King Me Page 4

“Things have been interesting.” Overwhelmed, I drop my eyes to the sidewalk between us. He slides the toe of his shoe over to tap mine and I look up again.

  “Just interesting? I bet you haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet.”

  “I’m new here,” I say. “Baby steps.”

  He laughs and nods toward the library entrance. “After you, ma’am.”

  Here, I am in my element. The rows and rows of neatly stacked books, the fluorescent lighting, the quiet and cool air that smells of paper and ink, all contributes to the easy feeling I get inside these walls. King leads us through the main floor to a row of cubicles near the back of the building. There are a few people scattered at tables, but the area is mostly empty.

  “Will this do?” he asks.

  “Works for me.” I answer. From the edges of my vision I see King watching me, unashamedly staring. More than that, I feel his gaze on me like a soft touch trailing down my body.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like—”

  “Zooey Deschanel, yes,” I interrupt.

  King shakes his head. “No, who’s that? Never mind. I was going to say Snow White.”

  “What?” I ask, the word slipping out from smiling lips.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Like a classic Disney princess with your porcelain skin, blue eyes, and wavy black hair. It’s like someone dreamed you up and drew you right into the real world.”

  My cheeks heat and I don’t know what to say, so I set down my bag and pull out my laptop. While I wait for it to power up, I stack my notebooks between us and top them with a folded map of New Orleans. King takes a seat, picks up the map and tosses it over his shoulder.

  “You won’t be needing that,” he says. “You’ve got me.”

  “Hey!” I grab the map from the floor and tuck it into my back pocket. “I won’t always be with you, oh wondrous tour guide.”

  He shrugs and leans back in his chair. “Well, let’s see what we’re working with here.”

  Having King’s eyes on my research, my hand-written notes and interviews, feels like being exposed. My thoughts, theories, every idea I’ve gathered laid out between us. The moment feels much more intimate than it should. I flip through everything as King looks on, his face just over my shoulder. Warm breath on my neck keeps me hyper aware of his nearness. I can smell soap or aftershave, it’s an addictive scent that makes me inhale deeper.

  “Wow. Your research is pretty extensive. I’m impressed that you were able to get all this from so far away.” Valentine slides the map from my back pocket and examines it closely. I try not to linger on the way his hand skated across my jeans. His index finger skims across the paper, stopping at a circled area. “What’s this?” he asks.

  “That’s Mamie LaFleur’s house.” I stop and watch for any signs that he recognizes the name, but King gives nothing away. “I’ve heard she’s a healer, an oracle, a mambo. She’s legendary. Surely, you’ve heard of her. I’d love to get an interview.”

  “Of course I’ve heard of her. You just plan on stopping by her house, introducing yourself, and ask a bunch of questions about her life’s practice?” he asks, looking up at me through thick lashes.

  “Yeeeees?”

  King smirks, his eyes lighting up. “Good luck with that.”

  “You’re not the only one who’s charming, you know. Anyway,” I say, folding the map up and tucking it into my bag. King grins and holds up his hands in surrender.

  “You think I’m charming?” he asks.

  I want to roll my eyes, but manage to keep them fixed on King’s handsome face. “Incredibly so. You know you are.” King shows no reaction. “Will you look over my main outline and let me know if you see anything that is obviously wrong?”

  I slide my laptop in front of him with the outline document open. “Sure,” he says. “I never claimed to be the expert on Voodoo, but I’ll do what I can.”

  I take a seat in the chair next to him and gesture to the computer screen. “I get that. Any help you can offer would be amazing.”

  I busy myself by rereading some notes I took on a documentary about New Orleans Voodoo while King looks over my work. Sneaking glances at him, I can’t help but adore his intense expression as he reads. The profile of his face, lit by the light from the screen, is something of beauty and I find myself abandoning my reading just to watch him.

