by Lena Black
His eyes flicker from mine to our hands.
“It is hotter than normal,” he concurs, mindlessly staring at my lap. He lightly shakes his head, seemingly zoning back into the conversation. “The humidity doesn’t help.”
“It got the best of me.” I bob my shoulders lethargically, attempting to downplay the severity of the situation. I want to end this line of questioning before I get the urge to tell him the truth.
“But you aren’t flushed,” he notes. “What’s going on, Rae?”
Shit.
“It was a bout of nausea, nothing more, nothing less. I needed a little break.”
“I’ve called one of the girls to take over the rest of your shift.”
“I’m fine now, really. You shouldn’t have called anyone. Give me a couple more minutes, and I’ll be right as rain.”
“No,” he insists and then stands, “you should rest. I’d rather you’re safe than sorry. If this is a bug, it could cause a whole lot of shit for the restaurant. Health code violations and all that crap. Start fresh tomorrow.”
“Greier, you’re being overly cautious. It’s not a bug. I can work.”
“I’m being the boss and a friend. You’re taking the day off. Do whatever you like with it.”
I want to work. I love having the cash to do what I like. I love the independence it buys me. I love interacting with the customers and the girls I work with. Most of all, I loving being around Greier all day.
However, I wouldn’t want to run into my mother accidentally either. Or get everyone sick with my fake illness. So instead of arguing—“If you insist,” I agree, releasing his hand and lying back on the couch. He rises and makes for the stairs. “But for the record, I wanted to finish.”
“Noted,” he says as he descends them.
I use the rest of the afternoon to clean the apartment, wash some laundry, and read in the courtyard. But I’m unable to shake the uneasiness of seeing Blanche and my mother this afternoon. If I hadn’t been paying attention, I could’ve walked right up on them. I’m pretty sure they didn’t see me. If they had, I wouldn’t be here, in Greier’s apartment, tucked away in the Quarter. I’d be back at that house of deceit in the Garden District. I have to be more careful, keep a vigilant eye on my surroundings when I’m not in the apartment. I’m safe here. I’m safe with him.
He comes to check on me more often than necessary. But I won’t lie. It makes me feel secure, cared for. Something I never really had. As a child, before I was shipped off to boarding school, my mother never took care of me when I became ill. She’d have my nanny do it. She paid someone to nurture me, to love me. I hadn’t realized it wasn’t normal growing up. Since she was raised the same way, I’m guessing it hasn’t dawned on her either.
I wake to a playful smack on my butt. I lift my head, my hair in disarray, and wipe the drool from the side of my face.
“Attractive,” Greier teases me, leaning over the bed.
“You should talk,” I quip and then let my not-so-attractive head plummet back onto my pillow. He chuckles.
“Even half-asleep, you can bite my head off with a single blow.”
“It’s my day off,” I grumble, jamming a pillow against my head. “What the hell did you wake me for?”
His muffled laughter penetrates its feathered protection before he tears it away and brings it down again on my head.
“It’s my day off, too. I want you to go somewhere with me.”
It’s Sunday. Izzie told me he rarely takes time off. But when he does, it’s usually a Sunday. He works so hard every day of the week. At the bar from morning until closing.
“Get your lazy bones up.”
I glance outside the window. It’s early and gray and foggy. It’s nice that he takes time for himself. He deserves it. Truly. If anyone does, it’s him. I just wish he’d leave me out of it when it involves waking at dawn.
“What is it with you and Izzie waking a bitch when she’s trying to sleep in?”
“It’s a gift,” he says on his way out of the room.
I fight back a smirk, my head oscillating in assumed disapproval before flopping back onto the bed. I moan when my body sinks into the pillow top mattress.
“Up!” he calls from the other room.
What is he? Psycho?
I manage to crawl out of bed and into some clothes. I ask where he’s taking me, but he keeps his mouth shut tighter than a vault. We snag coffee and an order of beignets en route to our mystery location. It’s perfect for a cool, foggy morning. We park along a white marble wall and finish our breakfast of fried, sugar-covered dough and hot black coffee in the warmth of his Challenger.
When I look to see where he’s taken me, the dual plaques on both sides of the entrance give me pause.
SAINT LOUIS CEMETERY NUMBER ONE
“A graveyard?”
“City of the dead, and yeah.” He steps out of the car and walks around the front-end to open my door. Hesitantly, I slide out and stare at the metal sign, the low hanging fog loitering around us.
“Come on.” He engulfs my hand in his and guides me inside.
If he considers this a date, it might be the weirdest in history. I follow him through the rows of marble mausoleums. Not that I have much choice with his hand firmly gripping mine. As we move deeper inside, I realize how eerily beautiful this place actually is in the dense fog.
“Why is everyone buried above ground?” I ask.
“Because this city sits atop water,” he answers, “and when it rained, the coffins rose from the grave. It wasn’t pretty.”
“No, I’d imagine not.”
I shudder slightly.
“Are you alright?” He squeezes my hand tighter. “You’re not creeped out, are you?”
“I’m fine. It’s actually kinda peaceful here.”
