(New Orleans, 1926)
A knock came to Jules's door. When she opened it, Jasper stood in front of her with a bottle of wine in his hands. She smiled and pulled him in for a kiss. Her parents had gone out of town for the week, and Jasper had promised to take her to Bourbon Street for her eighteenth birthday. Her baby-pink lace dress hugged her curves, and she had pinned her dark hair into a curled bun.
Jasper's Ford Roadster was parked in front of her house. She could already smell the liquor on his breath, so she knew it would be a long night—a long night she'd already earned after working her day shift at the bookstore.
The car pulled up to the Old Absinthe House, a pharmacy that led down into a speakeasy. Jasper guided her to the secret door, where he knocked three times before it slid open, revealing an elevator. Reluctantly, Jules stepped inside. Moments later, they were met with blasting jazz and the roar of conversations competing for dominance. Jules eagerly stepped further into the bar. Women danced around the tables, and men blew smoke from their lips as they played cards.
Jules smiled as Jasper grabbed their drinks. She reached for his hand, pulling him toward the dance floor. Abruptly, he shoved her away. She stumbled back, nearly crashing into a table.
Dumbfounded, Jules steadied herself and stared at him, frightened.
"You're making a fool of yourself," he said, rolling his eyes before returning to his seat.
Jules's cheeks burned, humiliation buzzing beneath her skin. To hide her embarrassment, she went to the bar and downed as many drinks as she could.
Once she'd gathered what little courage she had left, she stormed back to Jasper and dropped into the chair beside him. He wiped sweat from his forehead and glanced at her.
"You don't have to be so cruel to me, you know," Jules said, folding her arms across her chest.
Jasper said nothing. It felt like they were locked in some unspoken drinking contest, both desperate to numb the awkwardness of the night.
"I'm getting another drink," Jules snapped, standing abruptly and heading back to the bar.
She'd had enough of Jasper. She was done.
As she waited impatiently for her drink, a man stepped up beside her. She barely registered the music or how much she'd already had. He leaned his elbows against the bar, waiting to be served.
He was unfairly tall, all muscle and control. Black hair framed a face that looked like old money and bad decisions. But what truly caught her attention were his eyes—deep blue, like the open sea.
Flustered, Jules looked down, trying to hide her face. That only seemed to draw his attention. She could feel his gaze on her. As she tried to turn away, she drunkenly tripped over her own feet, nearly collapsing. The man caught her by the waist just in time.
"I think you've had enough," he said, his eyes narrowing.
"Who do you think you are—my dad?" Jules slurred.
The man's gaze flicked toward Jasper, who could barely keep his eyes open—let alone his mouth shut. He muttered a curse under his breath, his hands curling into fists.
He rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed.
The bartender tapped Jules on the shoulder.
"What'll it be?"
"A double—"
Lucian cut in. "Cassius, ice water. Please."
The bartender nodded and moved away.
"What the hell was that for?" Jules wrinkled her nose.
The man laughed softly.
"You've got quite the mouth for such a young lady," he muttered between sips.
"I just don't like being disrespected," Jules mumbled.
His expression darkened.
"But you'll take it from him?" He gestured subtly toward Jasper.
Jules froze.
"You don't know anything about him."
"Maybe not," the man replied, standing and straightening his jacket. "But I've seen enough love to recognize when it's gone."
Jules sat there, stunned. She searched for a reply, but before she could speak, he was already gone.
When she stood, her legs trembled. The alcohol hit her all at once. Suddenly, someone yanked her arm, pulling her through the crowd. Jasper loomed over her, his face cold.
"We're leaving," he said flatly, dragging her toward the exit.
Jazz still rang in Jules's ears as her heels clicked against the French Quarter concrete. Her vision blurred, her head spinning like the moment a roller coaster drops.
"He's such an ass," she muttered, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.