may have originated in a swamp has me washing each bite down with a gulp of water.
Gabe whines about the heat the whole time we’re eating.
“Dude,” Sam says, setting down his beer, “we’re in the South. Like the bottom of it. Deal with it or go back to the hotel and crash on a couch in the lobby.”
Gabe drains the rest of his beer. Sweat is dripping down the sides of his face. “The couch it is.” He stands. “I’ll check out the strip clubs later. After the temperature drops.” He grabs the last hush puppy, pops it into his mouth, and gives us a wave as he heads toward the nearest trolley stop.
Sam and I each get a bottle of water to go and start walking. Near Jackson Square, he catches me watching one of the many horse-drawn carriages that tour the French Quarter. Before I can agree, he drags me to one of the carriages lined up along the street.
Our driver, dressed in a white shirt and black vest, tips a worn straw hat and tells Sam he should sit on the backseat, next to his pretty lady instead of across from her. A grin spreads across Sam’s face, and in seconds he is next to me with his arm around my shoulders. His body feels burning hot next to mine in the ever-increasing heat, so I nudge his side with my elbow until he pulls back a little. Just a tiny bit. The carriage driver smirks, says something about young love, tugs at the horse’s reins, and we’re off.
As we pass Creole homes with ornate balconies, our driver describes various significant aspects of the architecture. When he explains that the spikes on some of the balcony poles are called Romeo spikes, Sam chuckles. He further explains they were to stop a woman’s suitors from climbing onto the balcony. Sam reaches for my hand and makes a stupid comment about how spikes couldn’t hold him back from true love. The driver grins wide and knowingly. I squeeze the crap out of Sam’s sweaty hand and he releases mine. But even though I don’t want to hold his hand, I’m having fun.
The tour takes us past an Ursuline convent, several celebrity homes, the oldest bar in the United States, some narrow shotgun houses, and along the way, we hear several ghost stories. Sam makes wide eyes at the scary parts and hugs me closer. I nudge him away each time. My elbow is getting quite the workout on this carriage ride.
When we return to Jackson Square, Sam refuses to let me pay. So I leave the tip instead. Then we head to Bourbon Street. We argue as we stroll. I’m adamant about not going into any strip clubs—unless he’s willing to check out a nude male revue with me.
He laughs and shakes his head.
“Fine, then, we’ll find something else to do,” I say. I drag him into some shops that we pass, including a voodoo store, an art studio, and a T-shirt place. At a store that sells miniature versions of everything, he puts his foot down: no strip clubs for him, no stores with miniature crap for me. Unless I want to make a deal? I walk away. Miniatures are cute but not that cute.