King Me

by Season Vining

  King fingers a small silver charm that hangs from a leather cord necklace. He smiles as if lost in a memory as his thumb rubs over it.

  “I appreciate your help,” I say, finishing my melting ice water. “I knew Miranda was from New Orleans, but when she said she knew someone that could help with my research, I thought it was too good to be true.”

  “Ah, Miranda. How is she these days?” King’s eyes glaze over and he stares off into the distance. As I watch his mouth pull up into a grin, I wonder how intimately he and Miranda know each other. I also wonder why I care.

  “Still adjusting to the winters up north,” I say with a laugh. “Snow is like her nemesis, but I think she’ll survive. How do you two know each other?”

  “Miranda was my first girlfriend. I saved her from some bullies one day. I, then informed her that she belonged to me. Poor thing, I bossed her around and made her completely miserable,” King says with a laugh. “It was the longest three weeks of her life. Anyway, the girl I had a crush on decided to give me the time of day, so I let Miranda down easy.”

  His voice, along with his demeanor, is smooth and full of character. Take every movie you’ve ever seen about New Orleans and dial the accent down to a believable level—that was Valentine King. It was the kind of sound that put you at ease and made your heart race simultaneously.

  “Sounds like a rough relationship.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a relationship,” King says. “We were in third grade. We never tried dating again, but she became my best friend. We were inseparable until she left for school.” He sighs and takes another sip of coffee.

  “You miss her.”

  “Every day,” he answers without pause.

  A heavy silence presses down as if a fat man has wedged himself into the empty chair and elbowed his way between us. King doesn’t look bothered, meanwhile my brain frantically searches to fill the void.

  “I have a list of places I’d like to visit and a few people to interview, but I thought you might have access to more. I know you said you’ll be in school, but do you think we can meet once or twice a week?”

  I know that if I don’t stick to a timeline, I’ll get distracted by the city, with its alluring nights and its even more alluring people. If Valentine King has a connection to the world of Voodoo, I am going to take full advantage of him. It. I mean it.

  “I skipped summer classes this semester, so twice a week should be fine. How about Tuesdays and Saturdays?”

  “You don’t have to give up your Saturdays for me, King.”

  “I don’t mind, Delaney, really. Maybe you’ll help keep me out of trouble, no?”

  “Maybe,” I answer. My own troubles always reside inside me, but I’m certain they can never find me here.

  I offer King a beignet. “My weakness,” he says as he holds it by the edges and bites into it.

  However, unaware of the secrets of beignet consumption, I inhale when biting in and choke as powdered sugar flies into my lungs. I cough and sputter until my chest burns and my vision blurs. After much embarrassment, I finally recover and wipe the tears from my eyes.

  “I should have warned you,” he says grinning. “You can’t inhale while eating beignets. I guess you know that now.”

  I watch him take another bite without incident. I copy King’s actions and, this time, enjoy the delicious fried dough and powdered sugar without looking like a total moron. In the sea of hurried tourists and frantic waiters, King stands out in vibrant colors against a blurred canvas. From his muscled arm draped over the empty chair between us to the always present smirk on his lips, he is the picture of cool. I don’t miss how every female—from 8 to 80—looks him over. He’s a magnet pulling everyone in to his center.

  “Well, I’ve got to get going. Family stuff on Sundays, ya know,” he says after finishing his drink.

  “Of course, thanks for meeting with me and agreeing to help out. I hope I can repay you somehow.”

  “I’m sure I’ll think of something,” King answers, giving me a wink.

  We exchange phone numbers and I thank him again for agreeing to be my New Orleans mentor and tour guide. King stands and I follow him through the maze of round tables, leaving footprints in the powdered sugar like snow. On the sidewalk, I stand in his shadow, feeling eclipsed by his tall form.

  I extend my hand. “So, I’ll see you Tuesday?”

