King Me

by Season Vining

  Valentine laughs and gives Mamie a peck on the cheek before stepping inside. I follow silently and mouth the word “grandmother?” at him. He winks and motions for me to walk ahead.

  Each room’s walls are adorned with family portraits and candid photos, shelves hold new and old books in no particular order and every piece of furniture looks at least fifty years old, but in great shape. The warmth and easiness of the home engulfs me and I suddenly miss my family.

  After passing through two rooms, we enter the kitchen where Mamie takes a seat and starts picking through vegetables at her table. Her large eyes are familiar and when she smiles, the family resemblance is staggering.

  “Mon chér,” she says to King. “Why you messin’ with this girl?”

  “Mamie, this is Delaney Mills. She’s the one researching Voodoo.”

  “Ahh, oui. She’s très jolie, no?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She is.” King answers with a look that feels like it will blow me over. I take a seat at the table just in case.

  “I’m what?” I ask.

  “Miss Mills, it is a pleasure to meet you,” she says clearly, and I am confounded at her sudden ability to speak clear English without an accent.

  I shake her hand. Mamie’s skin is soft and cool, her fingers wrap around mine in the most delicate way. Her eyes flutter quickly and she places her other hand over our joined grip. Intense eyes squeeze closed as her face scrunches up into a map of expressive wrinkles. Fingers hold mine too tightly as she shakes her head and whispers a warning into the stillness of the room.

  “Child, you’re in danger.”

  5

  “GRAVE DANGER, CHÉR,” MAMIE whispers. She pulls her hands back as if I’ve burned her. One hand flies to her chest and the other wavers in the space between us.

  “Mamie? What did you see?” King asks.

  “Je la vois enterrée sous l’eau boueuse.”

  I watch in fascination as the color drains from King’s face and he drops into one of the kitchen chairs. Mamie leans back in her chair, wiping the sweat from her brow and mumbling unrecognizable words in what sounds like a prayer.

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  “She saw your death,” King answers.

  I blow out a breath. “Oh, is that all?” I shrug while King looks on confused. Though I try to remain unaffected by her warning, a little flame of fear ignites inside me. “Well, we all die someday. But I’m not going anywhere any time soon. I mean, I’m young, fairly healthy. Sure, I like rum, but I do yoga too. They cancel out.”

  I wait for King to argue, to tell me that his grandmother’s visions are never wrong, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shakes his head and squeezes Mamie’s hand. She resumes snapping green beans into a bowl while continuing to recite her prayer. Left in an awkward silence, I decide that I’m not going to get any information out of Mamie today.

  “Well, I guess I should be going. Maybe we should do this some other time?” I ask. “Preferably before I meet my untimely death.”

  King nods and stands to walk me out as Mamie gives a slight wave. As we pass through each room, our steps echo through the house, the light from the front door calling me to exit. I hurry out the door and across the porch, but when I reach the bottom step, King calls my name. I spin to find him perched a step above me. His eyes are apologetic, but guarded.

  “You’ll be okay walking back on your own?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I assure him.

  In true King fashion, he throws one arm around my neck and pulls me in for a hug. The feel of his body against mine destroys my desire to leave. I inhale that soapy clean scent that my brain already recognizes in him. King releases me with a pat on the shoulder. I trudge down the path and out of the gate.

  “I’ll call you,” he says, offering a wave.

  I return the wave and begin the trek back to my apartment. Each block seems to pass in a blur as I overanalyze King and his grandmother’s vision. Though I am not a believer in such things, I wonder if their faith alone is enough to set in motion a doomed destiny.

  I arrive back at my apartment after eleven blocks and decide to stay focused on my work for the rest of the afternoon. After a few hours of organizing my research, I decide to take a shower and relax before heading out for the night. I kick back on my bed and close my eyes, my mind drifts to King and his family. Instantly, visions of my mother and father flood my thoughts and I shoot up off the bed, willing them to disappear.

  Just before midnight, I find myself perched on my barstool at Bandit’s. I’m comfortable here, seeing a few familiar faces.