  “This,” he says, pointing to the screen. He seems surprised when he turns to find my eyes on him, but ignores my staring. “This is incorrect. The long-time leaders of the New Orleans Voodoo community do not live in the city. They moved across the river about 20 years ago, to Algiers.”

  I turn the laptop toward me and erase my notes, replacing them with King’s information. “And do you know them?” I ask. King nods, crossing his arms over his wide chest. “And are you going to share that information with me?”

  He frowns and looks out across the library. “I’d rather talk to them first to make sure it’s okay.”

  I sigh, disappointed. “Look, I know I’m an outsider and if things need to be anonymous, then that’s an option too. I’m only here in the name of education and learning about the culture. I’m not here to expose anyone or anything that wants to remain hidden.”

  King turns in his chair, moving so that his legs trap mine on either side. He leans forward, his gaze intense and so serious that the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “You are an outsider,” he says, his voice low and purposeful. “But like I’ve already promised, I will help you any way I can. Understand that I don’t want to jeopardize lifelong relationships to do so. You smell what I’m cookin’?”

  “Of course.”

  His fingers reach up and sweep my bangs from my eyes before tugging on my ponytail. “Good. Now let me finish reading.”

  4

  FOR THREE DAYS I bury myself in my work. I sneak out to grab food every so often, hurrying past the bookstore to avoid another forty minute conversation about the behavioral patterns of Cas’s cat, Couyon. By Friday I am itching to throw myself back into the nightlife of New Orleans.

  When dark finally settles over the city, I tuck away all my work and head out to Bourbon Street. The night offers little reprieve from the heat and humidity of the daylight hours, but I’ve learned how to dress, so I’m comfortable. A gauzy sundress feels like I’m almost wearing nothing at all. And the espadrille wedges give me at least three more inches of height. For the first time in a long time, I feel pretty. Soon I’m perched on my favorite stool at Bandits. My drink arrives less than a minute after I do.

  “Delaney,” Gable greets. “Looking good. I figured you left us for home.”

  I swallow down half my rum and soda and shake my head. “Nope. Just been busy with work.”

  “Oh? You got a job?”

  “No. I’m doing research for my dissertation.” Gable gives me a blank stare, his eyebrows lift toward his hairline. “I’m working on a Ph.D. in Sociology.”

  “That’s like a college degree, right?” He wipes down the already clean bar between us. “Check out the big brain on Delaney.”

  “No big brain here,” I say, finishing my drink and tapping the rim. He grabs the bottle of rum and refills my glass. “Just a girl who needs a distraction and is wildly obsessed with Voodoo culture.”

  Gable’s eyes widen. “Voodoo? Ha. Never woulda guessed, Yankee. Anything I can help with? I’ve been known to pour a love potion or two.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” I say.

  “What? My special drinks make all the ladies loosen up.” He gives me a wide grin.

  “And I thought it was just the Rohypnol.” Gable lets out a loud guffaw and leaves me to serve other customers.

  I wake the next morning, surprised that I found my way home. My clothes create an obvious trail from the door to my bed.

  The smell of sweat and cigarette make me nauseous as I summon all my energy to stay upright in the shower. Spiced rum has quickly become my favorite poison. The woodsy sm
ell and sweet taste remain on my tongue the next day, but the memories of the night are always erased.

  By noon I’ve shaken off my hangover and made it to Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo. I was frustrated when King called saying to meet him here, but didn’t protest. I want to trust in him as a guide, but what could a tourist trap like this tell me that I don’t already know?

  As I approach, I watch a group of tourists gather around an engaging leader. Her skin is flawless, her movements grand and graceful. I listen as she tells a tale of a local voodoo curse gone wrong. The group is completely captivated by her storytelling and I smile as I watch them become consumed by her story.

  “She’s amazing, isn’t she?” King’s voice comes from beside me. Its silky tone immediately stirs something in me—something I want to explore.

  “Yeah, she’s great,” I answer, turning to give him a smile.

  He’s wearing a threadbare band t-shirt and shorts. My eyes linger on the material clinging to the hard planes of his chest.