He smiles at me as we round a corner and stop in front of a mausoleum. It doesn’t appear to be different than any other grave in this place. Except for one very simple, very important detail.
This one belongs to his mother.
Margarete Catherine Bordeaux
January 21st 1960 – February 4th 1994
Today is February 4th, 2018.
Greier releases his grip on my hand and kneels at her grave, placing something from his jacket on the ground at the base. He mutters a few gentle words and then stands, taking his place beside me. I realize the object he set down is a little bag of beignets. He must’ve ordered them when we made the stop earlier.
“They were her favorite,” he murmurs with a lazy shrug, as if he isn’t sure what I’ll think of him bringing food to his deceased mother.
“I think it’s very loving, Grey.”
I set my hand on his upper arm, and he smiles stiffly.
“I miss her every single day. It’s been hard not having her in my life during those moments. Moments that change you. Sometimes I think it actually gets worse with time.”
“That makes sense.” I nod my head in agreement. “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen her. Maybe we never stop missing a person, we simply get used to it.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He slips my hand into his again and clenches it. He stares down at them linked together and then at my face.
“Is this too much?” he asks, his hand tightening around mine.
That’s a loaded question, and it’s pointed right between my eyes.
They dance from our hands to his mother’s grave and then back to his face. Even though I sense us becoming something more, something deeper than the surface, something that could destroy us, I reply, “No,” and squeeze my grasp a little tighter in return.
Facing the vault, we stand quietly for a short time. I think about what this means. What does it mean that he brought me, in a sense, to meet his mother? To me, this seems like something you do when you care about someone. Or they hold a special place in your life. If this really is a “date”, it’s the strangest, most endearing one I’ve ever been on. This is more than I wanted. And yet I can
’t unlatch my hand from his. I like the way it feels. I like the way it makes me feel.
“How did she pass?”
“Cancer. She was thirty-four. I’ve outlived my young mother by three years. There’s something profound and unsettling about it. People say it’s the natural way of things. But, not when you’re fourteen years old.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
I never thought to ask Greier’s age. I assumed he was in his mid to late thirties. He doesn’t have that youthful naiveté about him like some boys in their twenties. Clearly, he’s old enough to have experience with life, losing his mother, caring for his father, owning a successful bar, but still young enough to need guidance on his path.
“What about you?” he asks, derailing my train of thought.
“Me?”
“Well, I’ve introduced you to my parents. Least you could do is tell me something about yours.”
Shit.
How can I get out of talking about the parentals without lying to him further about my situation?
“I’m not on good terms with them.” There. Sweet and simple.
“I see.” He lightly tugs on my hand. “Thanks for coming with me, Rae. Even though I brought you without your knowledge of where beforehand.”
“I’m glad you brought me.” I rest my head against his arm. “Thank you for allowing me to be a part of this.”
His mouth presses into the top. “There’s no one else I’d want to bring.”
I stare up at him, and he’s already staring down at me, a gentleness in his eyes.
Is it immoral I want to kiss him? Right here among the white mausoleums. There’s an attractive vulnerability to him bringing me here, sharing this piece of himself with me. I get the notion he doesn’t do this often. And that gives me a fuzzy sensation deep inside. It’s like the sun has come out from behind the clouds, making me warm and tingly. It starts in my chest, swelling and spilling to my limbs and pooling in my stomach. It’s a heady sensation. In the middle of this city of the dead, I have never felt more alive.
Still gawking at each other, he asks, “Are you ready to go home?”
I nod.
It’s been mere weeks, and that apartment above Bourbon is already more like home than anything I’ve ever known.
“She must’ve been a special woman,” I comment as we start back toward the front of the cemetery, “your mother.”
“What makes you say that?” he asks, an almost hidden smirk tweaking his lips.
“Because of the man you are today.” I slip my arm in his, moving closer to his side. “I assume that has a lot to do with her.”
Bobbing his head in agreement, his sullen expression morphs into one of pride as he guides me back to his car.
“She sure was.”
Monday evening, I work the dinner to closing shift, which equals bigger tips. Even though the day crowds have been growing, the money starts to flow when the sun goes down.
The first few hours of my shift, everything goes smoothly. In the past weeks, I’ve really gotten a handle on everything. I have the menu memorized backwards and forwards, and I engage the customers with a comfort I lacked in the beginning.
The second half of my shift, I’m serving a group of rich frat brothers. Groups of guys are the easiest to please. Get their drinks right and smile sweetly at them, and they cough up the dough like an ATM with a cold. Izzie taught me that. She may not like the hairier sex, but she certainly knows how to work them. This group orders round after round of expensive shots. They’re undoubtedly the loudest, drunkest, most testosterone-filled man-boys in the place. They flirt with me every time I bring them the next round. I smile and play it off with a chuckle and a wave of my hand.
Until one, clearly the alpha douchebag, gives me a hard slap on my backside, grabs my waist, and yanks me down onto his lap. Clearly, this guy’s never heard of whiskey dick, because he’s hard as a diamond. I attempt to jump off, but his arm keeps me from getting too far.