  By closing time, I am two drinks past drunk and need help off of my stool. I find comfort in the arms of the gorgeous bartender, Gable, who holds me up and laughs at all my incoherent, intoxicated ramblings. Weakened by alcohol, I give in to him and give him directions to my place.

  We stumble into the apartment where I frantically search for somewhere to lay my head. Spotting the bed, I collapse down on my back with my feet still firmly planted on the floor.

  “Oh no you don’t,” he warns. “Don’t you fall asleep on me. I haven’t even started on you yet.”

  I look up to see brown eyes hovering over me, his face a blurry mess with a Cheshire smile. He rubs his body against mine and every part of me comes to attention. While I can admit that he’s not the one I want touching me, it’s a welcome distraction from the thoughts and ghosts that haunt me.

  “Ahh, there you are,” he whispers before crashing his lips to mine.

  His kiss is sloppy and hard. He knows what he wants and the dark, self-loathing side of me is willing to give it up.

  _______________

  I wake with a dull, stabbing pain behind my closed eyes and fight hard to pry them open. The sun pours through gauzy curtains and for a few seconds, I have no clue where I am. Turning over in the small bed, I find Gable sleeping soundly.

  He is naked and the sheet is tangled around his legs. I take in his thick arms and images of those arms holding me flash through my mind. It’s bits and pieces of a distorted movie of memories. I try to force myself to remember the night, but nothing comes. The fact that I have no clothes on gives me enough of a clue.

  I nudge his leg with my foot. “Hey.” He doesn’t move. I nudge harder. “Hey,” I say louder. Gable groans and rolls over, his eyes open slowly.

  “Uh, I need to get up and get going,” I lie. “I need a shower, but I’m not super comfortable leaving someone I barely know in my apartment while I’m naked and vulnerable, horror movie style.”

  He blinks his eyes a few times, staring blankly like he doesn’t speak the language. “Aren’t you naked and vulnerable right now?” he mumbles.

  In an effort to not be rude, but still get my point across, I widen my eyes and nod my head toward the door.

  “Oh!” he finally says. “You want me to go.” Gable runs a hand over his smooth head and laughs. He slides out of bed, pulling on his jeans and shirt.

  I avert my eyes from his body and run my hands through my hair. “Did we at least use protection last night?”

  He laughs and moves to my side of the bed, places a kiss on my head and heads to the door.

  “We didn’t have sex, Delaney. You passed out on me and I’m not that kind of asshole. Maybe next time. Catch you later,” he says, dragging the door closed behind him.

  _______________

  All day Sunday is spent recovering. I try to work on my dissertation, but my thoughts are frequently interrupted by Mamie’s warning. What if there is truth to her vision? Am I in danger?

  I roll my eyes. I don’t trust that Mamie can see the future anymore than I trust Santa Claus visits every child in one night. But still, the fear in King’s eyes was real.

  I have no logical explanation for the way I am drawn to Valentine King. I can’t explain it away with physical attraction alone, though that’s certainly a factor. It’s not just his muscled arms, his flawless skin, or the way this lazy grin feels like a sexual inv
itation. There’s also the coolness of his walk, the way his presence demands attention without trying. And those eyes—green eyes that see through all my secrets. I feel the pull to him deep in my bones. It was instant and all consuming. And I don’t think I’m imagining that he is drawn to me too. Admittedly, it leaves me with a pang of guilt for taking Gable to my bed.

  Monday, King calls to give me an address for our Tuesday meeting. His voice alone sends a wave of regret through my chest for my one-night stand. While I certainly don’t owe King an explanation, I can’t escape the guilt. The guy from the bar is his opposite in every way and maybe that’s why I was so willing to give in to him. Maybe I wanted to scrub the hunger for King away—something I know now, is a futile effort.

  Too early on Tuesday, I find myself facing that fact.

  “King? What are you doing here? I’m supposed to meet you in an hour,” I say, peeking through the small crack in my door.

