Page 2 of Zone
“Your loss,” I yell as I allow myself to be swept into the river of bodies surging onto the dance floor.
Giving in to the music is easy. Rainbow lights flash overhead, and I scan the top of the crowd, watching it rise and fall like a wave, the bass pulsing through us, binding ustogether. A disco globe spins and bodies glow with sweat and promise.
The words appear in my mind as they’ve always done since I was a child, lying on my back in the sand and watching the birds drift in slow arcs above my head. They come when I’m happy, and they come when I’m sad. They usually come when I’m quiet, but everything is different tonight.
My world is changing. The door has flung open, and I’m charging through it with smoke machines and glitter guns and cheerleaders and music blasting.
A sexy girl in a tight, low-cut top slides into the space in front of me and puts her arms on my shoulders. We move to the music, grinding, and it feels good. It feels like liquid color sweeping around us, lifting us higher.
Shots are passed, and I take one. It burns like good tequila. My vision clouds, and the beat quickens. We’re all moving faster, eyes closed, and I’m swirling in the energy of the dance. Adrenaline flows through us all, and it smells like sweat and sweet perfume and sex.
Time passes. My phone lights, and a text from Austin tells me he’s at the hotel, going to bed. Another sexy lady dances against me. Her back is to my chest, and her ass slides up and down the front of my jeans. She’s twerking against my crotch, and it feels fucking incredible.
The skin on my neck tightens, and I’m hot. My mouth is dry, and damn, it would feel good to fuck somebody right now.
“Somebody leaked the list!” A guy named Raymond runs up, grabbing me around the neck.
He pulls me down, and I see my name as one of the first-round draft picks.
Here we go. I’m a star, and starting tonight, I’ll be shooting through the stratosphere.
Another girl slides up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and dancing. I’m surrounded, and I do another shot. It’s a celebration. A Mardi Gras-style Bacchanalia.
We’re all happy. We’re all having a good time, and everyone smiles and laughs. A mouth is on mine, and I don’t question. I kiss her back, sliding my tongue. Hands touch me, and I let them. We’re celebrating, and whatever happens we can deal with tomorrow.
Tonight a sliver of moon is in the black sky like a cat waiting to greet me with a grin.
CHAPTER 2
Melody
Nine months later
“Did you see that playoff game against the Seahawks?” A loud, friendly man leans forward from the backseat of my Honda Pilot.
He’s with three of his equally loud buddies, and I’m driving them to Tipitina’s, one of the oldest live music venues in New Orleans.
It’s a rainy night in the French Quarter, and the streets are shiny and filled with gasoline rainbows. It’s still warm, and the scent is… not great. Hot garbage and urine.
“I sure did,” I call over my shoulder, loving these kinds of chatty rides with football fans like me. “Unbelievable.”
“Knox Bradford was supposed to be this great thing, this first-round draft pick, star rookie.” I can tell by the fellow’s accent he’s old New Orleans, most likely he grew up in theGarden District where the streets are named after trees and the occasional fruit. “He’s no Drew Brees.”
“Not yet, anyway.” I do try to maintain some level of optimism.
I may have only lived in New Orleans six months, but everybody knows the legendary quarterback, who retired years ago. Residents should be moving on to their new QB, but Bradford’s been making mistakes, and he just sank the playoff game.
So, like a first love or the one that got away, many of them still long for the days of Number 9.
“He’s undisciplined,” I suggest, thinking of what my dad would say. “The coaches need to curb that impulsive streak and have him drilling.”
“Do you see how long he holds the ball after the snap?” The man groans, throwing up his hands. “He’d rather take the sack than get the easy five yards, and he lives in the Big Easy!”
A smile splits my cheeks, and I chuckle. New Orleans people love to bitch, but they have the best sense of humor about it.
Looking up, we’re approaching the corner of Napoleon Avenue and Tchoupitoulas Street, and I slow my ride. The sign out front advertises the band Epic Reflexes, and I know they’re in for a treat.
“Have a fun night,” I call at the stop.
