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people who actually loved music as much as she did. The crowd was as much
a part of the experience as the actual band. She’d never seen anything like it.
    But here, she was able to completely lose herself in the moment.
It was a music writer’s dream. She’d written down everything—the way the
deep rumble of the stand-up bass had mingled seamlessly with pat-tat of the
drum beat; the rich vibration of the trombone bopping along to the staccato
rhythm of the keys.   The five-man
band had totally commanded the crowd, lifting them up with a swift change of
key then drawing them back down without a moment’s notice.
    Although her pictures weren’t as great as she would’ve liked,
mostly because her company camera was nothing like the ones professional
photographers had, she thought she’d done pretty well. This was the first time
she was able to write a lengthy editorial piece about a live jazz show.
    She’d done more than her fair share of reviews, but the angle of
this story allowed her to be even more creative, and she’d taken more notes
than usual, amped by the opportunity to further define her writing voice.
    She had the music beat at her college paper and even though Raven
never understood how she was so content to cover shows and work alone, Destiny
really loved it. She liked being able to get lost in her thoughts, in the
rhythms on stage. She liked being free to work the room the way she needed to,
without worrying if whoever she brought would be okay by themselves, or
offended if she was gone for too long.  
    She’d hopped around, in and out of different venues, soaking it
all in. Once she was satisfied she’d gotten more than enough for the night
she’d finally allowed herself a drink. Big mistake. The guy at the bar had
suggested that she try a strawberry daiquiri. She thought it was a safe enough
drink, even after he told her it was made the “real” way, on the rocks and not
frozen. She normally stayed away from cutesy girly drinks, but the guy had
insisted that she couldn’t leave the city without having one. So she did.
Actually, they were so good she’d had two. And now, she was drunk.
    “Hey, sweetheart!” She looked up to see a group of three guys on
the side of the street motioning for her to come join them. The one yelling at
her had on a fishnet tank top and jean shorts. She was always attracting
weirdos.
    “Come over ‘ere, mama!”
    Um, no. She smiled politely and kept walking. She was
never rude to any of the guys that tried to talk to her. She hung around enough
guys to appreciate that on some level it took nerve to approach a woman,
knowing she could reject you. She walked a little faster to get away from the
catcalls of the drunk fishnet shirt guy. She was still aware enough to know that
it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to be walking through the streets of New
Orleans at two in the morning, half-drunk by herself.
    She pulled out her phone and texted Brian. He’d said he would
probably hang out, get a drink and people watch but planned on going to his
room early since his flight left at like eight-twenty in the morning.   She hoped she wasn’t waking him up.
    “U up?”
    She put her phone back in her pocket and tried to walk a little
faster without tripping. She passed by an old man who was so drunk he could
barely stand. He reached out and grabbed her hand.
    “…fine ass,” he slurred, not even able to get a coherent sentence
out.
    She snatched her hand back and hurried to pass him. Her phone vibrated
and she answered it quickly after seeing Brian’s name pop up on the screen.
    “Hey,” she breathed, hoping she didn’t sound as buzzed as she
felt.
    “Where are you?” he immediately asked, probably because of the
noise on the street.
    “On St. Charles,” she said, looking around. “I’m like a block from
my hotel. I think.”
    She stopped and looked around again, frowning. She turned and
started heading in the opposite direction, bumping clumsily into a