667: Issue #2 "Activation"
1: Violet Eve

June 4th, 2016

Violet Eve

My cab pulled up in front of the Cat’s Meow and I slid my new Visa card through the credit card reader the cabbie handed me. I signed for the payment and exited the car in front of a karaoke bar with a line halfway down the street.

Using my phone, I dialed Missy’s number but when she answered, I could barely hear her.

“Vi! Are you here?” Missy raised her voice over the yodeling sounds of a man singing a popular Guns n’ Roses song.

“Yes, but the line is halfway down the block. It’ll be a minute before I get in there.” I watched as a few of the people in line stopped to gawk at the awkwardly dressed Irish girl that was practically standing in the middle of the road.

“No, it won’t. Give me a minute and wait outside the exit door.” Missy instructed me as the receiver abruptly clicked.

I nervously stepped up on the curb and waited alone by the exit door. This afforded me even more stares from the people in line; I’m sure they were assuming I would hop the queue and I guess their assumptions were correct.

The left door opened and Missy’s beautiful blond head peeked through.

“It’s alright, Alfonso. She’s with me.” Missy winked at the bouncer by the door and he gestured for her to sneak me in. But the queue had seen this and groaned audibly, hurling insults my way because I got in when they couldn’t.

Lovely greeting from the Americans. Whatever happened to Southern hospitality?

“You’re finally here!” Missy squealed as she jumped up and down. She looked way different since the last time I had seen her. Granted, it had been almost ten years, but I didn’t expect her to change this much.

She had always been a dancer. From the day I met her it was leotards and ballet flats that soon evolved into tutus and pointe shoes, but the look she had now was something else entirely.

Now she was wearing a skin tight cheetah print dress, heels that made her tower over my short frame, and what appeared to be hair extensions in her bleach blond waves.

“I am. I’m here.” I smiled awkwardly, but I felt really out of place. The bar was loud; louder than the Cock and Crow during Rugby season, which was surprising. A woman was now singing a terrible karaoke cover of Barracuda and all I wanted to do was put myself in a corner, far away from all the noise and drunken singing.

“Comfortable?” Missy smiled at me across the table.

The table. In the corner of the room…faaaaar away from everyone else.

“Yeah.” I nodded, scanning my surroundings. Hadn’t I just been at the front door of the bar? Maybe I was just so jet-lagged that I didn’t realize we had moved to a table occupied by three other women.

“This is Candy, Chandra, and Christina.” Missy introduced me to the ladies sitting with us at the table. All of them were augmented in some way, wearing similar dresses to Missy with equally big hair.

“Hello. I’m—I’m Violet.” I introduced myself, trying to remember which “C” name went with which shade of blond sitting in front of me.

“Missy has told us all about you.” The C in the middle gushed. At least I think she was gushing over me. I hoped Missy had told her new friends about her awesome childhood best mate. Awesome being the variable in that sentence.

“All good, I hope.” I grinned, shrugging my shoulders slightly in anticipation of their answer.

“Oh, yes. All good. She told us you’re an author?” It was now the C on the left who spoke.

“A writer. I don’t really consider myself an author yet.” I tended to get overly humble when I spoke about myself; I was my own worst critic after all.

“You’ve had books published.” Missy pointed out, taking a sip of the mimosa in front of her.

“Self-published.” I argued.

Just take the compliment, Vi!

“Regardless, she’s good. Look her up: Violet Eve.” Missy tried to sell me to her friends, but I wasn’t sure if they were buying.

“What? Really?” C on the right exclaimed as she cocked her head to one side, “You wrote the Ghost Prophecy series?” She pointed at me with the biggest smile on her face.

I was really surprised—no, baffled—that she had even read my books. I, personally, thought they were rubbish. I tended to not really like anything that I wrote, yet I kept on writing it. Maybe I wasn’t that terrible after all…

“I did.” I smugly replied. Wait—she didn’t say she liked it.

“I fucking love that series. When does the fourth book come out?” C on the right leaned over the table, a slight excitement in her brown eyes.

“I’m sort of working on it right now. Part of why I moved this way…I’m taking Felicity to the states for an investigation into—into—something. I’m hoping being here will give me some ideas.” I grimaced. I am sure I sounded like I had no idea what I was even talking about—and I didn’t.

“You’ll replace plenty of ghostly history here in New Orleans. I have been on so many ghost tours since we moved into the city. Super spooky.” Missy finished off her mimosa and hollered out to a man with cat ears on. He wandered off and promptly returned with a serving tray full of tequila shots.

I fucking hate tequila.

Makes me queasy just thinking about it. Even the smell made me want to vomit.

“Tequila shots all around!” Missy shrieked as she slid shot glasses across the table to each of

“To Violet!” Middle C raised her glass and the rest joined in. I reluctantly lifted my own, clanked it against theirs, and when they threw their heads back to take their shots, I threw mine over my shoulder and prayed that it didn’t soak anyone.

