Infatuate by Aimee Agresti Read Free Book Online Page A

extracted a tube of lip-gloss.
    “So, anyway,” she started, coating her lips and smacking them. “We have a proposition. It’s early, I mean, for New Year’s. Let’s get outta here and hit Bourbon Street for a look around before all the craziness dies down.”
    “Who’s with us?” asked Brody.
    In no time, we were hopping off the streetcar and winding through the French Quarter, following the roar of revelers. Bourbon Street, entirely closed off to traffic, swarmed with stumbling good-timers, many donning party hats and tiaras and dancing in the streets to the music pouring out of every bar and eatery.
    Scantily clad women perched in doorways made catcalls to the men walking by. A voluptuous woman in the shortest jean shorts I’d ever seen, ice-pick-like heels, and a leopard halter-top that barely contained her waved to a pack of guys all decked out in plastic New Year’s top hats and glasses fashioned out of the numbers of the new year. “Yep, I bet she’s sorry she didn’t wear a coat out tonight too. Brrrr!” I joked, folding my arms in the crisp air.
    “I’m sure outerwear isn’t her primary concern.” Max laughed, then, turning to Dante, he pointed to me. “She’s so cute!”
    Dante smacked him playfully on the arm, already pals. “I know, right?” He grabbed Max’s fedora. “This is totally badass, by the way.” Soon, they were in their own world, talking about where to go shopping.
    “Seriously,” Lance piped up. “There are, like, per capita, a lot of, ahem, adult entertainers in this town.”
    I heard a splash and whipped my head in its direction. Brody had gotten entirely sloshed with a beer by some guy in a green feather boa, spray even landing on Sabine beside him. She patted at her damp arm. The offending drunk shouted his apologies as he stumbled by.
    “No sweat, dude,” Brody yelled, turning to us, soaked. “A rite of passage, right?”
    “It’s a baptism,” I shouted back in agreement. “We should all be so lucky.” He shook his head, smiling, a good sport. Sabine looked at me with wide have-you-ever-seen-anything-like-this?! eyes.
    Another posse caught my eye, coming down the center of the street and led by a young woman who looked like she belonged on the runway of a lingerie fashion show. She had an ice-blond pixie haircut, cheekbones carved of stone, and a sinewy frame. She wore the tiniest white strapless minidress, sky-high white heels with straps that crisscrossed again and again almost up to her knees, and a fluffy white feather boa around her neck. In one hand she held up a sparkler in the night air. It crackled and spit its tiny charges like fireflies. Though the crowd was so densely packed it was difficult to move very fast or far, this group had no trouble as their leader strutted along, commanding all of Bourbon Street’s attention. Her merry band of fellow provocateurs, all with sparklers blazing, was made up of statuesque women in short, dark sequined dresses and lean, athletic men in black pants and partially undone button-downs, their sleeves rolled up.
    We couldn’t take our eyes off them and watched silently for a few long minutes, getting jostled from all sides. As raucous as this drunken Bourbon Street crowd was, it still felt comforting to be among them. To be just one little person embedded in this massive group seemed safer than I ever would have expected. I almost dreaded having to go back to our new residence, where I would, at some point, be forced to be alone with my thoughts in those awful minutes of darkness before falling asleep—if I would be lucky enough to fall asleep.
    The parading group threw beads as they passed, but we were too entranced for the necessary hand-eye coordination to kick in to catch them. We just let them drop at our feet as we watched the procession. The pixie twirled her sparkler as though it were a baton, somehow managing not to singe herself or those nearby. She looked as if she was leading a marching band. Finally,