Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [89]
Chapter 29
Constance drew away from him. His kiss stung her as much as if it had been his hand slapping her cheek. More painful even than that was the realization that she wanted him to kiss her again.
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
AT A QUARTER PAST SIX SHE GOT UP, FED JASPER, AND CHANGED her clothes for dinner. She purposely put on something casual so that Byron would know she wasn’t trying to impress him. He’s not getting to me this time, she promised herself.
She took Jasper for a quick walk around the block using the new leash she’d found coiled on the dresser, and returned him to the room, where he immediately jumped up on the bed. “Tom’s not going to like that at all,” Jane told him. She wondered how she could introduce the two of them with the least amount of fuss and bother.
At five minutes to seven she went down to the lobby to wait for Byron. He might know where she was staying, but she wasn’t going to let him anywhere near her room. Absolutely not, she promised herself.
He arrived promptly at seven. Jane noted that he too was dressed rather casually, and she was surprised to find that she was slightly disappointed. Apparently he doesn’t think it’s a date either, she thought as she stood to greet him.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they walked down the street. They were moving away from the restaurants, toward a slightly more run-down part of the Marigny, and Jane was a little unnerved by it. Was Byron trying to trick her?
“Relax,” he said, taking her arm. “I’m taking you to an authentic New Orleans eatery, not one of those places designed to part tourists from their money.”
“So you live here, then?” asked Jane.
“Lived,” said Byron. “Then again, I’ve lived nearly everywhere, haven’t I?”
“And Charlotte?” Jane asked. “How long has she lived—how long did she live here?”
“Let’s not talk about Charlotte, shall we?” Byron suggested. “She was merely an … inconvenience. Now she isn’t.”
“That’s very easy for you to say,” said Jane. “You’re not the one who set her on fire.”
Byron laughed. “No one will hold it against you,” he said. “She was rather a dreary creature. Those mummies,” he added, and Jane felt him shiver.
“They were a bit ghastly,” Jane agreed.
Byron stopped at a doorway over which flickered a red neon sign that said THE PLACE. “This is the place,” he said.
“I see that,” Jane said. She peered through the small window set into the door. The interior was dark. “You’re sure?” she asked.
Byron pulled the door open. “I’m sure,” he said.
Jane’s opinion of the restaurant was not improved by going inside. The small room contained half a dozen small tables, each one surrounded by mismatched chairs and covered with an oily checkered cloth. The walls were bare, painted a color that probably had originally been white but had taken on a yellowish tinge. A fan hung from the ceiling, spinning slowly in the heat. A length of flypaper hung from it, coated with the bodies of its victims.
Five of the tables were occupied, mostly by men drinking from bottles of Abita beer. Byron led Jane to the lone empty table and pulled her chair out for her. She inspected the seat with her fingertips before sitting. There didn’t appear to be anything on it that would stain her pants.
“You’re in for a real treat,” said Byron. “Outsiders don’t normally get to come here.”
“Outsiders?” Jane said. “You mean tourists?”
“Of a sort,” said Byron.
Before he could explain further, they were approached by a weary-looking woman of indeterminate age. Tall and thin, her long blond hair showed more than a few inches of dark roots, and her face was unusually red.
“Byron cher,” she said. “Where you been?” Her voice was thick with a Cajun accent.
“Here and there,” said Byron. He nodded at Jane. “Emmeline, Jane. Jane, Emmeline.”
The woman nodded at Jane. “She one of yours?” she asked Byron.
Byron grinned. “Ask her that,” he replied.
Emmeline turned her gaze to Jane. Her eyes were almost black, and