The Queen of Dauphine Street

by Thea de Salle

  “Mmm-hmm. So it’s almost midnight and there she is, knocking on the front door,” Sol said. “No one answers, so she decides—mind you, I am shouting at her from the other side of the fence to leave the poor man alone—but she decides she’s going to wake him up because she’s going to change his life with piles of money. So she starts yelling up at the second-story windows. It’s atrocious, and she’s laughing so hard and telling me she’s going to pee herself.”

  “I’d had a lot of champagne!”

  “You had! And she’s howling, dancing around doing a pee-pee dance, and shouting. Eventually, the poor man wakes up. Now, this is New Orleans. Drunk people are part of our lives, especially in the French Quarter and especially around Mardi Gras. Usually it’s tourists, but Maddy . . . it doesn’t matter. What matters is the dentist was not having it. He turns his lights on, comes downstairs, and opens the front door. This very large, angry Rottweiler comes charging outside. Maddy stops laughing and starts sprinting back toward the fence, trying to scramble up and back over to me. I’m trying to help her, but we’re completely fucked up. The dog is barking and lunging, she’s screaming and peeing—she wasn’t kidding about that part. Meanwhile the dentist is calling the police.”

  “I got stuck,” Maddy finished for him. “On the fence. My dress got caught and I couldn’t get away before the police arrived. And, yes, I peed myself because that dog was fucking terrifying.”

  “No, you peed yourself because you were trashed.” Sol paused to take a deep, dramatic breath, slouching back in his seat and taking Rain’s hand. He kissed over her knuckles one by one and she offered him a bite of her sherbet, which he gladly accepted. “So the cops arrive, annoyed, and Maddy in her infinite wisdom, when asked by New Orleans’s boys in blue who she was, responds, ‘The Queen of Dauphine Street!’ Which they didn’t appreciate, by the way, and they booked her for trespassing, among other infractions.”

  “And inevitably, every single headline talking about it was ‘The Queen of Dauphine Arrested,’ because my life’s a circus.” Maddy shook her head and drained her glass, shrugging. “I really did love that house.”

  “Must have been some house.” This came from Vaughan, and Maddy nodded emphatically.

  “It is, dove. It is.”

  “We should go look at it after dinner,” Sol said in a conspirator’s whisper.

  “What? Why? So the old bastard can call the police on me again? No, thanks.”

  “No, because . . .” Sol leaned forward, flashed her a row of beautiful teeth, and winked. “The old bastard finally died. It’s for sale.”

  The sad part about the story of her infamous nickname was that she didn’t recall most of it. Sol did, and he’d recounted it in her presence enough times that she could tell the story without missing a beat, but that had been in the midst of her chemical-fueled years and things were sometimes hazy. Standing outside the wrought-iron fence, staring in at the gray and white house with all the windows, the flowering bushes, the second-story walkway, and gothic pillars, she distinctly remembered the dog, the urine, and the police car.

  That was about it. The lead-up was lost.

  Darren stood beside her minus his sling, his thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets. His bandage hung lower than his sleeve on his left side. It was tight still, which was good—he’d walked her through dressing it and she’d been nervous she hadn’t done a good job, but it remained there hours later so she must have done something right.

  “If you have to lose your mind for love of a house, this is the house to do it over. Damn,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the front. It was dark outside, but the house was lit up brightly, likely in hopes of a swift sale. Sol had mentioned on the way over that the dentist had only been dead a month. His estate was just now getting sorted.

  “It really is nice,” Vaughan said. “Maybe I should—”

  “Don’t you dare,” his sister interrupted. “If Maddy wants it, she should get first dibs. She bled for it.”

  “No, no blood. Just a lot of pee,” Maddy quipped.

  Rain giggled, then covered her mouth like that wasn’t appropriate. Maddy winked at her and the cream puff princess flushed prettily and sank into Sol’s side.

  They’d decided to walk over to the house instead of drive. Vaughan had assured a fussing Julio he had it under control. What Maddy appreciated was Vaughan asking Darren up front if he wanted additional bodies or if he was comfortable with just Vaughan there. Vaughan had showed Darren his credentials, had shown him his weapon, and Darren had visibly relaxed. He was still having difficulty with the concept of outside, because outside was where Kelly was. Maddy hoped he’d consider what she’d said about calling her therapist, but she knew all too well from her own experience you couldn’t force anyone to do self-care. They had to get there of their own volition.

  Five of them had left the restaurant via the back door to avoid any milling reporters. It hadn’t been all that difficult to elude detection, and they got to enjoy a nighttime walk. Cylan bowed out because he was as much fun as juggling rattlesnakes, but the rest of them had traipsed off together with full bellies and high spirits. It was still hot, but not oppressively so, the bulk of the humidity gone with the setting sun. There was a nice breeze coming off the Mississippi. Sol led them through the grid of the French Quarter, chattering all the while. Maddy was pretty sure she’d heard his minitour spiel a thousand times.