  “I’ve been on that tour hundreds of times. I know it by heart,” he says, the memory making his voice lighter than usual. King stares at the disassembling group. He bites his lip and grins as the tour guide approaches us.

  “Hello, dear,” she says to King, her tone so classically Southern and warm.

  “Hey, mom. This is Delaney, the girl I was telling you about.” Her green eyes catch mine and I instantly recognize the color, they are the same as her son’s. “Delaney, this is my mother.”

  I extend my hand and she places her delicate fingers in mine. She smiles widely, her eyes bright and excited.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. King.”

  “Please call me Hazel.”

  I nod and stuff both hands into my pockets, overwhelmed by an unexplainable feeling of bashfulness. I kick at a crack in the sidewalk with the toe of my shoe while the two say nothing. When I finally look up, they are staring at each other, seemingly having a silent conversation. I watch until King finally rolls his eyes.

  “Valentine tells me you are doing educational research on Voodoo?” Hazel asks as she begins walking toward the museum. I follow behind, watching her long skirt float around her ankles, King at my side.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m interested in the current population who still practice.”

  “Ah, but you can’t really appreciate the present without understanding the past,” Hazel says.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that somewhere before.” I glance at King and grin, remembering the same words spoken from him.

  “Of course, my wisdom is inherited,” King explains.

  I follow the two into the Voodoo museum and am treated to a special tour of the place. Truthfully, I don’t learn anything new, but still enjoy the enthusiasm Hazel brings to each story. The museum covers all the basic information on Voodoo, any of it readily available with a little research. What I need, current proceedings and active participants, remains just out of reach.

  Although King and his mother are accommodating, I can’t help but feel as though I am being kept at a safe distance. As we walk over the creaking floorboards of the museum, viewing the sets and displays of gris-gris and other paraphernalia, I know that I’ll have to earn their trust before I get anything worthwhile.

  Our tour continues and I try to stay focused on her words, but all too often I become distracted by King. His lips barely move, mouthing the tales that his mother tells so freely. It’s easy to picture him as a boy clinging to his mother’s skirt being entertained by the colorful stories.

  “And so, when she woke the next morning, she found that all her livestock had fallen dead, her crops wilted, and her husband had vanished.” Hazel’s voice breaks me out of my inner musings. “Any questions, Delaney?” She smiles, and I imagine that she is always in character to some degree.

  “Are there any records kept of current leaders and practicing members of the religion?”

  “Not public records,” Hazel answers evasively. Frustrated, I nod and follow mother and son back out onto the sidewalk. “Well, this is where we part ways. My next tour starts in a few minutes and I’d like to freshen up before then.”

  Hazel pulls me in for a hug. It’s tight and comforting, like we’re old friends. The corners of her mouth turn down before she quickly erases it, over-correcting into a wide grin. She releases me and embraces her son, whispering words against his ear. King nods and glances at me as if to confirm whatever she’s said.

  When Hazel is gone, and we are left alone in the searing heat of the afternoon, my curiosity gets the better of me.

  “What did your mom say?”

  “She said that you are filled with darkness, but you were sent here to seek out your light.”

  “What does that even mean?” Though I know that darkness fills me. What I don’t understand is how they can all see it, like a badge I wear or a sign hung around my neck. Am I so damaged inside that it’s visible to anyone?

  King shrugs, though I feel like he knows exactly what it means. Every conversation with him leaves me feeling more confused than the one before.

  “You ready to go?” I ask.

  “Where to now?”

  “I figured we jump right in and head over to Mamie LaFleur’s. She seems to be the cornerstone of the community, right?”

  King nods and takes his place next to me on the sidewalk. I unfold my map, but King closes his hand over it.

  “You know where to go?” I ask. He points his chin to the right and I fall in step beside him. As we walk the streets, he shares his stories, each one tethered to a place along the way.

