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New Orleans was one of Bass's favorite towns to hit when on leave for a long weekend. Miles liked driving, which helped, since Bass really wasn't as keen on it, and they'd managed to find a hotel with a good military discount, close enough to the action to not need the car while they were in town.
'Til tonight.
Really, most of what Bass knew about New Orleans was Bourbon Street, and Miles pointed out that Bass could do quite well for himself there, didn't need to try and impress the girl from last night--who really couldn't be much more than eighteen and, honestly, didn't Bass think that was going a little young? Usually they were at least legal to drink.
Bass waved off Miles's comments, only half listening as he shaved and got dressed in the one suit jacket he owned, and blessed his good luck in thinking to pack it. It'd have to go with jeans and a black t-shirt, but at least he looked more presentable than a frat boy on Bourbon Street. Somehow Rebekah Mikaelson struck him as a girl he ought to dress nice for, treat right. However young she looked, her attitude struck him as older, and her clothes were top tier. British but not a tourist.
He was intrigued.
"Don't get rolled, don't get arrested, don't wait up." He patted Miles on the cheek, then held out his hand. "Keys, please."
Negotiating his way through the streets toward the address Rebekah had given him, Bass ran down the checklist. He'd gotten them reservations at Pascal's Manale Restaurant--local landmark, in business for almost a century, good food, but not fancy and pretentious feeling. Casual chic, and near the theater playing the show, which he'd heard was fantastic. Some audience participation livened it up, but nothing so cheesy as a whole murder mystery dinner. Just two chances where the audience voted what the detective did next, which determined how the mystery unraveled.
Pulling up at the house outside of town, his eyes swept over it with the faintest flicker of nerves. So very above anything he was ever going to even be able to dream of owning, if he even survived his next tour. But beautiful. Bass smiled to himself, slipping out of Miles's black muscle car and moved up the steps to ring the doorbell.
'Til tonight.
Really, most of what Bass knew about New Orleans was Bourbon Street, and Miles pointed out that Bass could do quite well for himself there, didn't need to try and impress the girl from last night--who really couldn't be much more than eighteen and, honestly, didn't Bass think that was going a little young? Usually they were at least legal to drink.
Bass waved off Miles's comments, only half listening as he shaved and got dressed in the one suit jacket he owned, and blessed his good luck in thinking to pack it. It'd have to go with jeans and a black t-shirt, but at least he looked more presentable than a frat boy on Bourbon Street. Somehow Rebekah Mikaelson struck him as a girl he ought to dress nice for, treat right. However young she looked, her attitude struck him as older, and her clothes were top tier. British but not a tourist.
He was intrigued.
"Don't get rolled, don't get arrested, don't wait up." He patted Miles on the cheek, then held out his hand. "Keys, please."
Negotiating his way through the streets toward the address Rebekah had given him, Bass ran down the checklist. He'd gotten them reservations at Pascal's Manale Restaurant--local landmark, in business for almost a century, good food, but not fancy and pretentious feeling. Casual chic, and near the theater playing the show, which he'd heard was fantastic. Some audience participation livened it up, but nothing so cheesy as a whole murder mystery dinner. Just two chances where the audience voted what the detective did next, which determined how the mystery unraveled.
Pulling up at the house outside of town, his eyes swept over it with the faintest flicker of nerves. So very above anything he was ever going to even be able to dream of owning, if he even survived his next tour. But beautiful. Bass smiled to himself, slipping out of Miles's black muscle car and moved up the steps to ring the doorbell.