  Even Rain looked bored with it, and they’d only been dating a few months.

  Darren, however, was entranced, and that’s who it was for in the first place, so no one said a word. When they stood outside a piano bar emanating live music, Darren drinking a Pat O’Brien’s Hurricane from a souvenir cup like the tourist he was, he said, “I think you’re right about me coming at the wrong time. It’s beautiful. It gets a little rank here and there, but at least it’s not New York. I swear that entire city smells like pee.”

  “It does have a pee smell! When I say that, people look at me funny,” Rain said.

  “Well, they’re wrong, cupcake.” Darren grinned at her, and Rain bristled with pleasure. Sol noticed her reaction but only smiled, because earlier he’d texted Maddy during her nap to say Oh my God he’s gorgeous! with about sixteen exclamation points.

  If you liked boys and this particular boy smiled at you, you felt it deep in your bones.

  And if you’re really lucky, like me, you get to feel his bone.

  “You should see the mansions in the Garden District,” Sol said, leaning against the iron fence and gesturing vaguely west with the souvenir cup. He’d offered to hold it so Darren’s one fully functioning hand wasn’t occupied. “You’d probably appreciate it from a construction standpoint if nothing else. You did say you were in construction, yes?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Darren peered at the gray house, his eyes narrowed. “Does it get better than this, though?”

  “Not really,” Sol admitted. “But they’re still worthwhile.”

  “Absolutely. We’ll check it out.” Darren squeezed Maddy’s hand. “You going to offer on it? I can tell you that some of that facade is old—house original. I’d have to get closer to say for sure, but someone’s taken really, really good care of the bones.”

  “Maybe, I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I still love it—who wouldn’t?—but what’s the point if I never stand still long enough to plant my roots? There’s a reason I live on a boat, dove.”

  Darren gave her the side-eye, peered at the house, and looped his arm around her shoulders to haul her close. “Well, maybe it’s time to put down some damned roots, Maddy.”

  “Maybe.”

  With you one day? It’s possible. Weirder things have happened.

  “Speaking of roots, how do trees get on the Internet?” he asked, his grin too bright.

  “Darren.”

  “They log in.”

  . . . Or maybe not.
<
br />   TWENTY-TWO

  IT WAS A fabulous night. After the house visit, they’d gone to a bar, played some pool and darts, and walked Bourbon Street. The girls outside the titty bars liked Darren and tried to lure him in, shaking their tasseled jubblies with abandon, but he’d smiled and passed them by. There’d been another Hurricane, and then another from a frozen drink place down the road, and a stop in a sex shop that resulted in Vaughan sticking a dildo to his forehead with a suction cup and declaring himself a unicorn.

  Bourbon Street was what he remembered from the decade before, only this time it wasn’t teeming with people, so he could appreciate its glitzed-up, seedy charm. The shops came in sets of four. Souvenir shop, alcohol establishment, live girls and sex acts, and random stuff shop. The last could be jewelry or voodoo or any kind of tourist kitsch, but the quartet-of-shops formula seemed to extend down the street on both sides. There were bright lights and good food smells and lots of lively music. Through it all, Maddy was there with him, pointing out noteworthy places and people. She told him where they’d be getting beignets for breakfast some morning soon, who served the best cup of coffee, and how they’d get to the aquarium the next day if he was interested in going, which he was, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to an aquarium and he couldn’t think of a single person he’d rather go with.

  She was fun. She was smart. She was beautiful.

  He appreciated her.

  He would have shown her exactly how much he appreciated her, but by the time they got back to the hotel they were both exhausted. It was past two and they’d had a rigorous day. They stripped down and climbed into bed. He didn’t need a pain pill—the Motrin was adequate—and he drifted off curled up next to Maddy’s velvety, plush butt, his hand draped over her middle. It was a good sleep, a deep sleep—the best he’d had since the shooting. He wasn’t so stupid as to think that meant he was miraculously over his trauma, but a glimmer of normal was nice.

  The next morning, they showered and got ready for the day. They had breakfast at a restaurant overlooking the river, the view impeccable, the food delicious. They went to the aquarium. Julio and another member of Maddy’s security team tagged along, but they always kept a respectable distance. They were close enough to intervene should anything arise, but far enough away they weren’t infringing on personal space.

  It was sublime. And when they decided to rest before going out to dinner with Sol and Rain to an Asian restaurant in the Garden District, he loved that, too. He spooned Maddy again, his face buried in her hair, smelling more of that fruity shampoo before he dozed off and dreamed of things that weren’t guns or ex-girlfriends.

