French Quarter Kisses

by Zuri Day

  Pierre frowned. “Me and Marc?”

  “Uh-huh. In the New Orleans kitchen.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I like that writer, though, and the series she did to recognize the anniversary. This week’s article was so moving, inspirational, but hard to read.”

  “Why?”

  “It was about this guy who went missing during the storm. How it took his family a while to find him and how hard it was on them when he died. He was an athlete, headed for the pros. Like the family’s golden boy, and then they found him and the dream was over.”

  “That sounds pretty sad, Liz.”

  “It was, but how the family has honored his memory is what was so inspiring. They have a scholarship in his name and a bunch of other stuff. The mother said that as hard as it was to know he was gone, finding his body gave them closure. It made me think of Mom...”

  Pierre had spent years training himself not to think about her. It had been the only way he made it without losing his mind.

  “Do you think about her, brother?”

  “Not really.”

  “You don’t wonder what happened?”

  “I know what happened. And so do you. You just don’t want to accept it.”

  “I know. The article said that dozens, maybe hundreds of people that went missing were never found. Roz, the writer, is dedicated to helping people get closure. There was no mention of Mom in your article. Why not?”

  “The way I live life is letting the past stay in the past. Mom’s not here. What else does anyone need to know?”

  “It’s just so weird without a body or jewelry or anything to say that she ever was here, let alone is now gone. I’ve been talking to my therapist about it and she suggested that maybe it’s time we officially lay her to rest. Have a memorial or something to mark that she lived and she died, have it officially declared, and then move on. If I put something like that together, will you come?”

  “Sure, Lizzy. If that will help you put the past behind you...”

  The call ended, but not Pierre’s thoughts about Alana LeBlanc, the woman who’d said she would meet them in Houston and then disappeared. That betrayal had shaped his view of women, had prevented him from ever having a genuine relationship. From the time he was fifteen years old, he’d never met a girl he felt he could trust. Hearing that part of Roz’s focus was on the missing from Katrina put her questions and comments about his mom in a whole new light. Was there an ulterior motive to her interest in him? Could she be trusted?

  Pierre didn’t know, and wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

  Chapter 12

  Roz had convinced herself that Pierre not calling was probably best for them both. Strange as it seemed, though, she missed him. Thought about him. Wanted to talk to him and see how he was. So after a week had gone by, Roz put an end to the waiting game or standoff or whatever it was, and gave him a call.

  “Hey, Pierre.”

  “Roz, what’s up?”

  “I called to see what you were doing, if you were in town.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m heading over to Ma’s. Want to join me?”

  “When are you going to be there?”

  “I’m leaving right now.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Roz arrived first and was pleasantly surprised to see several tables taken. With few cars around when she’d pulled up, she assumed the customers lived nearby, and thought how cool it was that people like them, like herself, had kept Ma in business for at least twenty years. She walked over to one of the empty tables, waved at Ma as she passed the kitchen door.

  A few minutes later Ma came out swinging a familiar red pail. “Hey there, lady.”

  “Hey, Ma.” Roz stood up to hug her. “See you almost have a full house tonight.”

  “It’s been like this for a couple weeks now. I don’t know what’s going on.” Ma leaned in, lowered her voice. “They may be in the doghouse, their women mad and refusing to cook.”

  Only now did Roz notice that besides her and Ma there was only one other woman in the room.

  “Whatever it is, I’m glad business is booming.”

  Ma set the pail on the table. “Where’s that tall drink of water you brought with you the other day? The one who fancies himself a chef.”

  Roz smiled. “Pierre, that’s his name. And actually, he’s on his way.”

  “That’s your man, right?”

  “We’re just friends.”

  Ma gave her a look. “Child, I’ve been on the earth too long for a lie like that to get by me.”

  “It’s not a lie. We are not a couple.”

  “Why not? Are you crazy? You don’t get a man like that in your crosshairs and not pull the trigger. You hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You need me to sprinkle a love potion on his food?”

  “Ma, you’re a mess!” Roz pulled out a crawfish and snapped the head. “I think whatever seasoning you’ve been using all this time is fine.”

  By the time Pierre arrived, the pail was almost empty and crawfish shells littered the newspaper-covered table.

  “I see you started without me,” he said in greeting, as he leaned over and gave her a casual hug.

  “The thought when I started was to only eat a couple and the next thing I knew...this happened?”

  “I understand.”

  His eyes caressed her as he settled into the plastic chair, in a way that caused moisture in private places. In that moment, Roz knew how the evening would end.

  “How have you been? Wait, let me answer that. Busy?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Didn’t I read somewhere that Beyoncé came through your place?”

  Pierre nodded.

  “Dude, you are in rarified air. Was she as nice as she appears to be on talk shows and stuff?”

  “Even nicer. I’ve met a lot of celebrities, and it’s funny how those who should be humble are the most egotistical, and someone like her, a triple, quadruple threat, is one of the most gracious people I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s so nice to hear. I’ve always admired her music, her work. Now I like her even more.”