  He pushes my hand away and pulls me into a hug, squeezing tight. The hard muscles of his chest press against my cheek. For the first time in months, I feel safe and at ease. His arms squeeze tight and I want to live here. I hold my breath, unsure of what to do with my hovering hands.

  “I don’t know what y’all do up North, but in the South, we hug,” he says as he releases his grip on me. “Handshakes are for church and politicians.”

  I stand in a daze, rerouting the flow of foot traffic as he moves down the sidewalk.

  “King!” He turns and raises his eyebrows in question, almost a head taller than most people around us. His green eyes seem to glow in the mid-morning sun. “When you got to the café, why did you choose me?”

  He moves back toward me with purpose. I know we are in the middle of a crowd. I know that there are a million things happening and maybe there are dozens of eyes on us, but I don’t care. Valentine King is the only thing I see.

  He waves his hand in a circular motion inches from my face, looking into my eyes. Then he leans down, placing his lips near my ear.

  “Your energy is so beautiful, but your soul… est sombre.”

  King places a kiss on my cheek and leaves me standing there. My hand lifts to touch the spot where his kiss had been, wanting to either rub off or rub in the searing heat left by his lips. I have no idea what he said, but the way the words rolled off of his tongue, I feel like he has seen me—the dark, traumatized me—the me I’d hidden away.

  Who the hell is Valentine King?

  3

  IN A VALENTINE STUPOR, I fall in with a group of tourists. Shoulder to shoulder, I let them move me down the sidewalk toward an unknown destination. Music floats out of every business and from every street corner along with conversations in at least three different languages. But it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It is the song of the city, one that you grow accustomed to before you even recognize the tune.

  I arrive at the French Market, abandon my adopted group and wander the aisles. The covered outdoor market reminds me of home and trips to the farmers market on Saturday mornings. Of course it’s much hotter here, but being in the shade helps just a bit. I stop to inspect cheap bags and sunglasses before heading to the fruit and vegetables. Just as I am eyeing a snowball stand, a tiny voice catches my attention.

  “Mommy, I can do it!” her voice sings out.

  “Okay, fine. Here, you give him the money,” the mother says.

  I look over to find a young girl, wearing a white summer dress and two pigtail braids. Immediately, my heart leaps into my throat. I swallow down the panic and take deep breaths to calm my pulse.

  She rises onto her toes handing the vendor bills for a bag of fruit. I exhale slowly and watch as the girl rocks back and forth on her heels, smiling as she waits for her change. Her mother is so busy digging through her oversized purse, she doesn’t even notice when the girl drops the coins.

  I pick up a quarter and a nickel that roll near my feet. Crossing the aisle, I continue collecting the rest of the money that leads back to the frowning girl.

  “Here you go,” I say as I hold out my hand with the pile of coins. A tightness in my chest multiplies as she grins at me.

  “Thank you,” she says, digging her little fingers into my palm.

  “Make sure you hold it tight.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she replies. “Mommy said if I’m good today, I get to keep all the change.”

  “What are you going to buy with your money?” My throat feels like it’s closing and the words choke me.

  “Candy,” she answers. She leans in closer so that she c
an whisper. I flinch, my body recoiling before I can stop it. She doesn’t seem to notice.

  “My favorite is Blow Pops. They have gum inside, ya know?” She giggles and tucks her change into a small pocket on the front of her dress.

  “That’s enough, Katie. Let’s go,” her mother’s voice calls out.

  “Bye, lady.”

  “Bye, Katie.”

  She skips along the aisle toward her mother, her braids dancing back and forth. Memories hit me like a punch to the gut, the air leaves my body and I drop to the ground. Images of other pigtail braids and helpless eyes flash across closed eyelids. With every memory, I feel another stab of pain, another second without breath.

  “Hey! Are you okay?”

  Two hands pull me to my feet where I eventually open my eyes. I find a middle-aged man, shaking me, forcing me back into the present. I blink a few times, mutter “I’m fine” and pull myself away.