  “I know. Sorry to stop by unannounced, but I wanted to talk to you.”

  I open the door wider and let him inside the sanctuary of my apartment. Suddenly, the space that used to feel wholly mine now feels like ours. King looks around a bit before taking a seat on one end of the sofa.

  “Do you want something to drink? All I have is rum or tap water,” I offer. “Priorities, am I right?”

  “I’m good.” He pats the spot next to him.

  I run my fingers through my messy hair and nod, hoping I don’t look as nervous as I feel. Something about being alone with him here is making me a wreck. I take a seat on the other end of the sofa and turn to face him.

  “I wanted to make sure you were cool after our thing with Mamie on Saturday. She doesn’t really have a filter between her brain and mouth and tends to be too blunt for some people’s tastes—especially when delivering messages of certain death.”

  “Oh, that? I’m fine, really,” I answer, waving my hand in dismissal.

  “So, she didn’t freak you out?”

  “Nah. When I say I’m not a believer, that goes for the bad stuff, too,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. He nods once and runs the metal charm back and forth on the leather cord around his neck.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, it just caught me off guard. I mean, I’ve never seen her have that kind of reaction to anyone. I’m worried about you. She rarely has visions, but I’ve never seen her be wrong.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” I give him a smile that I hope looks convincing. “I’m tougher than I look.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I don’t want Miranda mad at me because I got her friend killed or something.”

  “Yes, well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I’d hate for Miranda to be upset,” I say.

  “I’d be upset, too.” Intense eyes fix on mine and I don’t know what to say. King lays his hand, palm up, on the sofa between us. At first, I’m not sure what he wants, but when his fingers curl and open again, I place my hand in his.

  “Well, of course you would. I’m pretty amazing,” I finally mutter. “You ready to head out?”

  He stands and pulls me up, wrapping me in another King hug. I breathe him in and just absorb all his cool and calm for a minute. When King releases me, I grab all my necessities, tucking them all in their appropriate pockets and follow King down the stairs. Cas is busy wielding a worn down broom across the front of her shop when she sees us come down.

  “Hiya, boo. Who’s your friend?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

  I chuckle and introduce King while silently vowing to teach Cas the act of subtlety. I watch in wonder as their conversation easily volleys back and forth. King once again proves to be smart and interesting—no one is immune to his charm. After a few minutes, I excuse us, pulling King away.

  “Where to?” I ask.

  “Take a left here. I’m taking you to meet the Quarter’s official mambo sur point—like a junior priestess. Her name is Marie LeBlanc.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Yeah. We grew up together. Her family has a long history in New Orleans, just like mine. All the locals go to her for help, so I figure she may be able to give you a better idea of the current stuff.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I say. “She sounds like exactly what I need.”

  After a short walk, King leads me into an old convenience store. It appears to be a normal variety shop, shelves lined with simple groceries. It’s not a particularly clean place, the tiles stained, the shelves coated in dust. It smells of cardboard and mildew. He greets the elderly man behind the counter and pushes through a backdoor into a long, dark hall. I follow him without hesitation. Fear has no place in a non-believer, right?

  We reach an odd wooden door at the end of the hall. It looks too tattered and old world for the building. I take notice of a crucifix and two chicken feet nailed above. Along the threshold is a line of red brick dust.

  Valentine pushes on the door and it creaks open, slowly revealing a room with rows and rows of shelves. I follow him through the room, trying to examine all the candles, small potted plants and other items as we pass.

  “You’ve got to help me! I know that bastard is cheating. I just need proof,” a desperate voice shouts.

  We round the corner and there sits a young girl in jeans and a t-shirt behind the counter. Her hair is tied up in a colorful scarf and large hoop earrings swing as she talks. Across from her is a middle-aged woman, tears painting her face.

  “Fine, fine. Take this and tie a piece of his hair around it. Place it under his pillow on a night when he actually sleeps at home. In the morning, if the root is gold in color, he has strayed from you. If not, leave him be.”