  “Hey, good-looking.” Ma set a pail in front of Pierre. “These are yours and yours alone. Because somebody ate all of the ones I brought out earlier.”

  Roz looked around. “I wonder who?”

  “Thanks, Ma.” Pierre glanced around in turn. “You’ve got a crowd tonight. Are you poaching some of my customers?”

  “No, baby. I’m just serving the kind of food that you can’t get nowhere else.”

  Pierre watched Ma confidently walk away. “I love that woman.”

  “She’s pretty amazing.”

  “Someone feels that way about you.”

  Roz’s heart skipped a beat. “Who?”

  “My sister.”

  “Oh, really?” Roz succeeded in keeping her smile in place, chiding herself for the expectation that the thought came from him.

  “Yes. I didn’t know the story you wrote on me was part of a series on Katrina.”

  “The title was ‘Hurricane Katrina Survivors: Where Are They Now?’ That didn’t give you a clue?”

  “Alright, woman.” He laughed along with her. “Clearly, I didn’t pay close enough attention. My sister did. She read the whole series and was quite impressed.”

  “Thank you to your sister.”

  “I’ll let her know. She said this was an anniversary piece or something?”

  Roz nodded. “I do something every year. Most of the rest of the world has forgotten. I write for those affected in a way that they will never forget.”

  “I thought you were gone when the storm hit.”

  “I was.”

  “Yet you’re so pas
sionate. Other than being from here, why are you so involved?”

  “I lost someone very special. My best friend’s brother.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “He lived in the area that got flooded?”

  Roz shook her head. “He didn’t, but a friend of his did. The irony of it all is that his family didn’t know he was over here. They didn’t know where he was exactly, but assumed that he was with a cousin who lives in Baton Rouge. That’s where he’d been the previous weekend, and as far as the family knew, he still was. So when they decided to leave the city and go to a hotel, they left a voice mail on his phone and that was it.

  “They left on Saturday night and didn’t try to contact him again until Sunday. Couldn’t get him. Called the cousin, who said he’d left with a couple friends, some guys on his high school’s football team. So again the Powells weren’t overly worried. Aaron was a great guy. He was smart, responsible. He wasn’t into drugs or gangs or anything like that. He lived, ate and slept football. And girls. Aaron loved the ladies. And they loved him back. But he had goals and was laser focused. Go to Grambling State. Play for the Saints. That was it. Then Monday came...”

  “And the levees broke.”

  Roz’s head shot up. “You remember, the twenty-ninth.”

  “I remember.”

  “That’s right, because you were in it, too. With the sister who read my series, and your mom.”

  “My sister’s name is Lisette.”

  “I know you had to grow up fast and life was hard, which is probably why you don’t want to talk about it, but...things could have turned out differently. Be glad you made it on that bus.”

  “By Monday night, when we’d still not heard from Aaron, we all panicked and started calling the friends he’d left with. Days went by. It was crazy. Then we connected with one of them—I can’t even remember the crazy way we finally made contact—but he told us that Aaron and Jackson, Aaron’s best friend, had gone to help Jackson’s sister evacuate. She lived in the heart of the area that the world saw underwater. None of us wanted to believe that he didn’t get out. But after days went by, and then a week...we knew.”

  “You ever find him?”

  Roz nodded. “Aaron was my brother, basically. I’ve known Stefanie and the Powells since I was eight years old and, being an only child, I invited myself into their family and refused to leave. They were so distraught that they couldn’t handle the process of searching, but the journalist in me kicked in and I became obsessed with knowing what happened. So, yes, it took a few weeks, but we were able to...say goodbye.”

  Ma brought out a new dish and the conversation turned. But in that prior conversation, something shifted. Roz could feel it. And later, when Pierre invited her to his home, she knew for sure.

  Chapter 13

  Pierre hadn’t intended to invite Roz over. But after sharing her heart the way she did, it felt natural. He couldn’t see sending her home alone. He didn’t want to be alone either. Hearing her talk about Aaron stirred up feelings Pierre hadn’t acknowledged in years. He thought about his sister’s desire for closure. He’d accepted their mother’s death years ago. But if a formal memorial would help Lisette...

  Pierre lived in a freestanding, three-story townhome, one of very few newly constructed buildings near the French Quarter, in the Marigny neighborhood. Its exquisite design included an outdoor living space with a fireplace and kitchen, a plunge pool and a balcony overlooking Cabrini Park. High ceilings, white walls, dark hardwood floors and marble lent a modern masculinity that fitted Pierre’s personality perfectly. The only room he’d redesigned was the kitchen. Naturally.

  His other favorite room was where he headed. The master suite, which took up much of the third floor. He drew a bath, lit vanilla-scented candles and put on his favorite album by Najee. He was back downstairs, checking out his wine collection, when Roz called.

  “I’m here.”

  “Are you around back?”

  “No, how do I get back there?”

  He told her and then walked through the house to meet her.

  She pulled in next to his SUV and got out, looking around.