  I don’t want to be this. I don’t want those images or thoughts, but I deserve them. Stumbling to the curb, I throw myself down, disgusted. My elbows rest on my knees, fingers laced through my hair in frustration.

  “Lady, are you okay?”

  I can’t bring myself to look at her. I answer in the most controlled voice I can manage. “Yes, Katie. I’m fine.”

  “Katie! Get back over here!” her mother yells from far away.

  “I gotta go,” she says softly, closer to me.

  I nod my head, still cradled in my hands, and listen as the sound of her footsteps become more distant.

  Walking the sidewalks, I keep my eyes down and my arms tucked tight to my sides. Only a few more blocks and I’ll be safe, locked behind the deadbolt of my temporary home. Only in the confines of that space can I let my guard down. As I jog the last block back to my place, I curse Valentine King for putting me so at ease today. He lulled me into a false sense of security with his carefree attitude and all-seeing eyes. I won’t let it happen again.

  After showering, I stretch out on my bed and worship the cool air from the window unit as it fans over my naked body. The sight of my laptop sitting idle across the room makes me exhale a frustrated breath toward the ceiling. I’ve been here almost a week and still haven’t started on research for my dissertation.

  I close my eyes and try to think of nothing. Instead of the much needed zen I want, images of Valentine’s skin, muscled arms, his eyes, and those lips, flash through my mind. I feel a flutter in my stomach as I picture his sharp jaw covered in scruff and the way that leather cord drapes around his neck. I drift off to sleep before I can do anything about it.

  _______________

  Monday, I finally dive into organizing my research materials and drawing up an outline of my dissertation. It feels good to be focused and back on this project. I am surviving on diet soda and instant noodles, only leaving the apartment to venture down to the convenience store for rum. Tipsy and anxious about my meeting with Valentine, I eventually pass out on top of a blanket of research papers and notebooks.

  BANG!

  A loud noise jars me awake. I sit up in bed, clutching my chest where my heart is trying to break through its cage. My eyes search the apartment, but it is empty.

  BANG!

  I jump from bed and tiptoe to my door, pressing my ear against the wood. After a few seconds of silence, I twist the deadbolt free and crack open the door. The landing is clear with daylight creeping its way up the stairs.

  BANG!

  My shoulders jerk and my grip tightens around the doorknob.

  “Well, ain’t that something.” Cas’s voice immediately puts me at ease.

  I notice the other apartment door slightly open and I can hear Cas mumbling to herself. I squeeze out of my apartment and into a large room full of boxes and old furniture. Cas is moving crates around, casually tossing books over her shoulder when they are not what she’s looking for. She wipes her brow with the hem of her skirt and I am thankful that my view of old lady panties is hindered by a stack of boxes.

  “I swear, it’s hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock.”

  I let out a giggle and slap a hand over my mouth as Cas turns to find me there. She gives me a genuine smile and waves me over.

  “Don’t lurk in doorways, Miss Mills. Come on in. I don’t think anything will bite. Though don’t hold me to that.”

  I make my way through a jungle of dusty boxes and mountains of books. Cas keeps her attention on her search.

  “How you doin’ today, boo? Everything in the apartment okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer. “It’s great.”

  She sighs and props her hands on her hips. Her eyes find mine over the rim of reading glasses. “Now don’t go blowin’ sunshine up my ass. That place is far from great.” Cas winks and goes back to digging through the stacks.

  “Well, it’s fine for me. I don’t need much.”

  “Good thing,” she mumbles.

  “Can I help you find something, Cas?”

  “No, no thanks. I got a system. I know it’s along this wall somewhere.”

  There are a few seconds of awkward silence. I shift from foot to foot and decide to make an exit. “Well, okay. I’ll just—“

  “Oh hell!” she shouts, holding a leather bound book over her head and shaking her ass. “I forgot I put it in the safe!”

  I give her a strange look. “What kind of book needs to be kept in a safe?” I ask.

  Cas ignores me at first, moving a few boxes around to reveal a small safe tucked into the corner of the room. She turns the dial back and forth and pulls on the handle.