  “Thank you, Marie. Thank you,” the woman says, clutching the root to her chest and scurrying out the door.

  “King! You sexy beast. What a surprise! Where you been hiding?” the girl behind the counter greets. She rounds the counter and embraces King.

  “I’ve been around. Keeping busy with school, ya know?”

  “Nah, I’m afraid I don’t know. This is my school,” she says laughing and gesturing to the store. “And who is this? Valentine King, have you been adding some cream to your coffee?”

  “This is a friend of mine, Delaney Mills.” I smile and shake the girl’s hand, almost cringing at the obvious emphasis on the word friend. It hurts me more than I want to admit. “Delaney, this is Marie LeBlanc.”

  “Nice to meet you, Marie.” The girl eyes me up and down, not even trying to hide her assessment. I suddenly feel inadequate in my tank top and jean shorts.

  “The pleasure is mine, I’m sure,” she says.

  “Delaney is doing research on the current Voodoo practicing population and I figured you would know more than anyone,” King explains.

  “Ah, well, I will do what I can, but you know the practice is pretty tight-lipped when it comes to outsiders.”

  “But I’m not an outsider,” King says, punctuating this with his crooked, sly smile. Already, I can see her falling under his spell. “Besides, they’ve loosened up on that a bit in the last few years.”

  “Yeah, all we gotta do is slap holistic healer next to our name and we’re all mainstream now.” Marie’s eyes rake over me and she grins, though it doesn’t feel genuine. “So, why don’t you take her to Mamie?”

  “I did,” he answers.

  “And?”

  “And she sort of saw some impending doom in Delaney’s future,” King answers with a huff.

  Marie laughs. “Oh, well, I like you already then!” she shouts clapping her hand against my back. I stand there, not knowing if I should join in on the joke or run away.

  “You know how she can be,” King says, chuckling along with Marie.

  “I certainly do. Come on, then. Y’all come on back.”

  I have endured plenty of awkward situations in my 32 years, but I’ve never felt as out of place as I do now. I follow the two behind the counter and into a small apartment. The room is filled with anti
que furniture covered in unique fabrics. There are portraits hung on the walls, all of women who appear to be Creole. The bookshelves lining the far wall are fully stacked with books and handwritten journals. I skim my fingers along the spines, inhaling their old ink and aging paper scents—my favorite.

  “Something to drink?” Marie asks.

  “Water, please,” I answer.

  “Me too,” Valentine chimes in.

  “Have a seat.” Marie directs us to a small wooden table tucked into the corner.

  I sit in one of the mismatched chairs and pull out my laptop. I ready my recorder and grab a legal tablet and ink pen from my bag.

  When everything is in place and ready to go, I glance up to find King watching me. His lips are pulled into a lopsided grin, that one dimple on display, as he studies the items on the table. He grabs my pen, which has rolled off of my tablet, and places it perfectly parallel to the top of the paper.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing at all,” he answers winking. A jolt shoots through my body at his flirting and I instantly crave more. Marie joins us, placing a glass of ice water in front of each of us.

  “Okay, so where do we start?” she asks.

  I take a deep breath, clearing my head and focus on my poised fingers over the home row of keys. “How many priestesses are there in New Orleans?” I ask.

  “Oh, there is really no way to tell. Many who consider themselves priestesses do not practice to the general public and are only known in the very inner circles of their own communities. I am one of about six who openly practice and offer services within the city limits. Most are not as tolerant to outsiders as I am,” she says, tracing the rim of her half-empty coffee cup.

  “I appreciate your tolerance,” I say with a genuinely grateful smile.

  “Well, some of you are easier to tolerate than others,” she says, her harsh voice softening a bit. I blink and look from King’s amused face and back to Marie’s. I’m not sure what she meant by that, but it almost sounded like flirting.

  Redirecting our conversation back to my work, I continue my line of questions. Even though most of her answers are more opinion than fact, Marie proves to be a huge source of information. I record the entire session vowing to listen again later, taking more detailed notes.