This went on for quite a while. Missy kept ordering shots, and everyone kept taking them—everyone except me. Eventually, I had to get the waiter’s attention and let him know that I wanted water in mine and told him to leave out the lime. When he came back with the next tray and Missy saw that some didn’t have any limes—I lied and said those were mine because I didn’t like limes.

I love limes.

“I thought you liked—limes?” Missy was starting to slur her words as she propped an elbow up on the table, her shot glass dangling from her fingers.

“Nope. Nope—can’t do citrus now. Gives me heartburn.” I lied, hoping that she’d believe me.

“But tequila doesn’t?” Apparently Missy wasn’t as drunk as I thought.

So, I gave in.

“I haven’t been drinking the tequila. I think that the Ficus behind me is probably knackered right now.” I was totally embarrassed. Missy and I were exactly the same age, yet here I was, sober as a granny, and Missy was drunk in a skimpy dress and perfectly manicured nails.

“Vi—you should have just said you didn’t want to drink. I wouldn’t have been offended.” Missy seemed to understand.

“I hate tequila and I am just too jet-lagged to drink. I had a really bad nightmare on the plane and apparently slept the whole trip here.” I scooted closer to Missy so the Three C’s didn’t overhear my crazy talk.

“We need to replace you a doctor, Vi. This isn’t normal.” Missy rubbed my back out of sympathy.

“It’s just stress. All of this has been stressful. Losing Mum, losing my scholarship—my home. It didn’t start to get bad until then.” I explained. I wasn’t going to any doctors; I hated them. Mum hated them…and for good reason.

“Why don’t you go home and get some rest. I have a spare key already made.” Missy pulled a yellow key with bumblebees on it from her purse and placed it in my hand.

“Address?” I didn’t even bother to argue. I was exhausted.

“I’ll text it to you again.” Missy whipped out her phone and began furiously typing away; I forgot she had sent it to me earlier…

I shouldered my messenger bag and stood from my seat. “Is it far?”

“You’re leaving?” I had lost track of the C’s at this point and just nodded in their general direction; I didn’t really want any more conversation.

“She’s had a long flight and wants to get some rest.” Missy answered her before turning back to me, “Not even a twenty-minute cab ride.”

I said my quick goodbyes and hurried out the front door of the bar to face people standing in line that had been there since I arrived. Some sneered at me, obviously recognizing me by my unruly ginger hair.

I sheepishly covered my face with my hand and bustled up the street, completely forgetting to hail a cab.

I had only made it up a few blocks before I realized that the people of Bourbon Street had dwindled to flickering street lamps and shady alleyways.

There were no cabs to hail now, so I guessed walking was my only option at this point.

I passed several homeless people begging for change, but my loose money wouldn’t do them any good.

My phone had finally gotten good enough reception to GPS Missy’s address. I was too far in one direction to turn back for a cab now.

“A ferry? I have to get on a damn ferry?” A little boat blinked on the route, right at the edge of the Mississippi River.

New city, new experiences.

I tried to psych myself up for the trip across the river; I was about as fond of boats as I was of planes.

I looked both ways before crossing the road and headed down Canal Street where I knew the ferry terminal lay.

There were just as few people on this route as there had been on the walk down here, but the faces I did see were far from kind.

“Hey, darling. Looking for a good time?” A man appeared out of nowhere with a fistful of tiny plastic baggies. Each one contained a blue dust that was supposed to be this good time that he was offering.

“No thank you.” I nervously declined, trying to sidestep him and continue down the street.

“I didn’t mean the drugs.” He blurted and roughly seized me from behind. I tried to scream as he yanked me under an awning with picnic tables and flung me up against one.

“Please—please don’t hurt me.” I pleaded. My heart was racing as the man drew a knife from inside his jacket and held it at my throat.

“If you keep that pretty little mouth shut, maybe I won’t.” He pushed me back against the table and spread my legs apart with his knee.

Now was not the time for me to play the damsel in distress, but he had a weapon and I had effectively nothing.

I clenched my legs reflexively as he tried to pry them open again; he was starting to get frustrated that I wasn’t complying and pressed the knife harder against my throat. I could feel the skin tear as the sharpened blade effortlessly sliced my throat, but just deep enough for me to cry out.

“Let’s play nice now, princess.” He hissed, leaning in over me. He smelled like booze and bad hygiene; the scent made my eyes water.

“Get—off of me!” I growled, a sudden primal urge to survive rising up in my gut. I raised a knee and caught the man right in the groin. He howled loudly, gripping his manhood with one hand while the other still held the knife. I tried to make a run for it, but his stumbling frame tripped me up and I came down hard on the concrete.

“Ah.” My knees cracked against the pavement as I practically fell on my face. In my hurry to get up and away from the man that surely wasn’t trying to give me a warm welcome to New Orleans, I got the heel of my boot caught in a drainage grate and went back down again.

“You little bitch!” The man growled and jerked me up by my hair. I was finally able to let out a good long scream before he dragged me back into the shadows and slung me over another rusty table.

