Rescued By A Kiss (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 1) by Colleen Mooney Page A

Lucy for the eyes, Saint Ann for a man, Saint Rapunzel for hair . . .”
    “There is no Saint Rapunzel. That’s a fairy tale. You are going to get us both struck by lightning. I’m going to get hit by being in close proximity to you. Now stop.”
    As I inched through the French Quarter, I tried not to hit drunken tourists. Men walked around looking up at women on the balconies lifting their shirts, or at women in the street pulling up their shirts all for a pair of beads. No one looked at traffic or oncoming cars.
    The barkers all along Bourbon Street stood in doorways and tried to coerce tourists walking by to come in and enjoy the entertainment—for a price, of course. The price usually involved a two drink minimum. Two drinks in a Bourbon Street club costs you about the same as ten in a regular bar. Barkers opened the club doors long enough for anyone thinking about entering to get a glimpse of almost naked girls dancing on the bar. Then, you had to pony up the two drink minimum to go in and get a better look.
    Club Bare Minimum didn’t have a barker. Their doorman worked as the bouncer, and stood just inside the door out of sight. One of the very young and attractive girls stood in the doorway in her top hat, long gloves, tuxedo bow tie, G-string, and Pasties with a come hither look inviting men in. I couldn’t figure out what men thought they could see by going inside the club when they already saw it all out here on the sidewalk.
    Using the pretty girls over big hulky bouncers at the door was novel. The girls performed exotic dancing. Technically, they did not strip, meaning they didn’t take it all off. They left on so little I didn’t think it merited debate.
    When I pulled up to the front door Julia jumped out and said, “Leave the keys. C’mon inside.” A man, I did not see when I pulled up, stepped out, and Julia said to him, “Jim, park this in the VIP lot.”
    Jim, must have been standing inside the door behind the girl working the street. He looked to be about 6’3” tall and 200 pounds of solid muscle wearing the tightest shirt and jeans I have ever seen on anyone. Before I could argue with Julia, Jim opened my door and helped me out by the elbow while I held Isabella. He didn’t look like the kind of guy you could reason with or have any sort of discussion with for that matter. His appearance and demeanor made me think Jim’s actions were louder than his words.
    I stood there on Bourbon Street in front of an exotic dancing club and watched my mother’s station wagon be driven away by some guy named Jim to God knows where. Oh right, the VIP lot. I doubt I could find it, and it didn’t matter since I didn’t get a claim check.
    “Julia, I’m only going to be here for a minute. Won’t Jim wonder why he’s parking my car and I have a dog?”
    “Jim doesn’t wonder. C’mon,” she said halfway through the door. I hurried after her, or else I’d have to wait on the street alone—being gawked at by the drunken tourists. I managed to catch up to her when she said, “Follow me to my dressing room.” Once in the dressing room she began to transform into the entertainer. She instructed me to call her by her stage name, Jewel, while we were in the club. The dressing room was the size of a broom closet. To pass someone you literally had to face each other, stepping sideways like crabs in order to squeeze by. Metal lockers the size of cereal boxes lined the wall. They were stacked seven high and five across. Julia found an empty locker and started to undress. She handed me her clothes and said, “Here, put these in one of those.” There was no way all the clothes she wore into the club were going to fit in one of these lockers. She needed one just for her purse which was the size of a Mardi Gras float.
    “This isn’t going to work. All this stuff won’t fit.” I said.
    “Look, there are several lockers empty. Put my stuff in the empty ones and look around in my purse. I have a couple