Our first stop on Bourbon Street is the Hard Rock Cafe. We spend an hour wandering around and studying all the memorabilia. The next stop is an absinthe bar with walls covered in old newspaper clippings. Excited to try the famous drink, Sam orders an absinthe for each of us. The bartender pours cold water over a sugar cube in a slotted spoon perched over each glass, and after the cube melts into the liquor below, we each try a sip. It has a strange flavor, like licorice mixed with herbs.
Sam takes a long sniff of the liquor. “Absinthe was banned around nineteen hundred in a shitload of countries, including ours. Lots of people thought it was a drug. A psychedelic one.” He takes a long sip.
Recalling the moment I saw him smoking the joint at the WZIK Rock event in Texas, I stare at the green liquid in my glass. “Is that why you wanted to try it?”
He shrugs. “Well, yeah, but I know it’s just alcohol.”
His disappointed tone has me wondering if he wishes it weren’t “just alcohol.” “Do you like it?”
He shrugs. “It’s okay.”
I gulp down the rest of the licorice-tasting liquid to get it over with. “So where to now?” I ask, setting my empty glass down.
“If a strip club is out of the question”—he gestures across the street—“how about some karaoke?”
“Um, no, never. Just no,” I say, vigorously shaking my head.
He finishes the absinthe and pushes his glass across the bar. “Let’s just check it out.”
“I’m not singing,” I say stubbornly. But it’s hard to resist Sam’s enthusiasm as he nearly drags me across the street. When we step inside, the bar is half-full, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. On the small stage, a middle-aged white guy is destroying the tune of “Sweet Home Alabama.” I go to the ladies’ room while Sam finds a table.
When I get back, I find him at a small round table, sitting on a vinyl stool. He’s lifting a pencil to a karaoke list. I sit down across from him. “Don’t even think about it,” I say.
He taps the pencil tip on the paper. “Is it okay if I sing?”
“Oh yeah, sure. Of course.” I wrinkle my nose as I glance at the small stage and its bright yellow backdrop covered with cat paws painted in black. “Why would you want to? Not enough that you’ve spent the last week and a half on a real stage?”
“This is different from performing. Cheesy fun,” he says with an offhanded shrug that makes him look young. Suddenly, I’m charmed. He seems so easygoing, like his old self. The waitress drops off our drinks. Two shots and two beers. Sam digs into his leather wallet, flipping out money, and I notice a picture sticking out of one overstuffed pocket. The photo of two preteen boys, holding bats and wearing baseball caps backward, causes a tiny knot to form in my stomach. After a deep breath—and Sam handing the waitress a five for her tip—the knot loosens. Sam told me that he and Seth are doing fine.
My brows rise once the waitress leaves and I ask, “Shots?”
He shoves one at me. “We’re in New Orleans, baby, live a little.”
I ignore the “baby” and reach for the shot. He lifts his and we both swallow them, staring at each other.
Fire burns down my throat. Coughing, I slam the shot glass onto the table. “What the hell was that?” I ask in between gasps.
He grins. “151.”
“Sam! It’s only . . .” I dig my phone out of a pocket in my shorts and look at the screen. “Five thirty in the afternoon!”
“We’re in—”
“Don’t say it,” I warn.
The rum goes straight to my head and creates an instant buzz. He smiles and pushes a beer at me. We sip suds and watch the caterwauling onstage, grinning every now and then at each other over a missed note or a screech. My toes tap to the singing, which by the time I’m halfway through my beer doesn’t sound that bad anymore.
We’re on our second beer, and I’m feeling rather mellow when the announcer calls out, “Next up, Sam and Peyton!”
“What?” My voice comes out as a screech, and the plastic beer cup in my hand wobbles. Beer splashes onto the table.
Sam removes the cup from my hand and tugs me up.
“Come on.”
“I told you no karaoke!” I hiss.
He keeps pulling me, saying over his shoulder, “It will be fun. Besides, you’ll never see any of these people again.”
As we near the stage, I try to escape his grip, but he holds me tight and leads me up the stairs.
A girl in a short skirt hands us microphones as the announcer says our names again along with “Here to sing ‘You’re the One That I Want’!” The announcer points to the screen across from us, then steps offstage.
Oh fuck. Could Sam have picked a worse song? It’s the epitome of cheese and it’s not exactly easy to sing.
The bouncy music starts, and I swear a groan goes through the crowd as they conjure up memories of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John in Grease. Sam turns his baseball cap backward, struts toward me, and starts to sing without looking at the screen. The dork must know the song by heart.
Walking around me, he nails the first line perfectly. Damn. He can actually sing. I mean, more than backup. Compared to the crap we’ve been listening to the last hour, he sounds like a professional. Well, I guess he is. Everyone in the room turns toward us.
Oh double fuck. So much for “Danny.” It’s “Sandy’s” turn.
Pissed that Sam got me up here, I belt out the words, keeping an eye on the screen as I stalk toward him. He shuffles backward and the crowd goes nuts. At the edge of the stage, he leans toward me, and I shuffle backward. Even my buzzed brain realizes we’re kind of imitating the movie.
By the middle of the song, we’ve got our routine down, circling each other and shooting fireworks into each other’s eyes. I stop worrying about how badly I sing and start having fun.
The song ends with us staring at each other, both breathing heavily. The crowd goes nuts, clapping and whistling. Someone shouts, “Kiss her!”
More people join the chant.
Sam grins at me, and though I lean away, his hand catches the back of my head and his lips descend. His hot mouth covers mine, moves over my closed lips, and sucks at them before letting go. The kiss is quick but sets my wet lips tingling and my heart racing.
My temper flares and I pull away, but the crowd goes more nuts as the announcer repeats our names. Sam grabs my hand and tugs me down into a bow.
“Paybacks are hell,” I remind him as we’re bent over. He grins at me, then pulls me off the stage.
Chapter 11
I’ll have a water,” I say to the bartender.
“Wussy,” Sam says to me, then lifts his beer glass to the bartender for another.
I slide my empty beer glass back and forth over the wooden bar top. We sit in an open courtyard with a bar in the center. It’s almost nine p.m., but the heat and humidity are still fierce. “Whatever. I have to pace myself or you’ll be carrying me back.”
He looks at me innocently. “How do I get to carry you?”
I pause, still sliding my glass back and forth. “What do you mean?”
His eyes twinkle at me. “Let’s go for piggyback, so your breasts are pressed against my back all the way to the hotel.”
I toss my beer-soaked cocktail napkin at him. “Shut up, you pervert.”
Catching the napkin, he ignores me. “Let’s do shots.”
“No. More. Shots.” We’d downed some Jägermeister about an hour before to help me forget my kiss-induced bad temper. Guess it worked, because I’ve stayed in that warm, happy place ever since and almost forgot about planning his payback. Thing is, I don’t want to get way too drunk, which is why we’d also split a shrimp po’boy. After eating it, we decided to skip the dinner the tour promoters are putting on tonight at the hotel. I check my phone. Five more minutes until the jazz band we’re waiting to see will come on. “Ready to move up front?” I ask.