I blacked out.

I couldn’t struggle anymore. I was already so tired from the flight, from the dreams, from all the stupid stress that I had been under for the past six months. I just decided to tune it out and hope that I somehow survived.

I decided that instead of going to my happy place, a peaceful mental destination to try and detach myself from reality, I would write myself out inside my head.

It was something I had done since a child: escapism. It was part of what got me in to storytelling and writing.

This one might have been my final story.

I imagined that I was stronger than my meter and a half self and I was able to fight his advances. I could feel his hefty body weighing down on mine as he still held the knife to my throat. The clanking of his belt buckle as he unhooked it caused my mind to wander to another story. Maybe I would play the damsel in distress after all and wait for my knight in shining armor to save me. I’d never known chivalry before.

“So sweet. So perfect. Such a pity I can’t keep you.” He purred, sliding the knife from my throat to the flannel shirt I wore. He popped two buttons with the blade before dragging it across the skin of my chest.

I snapped out of my daydream long enough to instinctively struggle underneath him, but he wasn’t having any of that.

He backhanded me across the face, causing me to see stars in the dim light. I groaned as I tried to regain my composure, but the man had already gone back to popping the buttons on my shirt.

I tried to meekly call for help, but I knew it wasn’t going to do me any good.

“Now, this may hurt a little.” His gruff words were right in my ear. I braced for whatever was coming, letting myself fall back into the fantasy story I had fabricated in my head.

I felt his hands slide down the front of my shirt as I let my mind wander to someone—anyone—who could come and save me.

I had just felt his fingers replace the button on my jeans when he let out a loud cry and then a gurgle.

My eyes had been squeezed shut in anticipation, but the sound of the man in pain made them pop open.

The would-be assailant was slumped over the picnic bench; it looked as if his neck had been crushed by a gorilla.

I fought the urge to scream when I saw him. Another him. My knight in shining armor.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay.” He was much taller than my assailant had been, but he was standing in the shadows and the street lamp couldn’t reach his face. Was he going to try and hurt me too?

A gloved hand reached out into the beam of light, offering to help me.

“I’m not going to hurt you, but we need to go.” His deep New Orleans accent was almost soothing.

“Is he—is he…dead?” I stuttered, reaching for this man’s hand even though I didn’t even know him from Adam.

“Considering I crushed his windpipe, I would say so.” He took my hand and led me back out to Canal Street.

I could finally see the face of my knight, and everything else about his towering figure.

He had to be easily over six and a half feet with thick chocolate waves that were pulled away from his shapely bearded jaw. His eyes were too dark in the low light for me to tell what color they were, but they were almost cat-like in shape. His lips were more of a distraction than I would have figured, and I quickly looked away to take in the rest of him.

He wore a heavy hooded cargo jacket over a black tee with baggy camo pants. It was June, in the South—he must have been burning up! And he had on gloves as if he was waiting for a snowstorm—or preparing to knock off a petrol station.

“Aren’t you hot?” I blurted rudely. Not exactly the way I had planned on saying thank you.

“Miss, I’m always hot.” He responded, fanning himself with his jacket. I was becoming a little hot myself.

“Sorry—that was rude of me. Thank you. Thank you for saving me.” I immediately became self-conscious and averted my eyes to my combat boots.

“No problem. What the hell is a girl like you doing out on Canal Street at—” He checked his wristwatch, “Almost midnight?” Now he sounded like he was scolding me for making him have to be chivalrous at Midnight on a Saturday.

“Does it sound like I’m from anywhere around here? I have no idea what this city is like.” Maybe I shouldn’t have been letting some stranger know how much of a foreigner I really was. He could have killed me where I stood and no one would miss me because I was green to this city—to this country.

“Touché. We don’t need to stand around here talking, though. If someone sees us and a dead body, they are going to ask a lot of questions.” He took my hand once again.

“We can’t just leave the scene of a crime.” I protested, trying to take my hand back.

“You really want to wait for the fuzz to arrive and then have to answer a bunch of questions as to why that man’s throat is crushed? Because I won’t stick around for them so they can arrest me. Besides, one less scummy fuck on my streets—he was going to rape you.” The last two words of his sentence made me draw in a sharp breath.

He was. He was going to do it right there, out in the open, without a care in the world. He probably would have slit my throat after and I would have just ended up another casualty of the city.

“You coming?” I had been so engrossed with my thoughts that I hadn’t realized he was still waiting for me.

“Yeah. Let’s go.” I let him take my hand again and lead me back up Canal Street the way I had come. I wasn’t going to ask where he was taking me; I didn’t care at the moment. The magnitude of the situation had just hit me and I began to shake.

He took his jacket off without a word and draped it over my shoulders.

“You’re going to be okay. You’ll realize soon enough that this city isn’t always forgiving. But good people do exist.” He reassured me.

He was right; good people did exist and he was clearly one of them.