Muddy Waters

Born Into the Flame

The balcony rail was sticky with humidity, but Lorraine didn’t care. She leaned against it with Rhyan at her side, the two of them sipping their cocktails as the French Quarter pulsed beneath them. Music spilled from every corner—horns, drums, the mournful cry of a saxophone—and the laughter of strangers rose and fell like waves.

Rhyan tossed her dark curls back and laughed at something silly Lorraine had said, her bracelets jingling as she raised her glass. “To nights like this,” she declared, “when we forget about deadlines and editors and mean-girl blondes.”

Lorraine clinked her glass against hers, grinning, warmed by both the alcohol and the company. For the first time in days, she felt light, almost free. She let herself laugh until her cheeks ached, watching the crowds below drift past in a whirl of sequins and beads, couples leaning close in candlelit courtyards, musicians perched on corners pouring their souls into battered horns.

But then—like a ripple through her body—something shifted.

A nagging feeling crept up her spine, settling in the base of her neck. The air seemed to still for a moment, the sounds of the Quarter muffled as if she’d stepped behind a veil. Her vision blurred, the edges of reality softening.

And then she was elsewhere.

A man’s arms wrapped around her waist, strong and certain, pulling her against him. His back was to her, so she couldn’t see his face, but his presence made her pulse quicken. She felt dangerous in his embrace, wickedly alive, as though she were teetering on the edge of something she should never touch—but wanted desperately to.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the hollow of her neck, and her breath hitched. Heat poured through her, molten and consuming. His arm tightened, lifting her as though she weighed nothing, pressing her closer until her body was molded against his.

She reveled in the sensation—the passion, the seduction that rolled from him like waves of fire. She wanted more, wanted to lose herself in the darkness he carried, in the intoxicating sense of surrender.

But beneath it all, a voice screamed inside her mind: Do not give yourself completely. Not to him. Not to this.

Her breath caught in her throat—and then she blinked.

The balcony returned. The music swelled once more from the streets below, the clatter of glasses, the smell of fried oysters wafting through the humid night. Rhyan was watching her with narrowed eyes, her laughter faded into curiosity.

“You okay, Raine?” she asked softly. “You went kind of… still.”

Lorraine swallowed, her mouth dry. She forced a small laugh, though her hands trembled around her glass. “I—yeah. Just… zoned out, I guess.”

Rhyan tilted her face toward the street, her expression thoughtful. “The air feels strange tonight,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Lorraine followed her gaze. Down in the crowd, shadows shifted oddly, not matching the sway of lanterns or the flicker of neon. For the briefest heartbeat, she swore she saw a tall figure pause at the edge of the streetlight, watching the balcony. A figure that radiated something hungry.

Then the crowd swallowed him whole.

A chill danced down her spine despite the warmth. She clutched her glass tighter.

“Yeah,” she whispered, goosebumps rising on her arms. “Strange.”

Rhyan took a long sip from her drink, then set her glass down with a soft clink. “Speaking of strange,” she said, digging her phone out of her purse. “Have you heard from Betsy? I figured she’d be back by now.”

Lorraine shook her head. “Not since earlier…” She trailed off, watching as Rhyan tapped Betsy’s name.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Then the bright, familiar recording of Betsy’s voice filled the line, cheerful and flirty.

The voicemail cut off with a beep.

Rhyan sighed and dropped the phone onto the table. “Figures.”

Lorraine forced a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach her chest. “She’s probably out charming some poor guy. You know Betsy.”

“Yeah,” Rhyan said, though her eyes stayed on the phone, her tone uneasy. “I know.”

The Quarter’s music swelled again, but the laughter from below felt thinner now, the light dimmer. Lorraine lifted her glass, though it was nearly empty, and stared out at the shifting shadows.

Something in the night was waiting.

“Let’s just text her,” Lorraine said, pulling her own phone from her bag. She tapped out a quick message: Where are you? Everything okay?

The reply came faster than expected.

Stop worrying about me like some jealous cow. I’m fine. Better than fine. Maybe you should worry about your own life instead of mine.

Lorraine’s stomach tightened. She turned the screen toward Rhyan, whose mouth fell open.

“Wow,” Rhyan muttered. “That’s… harsh. Even for her.”

Lorraine tried to laugh it off, but the words cut deeper than she wanted to admit. She locked her phone and slipped it back into her purse. “Maybe she’s drunk,” she offered, though it sounded weak even to her own ears.

“Or something else,” Rhyan said under her breath, her eyes flicking again toward the restless crowd below.

Lorraine forced a smile. “We need more drinks. I’ll grab them.”