  “You know what’s crazy? I’ve seen this place. Didn’t pay it that much attention, but I’ve driven by and noticed it because this used to be an empty lot. It looks rather plain on the outside. No one would ever imagine this beautiful courtyard. Thanks for inviting me to your home. That makes me feel special.”

  They hugged.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispered against her hair.

  “Me, too. There was something so special for me about the time in New York. Magical, really.”

  “So you believe in magic, huh?”

  Roz nodded as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her inside. Then he hugged her from behind, his breath hot and wet against her temple. “Let’s try and make it happen again.”

  They shared a glass of wine, a little small talk, but it became clear what was on both their minds.

  * * *

  The first kiss was a whisper, containing hints of promises—excitement, passion, heat. Roz offered it naturally, organically, as a Band-Aid for the pain that seemed to seep from Pierre’s soul when he told of being wrenched away from New Orleans. An ache she felt when sharing Aaron’s fate. But an electrical ardor ignited the kiss, taking it from comfort to something else altogether. He swiped his tongue across her lips, used it to ask, beg, demand that she open up so he could pour lust inside her mouth. Coat her heart, set her body on fire. That’s the only explanation Roz’s muddled mind could grasp as she pressed her body against him, feeling that even the thin layers of clothing that prevented flesh-to-flesh contact was too much distance. Somewhere far off in the distance, warning bells sounded.

  Roz, stop, before you get hurt again.

  But then his lips separated from hers, brushed across her cheek to her neck and shoulder. His hand caressed the other shoulder before moving down to her sleeveless T-shirt, then beneath it, to a nipple. Fondled it, tweaked it, through a sheer mesh bra. Like an angel on the other shoulder, her body spoke then, in a voice that was louder than the one that warned.

  Just enjoy it. Let yourself go.

  She listened to that angel. Turned her body toward him to provide easier access. Ran her hands across broad shoulders and muscled arms that caused an errant thought: Guess Guido’s Gym was a good fit.

  His lips skimmed the top of her shirt before he lifted his head to once again claim her waiting lips. His tongue slipped inside, hers welcomed the duel. He tasted of ginger and mint. Of exhilaration and abandon. The taste remained as he began a journey similar to the one in New York, only it began from the top this time. He alternated between soft and wet kisses, licks and nips over her neck and shoulders, down to her breasts. He cupped her average-sized mounds in his hands, licked the dark nipples until they were hard and erect. Kisses followed the trail forged by his hands. Down her stomach, over her hips, across her buttocks, outlining its crease.

  The intensity of his loving aroused Roz almost beyond control. It was too much pleasure for her alone to enjoy. She shifted her body even as he assailed her, wrapped her hand around the base of his gorgeous shaft and gave to him what he’d given to her. Over and again she circled his tip with her tongue, rubbed its length with her hands, drew his girth into her warmth. Smiled as he swerved his hips, thrust deeper inside her and moaned. It felt good to know that she pleased him. Made her feel sexy and powerful to feel the goose bumps on his buttocks and hear his sighs. But moments later, when he ordered her to her knees and positioned himself behind her, there was no doubt as to who wielded the most powerful weapon, who was in control. Roz gladly surrendered herself to relentless pounding that he would alternately soothe with his tongue.

  Having experienced him in New York, she thought she was ready. But when he shifted and
hit a spot inside her that had never been touched, she reached a climax that left her shaking and sobbing. After, lying on their sides, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tightly, afraid that if she didn’t she would float right out of this world.

  Chapter 14

  Roz’s body tingled, her lower lips still quivering from the orgasmic explosion. What in the world just happened? She felt light-headed, couldn’t tell whether her ears were ringing or Najee was holding a note with his sax. It felt as though her entire body had been shot weightless into another galaxy before floating back down. Bones so relaxed they felt like lead. Heart beating, only because it could do so on its own. Beside her, Pierre’s breathing became slow and even. Finally, long moments later, he turned and pulled her into his arms, pulled a cover over them both and spooned.

  “That was amazing,” he murmured against her temple.

  “Hmm.” Several more minutes passed. “I’m in trouble.”

  “Why, baby?”

  “Because your body is a drug and I am addicted. Someone call 9-1-1.”

  Pierre chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, baby. Whenever you need a shot, I’m here.”

  The music switched from Najee to Earl Klugh. As Roz regained energy she began to rock, softly, slowly, against Pierre’s body. Time passed. Roz felt him shift onto his back.

  “Roz, are you sleep?”

  “No.”

  Pierre remained quiet. Roz turned over to face him, repositioned the pillow to support her neck. She watched him, waited for what he had to say. Placed a hand on his chest and stroked it.

  “Remember when you interviewed me the first time, and asked questions about Katrina?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I didn’t want to talk about it?”

  Roz nodded.

  “The reason is because my sister and I had happen to us the same thing that happened to your friend’s brother, Aaron.”

  “You lost someone?”

  Pierre nodded. “We never found her body.”

  “Who was it?” Roz asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  A long time went by, so much that she wasn’t sure he’d tell her. But finally he did. “My mom.”