  “And under that slide right there?” He points to an old metal slide beneath the shade of an oak tree. A group of boys chase each other across the park before jumping onto the swings. “That’s where I had my first kiss.”

  “On a playground? How old were you, player?” I bump his arm with mine.

  “Twelve. I had game.”

  “Huh. I wonder what happened to it?” I tease. He cracks a smile and I miss those eyes hidden beneath his sunglasses. “So, your mom seems nice.”

  “She’s pretty cool as far as moms go,” King says. “Except she has an unhealthy and unexplainable obsession with Keanu Reeves.”

  “What?” I ask. “She does not.”

  King holds up his hands. “I swear. It’s so embarrassing. He is the worst.”

  “So, you’re not a fan?”

  “Not even a little. The best part is, every time she brings him up, my grandmother just snaps off some smartass comment about Mom always falling for brainless white boys.”

  I laugh. “Oh my god. Your grandma sounds awesome. I need to meet her.”

  I am so caught up in King that I barely notice when we leave the Quarter and enter one of the bordering neighborhoods. Decorative wrought iron balconies give way to one story shotgun houses. The homes here are not necessarily worn down, but definitely lived in. Their peeling paint and crooked steps evoke feelings—not of neglect, but of history.

  Front porches are adorned with rocking chairs that act as placeholders for their owners. Family pets sprawl out lazily, their only reaction to us is the rhythmic thump of a happy tail against wooden floors. The yards are small, but neat and the ones with gardens appear to be cared for meticulously.

  Friendly greetings are offered by everyone we pass. I’m not sure if it’s because they know King or simply because it’s bred into their very soul. Either way, it’s comforting to be amongst such kind people.

  “Well, this is it,” I say stopping on the sidewalk and checking the numbers on the front of the house.

  King runs his hand through his hair before propping his glasses on top of his head. He squints at the house. It appears a bit out of place in this neighborhood, with its super clean white paint and blood red shutters. The porch is empty except for a row of potted plants along the edge. I follow him through the iron gate and up the front steps where I notice a faint line of red dust crossing the threshold. I point toward it, grinning
.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I bounce on my toes as King gives me a strange look.

  “Brick dust,” he says. I grin and knock on the metal screen door. In Voodoo culture, brick dust is used to keep those out who mean to do you harm. I’ve never seen it used in practice and may be a little too excited about it.

  “That is so cool.” We hear slow purposeful footsteps inside.

  “So, do you know what you’re going to say?” he asks, bulky arms crossed over his chest.

  “What? No. I mean, I’m just going to be my charming self. It’ll work.”

  King chuckles as the door creaks open. An older woman with white hair pulled tight into a bun at the nape of her neck stands waiting.

  “Hi. Mrs. LaFleur?” She nods silently. “My name is Delaney Mills. I was wondering if—” I stop when the door slams closed. King tries to hide his smile as he looks at his feet.

  “What happened to southern hospitality?” I ask, glaring at the closed door.

  “Perhaps she was immune to your charming self. Do you have another self? Maybe you could try a different one.”

  I frown and stick my tongue out at him, because apparently Valentine King makes me revert to my six-year-old self.

  “Want to see how the professionals do it?” he asks.

  I wave my hand toward the door like a game show host. “By all means.”

  King twists his neck back and forth as if loosening up for a run. His gray t-shirt pulls tight around his biceps and when he lifts his arms above his head, a strip of tan stomach is visible. It’s all smooth and muscled, but my eyes linger on the way his shorts sit so low on his hips. He clears his throat and I know I’m caught.

  I brush my long bangs from my eyes and cross my arms. “Whatever.”

  He bangs on the door and it opens once again. Mamie looks us over, her face stone cold. I hold my breath and wait for one of them to speak.

  “Are you gonna let us in this time?” King asks. My eyes whip from his face to Mamie and back again.

  “That ain’t no way to talk to your grandmother, boy,” Mamie says. “Venir s’il vous plaît. Y’all letting all the cool air out.”