“Where you goin’, honey?”
“Please, release me,” I say with a stern voice.
“Why? Don’t you like me?”
“Don’t think she does,” one of his brothers jokes, laughing and punching another frathole in the arm.
“I have lots of money,” the scumbag with the grip on me states, as if I’ll be impressed. “I’ll pay you. One night. Five hundred bucks.”
I’ve had enough. I snatch the mug on the table in front of him and drain it over his head, wasting a perfectly good beer. He jumps to his feet with a burly scream, tossing me off his lap in the process. I land on mine after a quick stumble.
“What the fuck?!” he shouts, shaking himself off like the dog he is. “You crazy bitch!”
I take it back. That’s an insult to dogs.
The entire restaurant has hushed and is now focused on us.
“Is there a problem here?” Izzie asks, having come out from behind the bar.
“This fucking cunt decided to dump a goddamn beer all over me,” he complains, as if his behavior didn’t warrant every drop.
“Is that true, Rae?” she asks.
“Yes,” I reply with squared shoulders and a straightened back. I’ll own my actions. I regret nothing.
“See!” He points to me with an aggressive jerk of his arm. “I want her fired! Now!”
“That’s not going to fuckin’ happen,” a deep voice chimes in from over the shoulder of the drenched college boy.
Greier.
“Excuse me?” the drunk fool asks, turning on Grey, ready for a brawl. He acts as if he’s never had anyone say no to him before. He probably hasn’t. Entitled little prick. I know. I felt it.
“That’s not going to fuckin’ happen,” Greier repeats. “I saw what you did. You’re lucky she threw that drink on you. Because I wouldn’t have been so merciful. Now get the fuck out of my bar and take your low-life scum friends with you before I change my mind about handling you myself.”
The frat brat clenches his fists and puffs his chest like a cock on the defense, ready to challenge Greier for the alpha male position.
And then Tiny steps behind Greier, dwarfing him. The arrogant smirk on Grey’s face makes me giggle.
The bruised asshole turns back to me and glares, murdering me with his eyes. I smile sweetly at him, knowing he doesn’t have the balls to try anything.
He nods his head toward the door. His brothers stand, gathering their hats and jackets silently. The dog storms out with his tail tucked between his legs, and they follow close behind. The room erupts in cheers and claps, peppered with boos and hisses.
“Alright, everyone, show’s over,” Greier addresses the room. “Drinks on me.”
They get louder than before.
He cups his hands over my shoulders. They’re vibrating. When he realizes he’s touching me intimately in front of the customers and staff, they drop back to his sides.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No,” I assure him. “He got handsy and had a smart mouth, but I’m fine.”
His jaw clicks.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I want to get back to work and forget about ‘em.”
“If you need to talk, I’ll be in my office, alright?”
“Yeah, sure.” I nod and straighten myself out, heading to the kitchen to pick up another table’s order. Truthfully, I hate that he touched me. It triggered something. And it’s harder to shake than I hoped.
Once the restaurant is closed and everyone is gone, minus Tiny taking inventory in the store room, I head to Greier’s office in the back, off the kitchen. He’s at his desk, his eyes glued to the screen of his laptop. He seems engrossed with whatever he’s looking at. I knock on the doorframe since the door is open. He looks at me from over the screen. It glows across his face.
“Hey,” he says blandly. “Come in.”
I fall back on the couch against the opposite wall. He powers off his computer and shuts the screen, sitting back in h
is swiveling chair.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
His eyebrows raise lazily.
“Mm-hm.” He clasps his hands behind his head. “Figuring out numbers and dealing with shit.”
“You look stressed.”
“Then I look how I feel.”
Even though my feet are killing me and I could pass out on this couch, I get up and walk over to him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his hands moving to the armrests of his chair.
I set mine on his shoulders, right around his neck, and begin kneading the knots out with my thumbs.
“Holy fuck,” he moans, his head rolling back.
I work the stress out of his tendons, moving down his shoulder once they’re putty. Gravelly groans rise from his throat with every deep stroke of my fingers. I admire the hilly terrain of his upper back. Especially the muscle that connects the base of his thick neck to his broad shoulders. My hands relocate to his full hair. I drag my nails over his scalp, and his head falls back even further. His eyes shut. When they open again, mine are staring into them.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks.
“Consider it a thanks, for earlier.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You had my back.” I remove my hands from his hair and set them back on his shoulders. “Now I got yours.”
He takes my left hand with his right and stares at it, caressing the knuckles with his thumb.
“Are you coming upstairs?” I ask, entranced by his skin against mine. He favors my ring finger, and I gently take my hand away, hiding it behind my back.
“Um, no.” He sits forward, grabbing a stack of invoices from his desk. “I have more to finish down here. But I’ll be done in an hour or so.”
“Alright.” I walk around his desk and toward the door but stop before I cross the threshold. “In case I’m asleep when you’re done, don’t go to the guest room tonight.”
I smile and then walk through the kitchen. Tiny comes out from the storeroom, all three hundred pounds of him, carrying a crate of booze.