  “One that is very old,” she says. “All the way from Africa too.” Her familiar smile is gone, hair falls down around her face.

  “Must be an important book. May I?” I ask, holding out a hand toward her.

  She clutches the book tight to her chest. “Nuh-uh. Nothin’ good can come from that,” she says. “In fact, I shouldn’t even have it. But we keep that between me and you, right?” Cas levels me with a look over her bifocals and I nod my head a little too vigorously.

  “Okay,” I reply, slowly. The usually chatty Cas is quiet and the air between us feels uneasy. “Well, I’m going to go now. See you later, Cas.”

  “Yes. Later.” I am dismissed with a flippant wave of her hand.

  Back in my apartment, I hear the muffled sound of my ringing phone. I dash to the kitchen, but don’t find it. Next I search the sheets of my bed. When I come up empty-handed, I finally follow the sound to the bathroom and find my phone tucked into the back pocket of dirty jeans.

  “Hello?” I answer, huffing from the effort.

  “Delaney.” King’s smooth voice sounds amused. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No. I’m good. I like to hide my phone, so it’s a workout whenever someone calls.” He laughs, but I roll my eyes and slap a hand to my forehead.

  “So what’s the plan today? Want me to head over to your place?” he asks.

  My eyes shoot to the apartment door. This is my refuge, my safe haven. I decide I don’t want him here. “Why don’t we meet at the library in an hour? Is there one near here?”

  “Yeah, the main branch is on Loyola near Canal.”

  “Great. I’ll get directions from my landlady. Meet you out front.”

  “See you in a few,” he says, ending the call.

  I gather my notes and laptop and shove them into my messenger bag. Cas is on the sidewalk, organizing clearance books on a rolling cart.

  “Hey, Cas. Which way to Loyola? I’m headed to the library.”

  She seems distracted as she gives long, complicated directions, changing her mind at least twice. “Well, that’s not right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Erase that,” she says, waving her hand in the air as if wiping a chalkboard clean. “Just go up to Canal. Take a right and then a left on Loyola. You’ll see it.”

  “Thanks.”

  The trek through the Quarter feels more familiar as I play it smart and keep a better eye on my s
urroundings. Businesses that line Canal are almost familiar, reminding me of my former big city life. Something aesthetic appeals to me, with the old world architecture and modern renovations. There are trendy boutiques next to tourist shops selling novelties, next to drug stores and 5-star hotels. With the lanes of cars speeding between synchronized lights and the trolleys, it is easy to see how this street serves as a major vein, feeding in and out of the heart of the city.

  Horns honk at pedestrians and sidewalk vendors hock their goods, all of it contributing to the symphony of the Big Easy. All the sounds, the colorful people and places, feel like they couldn’t belong anywhere else.

  People pass me left and right, some irritated with my leisurely pace. All of them seem to have a destination, toting their lunches, chatting on phones and undeniably preoccupied. Even with distractions, more than half of them offer a nod, a smile, or some sort of greeting. It is a foreign concept, but refreshing. That’s just how things work here in the South, land of inbred manners and social graces.

  Leaned against a planter box outside the library, King looks like the cool guy girls fawn over and all men aspire to be. He wears aviator sunglasses, a black t-shirt, and jeans with rips in the knees. That leather cord drapes around his neck in a way that leads my eye to the hint of tattoo peeking over his shirt collar, and I can’t help but want to see more of it. King looks engrossed in a paperback, his long fingers wrap around the pages in a hold that looks familiar. By the time I reach him, I’m smiling.

  “King.”

  He slips a small card between the pages and closes the book before tucking it into his back pocket. His smile matches my own as he lifts the mirrored sunglasses to rest on top of his head.

  “Well, hello there, Delaney Mills. How’s New Orleans treating you so far?” King has this way of holding my gaze that has me addicted to the attention. His eyes never stray from mine and the tension feels tangible.