  He woke from the nap alone. That wasn’t alarming, especially since he could hear her rustling around in the bathroom, quietly humming to herself.

  “Babe?” he called out, his voice thick with sleep.

  “Hello, sunshine.” She emerged, not dressed in the blouse and skirt she’d fallen asleep in, but in the pink silk short robe she wore on the ship. Her hair was done up in a bun, pinned in place, her lips painted red.

  “What are you up to?” He propped himself up against the pillows and she grinned.

  “Being bad.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Well, I could tell you or I could show you. Which would you prefer?”

  The question immediately piqued his interest, which meant he got a rumble in regions down below.

  “Before I show you anything, though, a question.” She pulled off the robe. Beneath, she was bare. A naked Madeline Roussoux was a beautiful thing to behold, and every time he had the privilege, she took his breath away. She was porcelain and fine and she gleamed like a pearl. She’d looped a gold chain around her waist and it sat above ample hips, highlighting her gentle curves. Maddy was hips for days with thicker thighs. She didn’t have much extra weight, but what she had was settled right around her midsection in the best way possible.

  “Ask away. I’m fairly certain I’d give you anything you wanted right now. Including a kidney,” Darren said, half hard and ogling.

  “Noted for the day when my body finally rebels against all the shit I put it through.” She sat on the end of the bed and tugged off one of his socks, tossing it aside before pulling his bare foot into her lap and rubbing. He sucked in a breath, his eyes fluttering as she pressed into the sensitive cradle and rubbed her thumb over his callused heel.

  “My feet are a mess,” he protested weakly. “Work boots.”

  “I don’t care, dove. We’ll get you a pedicure if you want. I have a spa on the ship. Now my question—you’re obviously not interested in sub play. Or, um, being a bottom, but I want to know to what extent.” She paused. “I’m just trying to see where your boundaries are. Do you mean I shouldn’t get on top ever, or—”

  “No butt stuff,” he said immediately.

  “Okay?”

  “I mean, your butt is your business. If you want stuff in your butt, I am there. Let’s pound Butt Town. Two thumbs way, way up—and you can take that however you wish.” She started laughing, because how could she not, and he joined her, but when they quieted he continued.

  “Just stay away from my butt and that’s about it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Light bondage to start? Not now, we’ll work up to it. No humiliation play. Nothing like earlier with the leash. Just, maybe, tethering you to the bedposts and having my wicked way with you, for example?”

  He considered it, thought about whether or not he trusted Maddy enough to let her do such a thing. He couldn’t see her ever doing anything to embarrass him or hurt him, not long term anyway, so why the hell not? She’d been game for the leash. The least he could do was let himself be trussed up for fun.

  And hey, maybe I’ll like it.

  “Go nuts,” he said.

  It was like he’d given her the world’s best birthday present. She smiled beatifically, beaming at him before climbing up his body and lying on top of him to kiss him. Chest to chest, mouth to mouth. His hands—both of them, because he felt good enough to move the injured one—clasped her bouncy ass as she nipped and nibbled his bottom lip.

  “Open your mouth,” she demanded, growling, and he complied. Her hands traced up over his sides, rubbing his T-shirt against his skin, traveling up over his shoulders and sweeping up to his face. She cupped his cheeks, and then she jerked his mouth down, her tongue dipping in to taste him. His natural inclination was to chase back, but he contained himself, letting her steer their course, and he had to admit, she was pretty good at it.

  No, not good. Great. Better than he was, and he knew he was solid, but hell, this was the woman with a dick gallery, so who was he kidding? He was outclassed. She could run a clinic on make outs. She knew how wet to make it. How hard and fast to go. How much pressure to exert. One of her hands climbed up to his hair and twisted in it, pulling rhythmically. It didn’t hurt at all, was more a scalp massage, but it heightened his pleasure, just like when she dropped her knees to the outside of his thighs and ground her cunt against him.

  She let him go to sit up, her looking down past those tits he’d gotten to know so well over the course of a few days. He wanted them in his mouth, and he dared to swoop up to capture a nipple, giving it a suck. She gazed at him, eyes narrow, watching him work her. Her nipple hardened for him, and he teased it with his teeth, not biting down so much as raking the edges along the pebbled surface until she gasped.

  “You haven’t figured out my secret,” she taunted.

  “Oh?” He let one nipple go to flick at the other with his tongue before giving it, too, a hard suck.

  She didn’t say anything else, simply reached back and adjusted his grip on her ass. His finger bumped against something cold and hard nestled between her ass cheeks. It took him a minute to compute, but then he mouthed the magic word “butt plug” and s
he grinned, humping down on him and getting him harder. And harder still.

  It’s the steel one with the amethyst gem I picked out. I’m feeling the grip resting outside of her. The rest of it is wedged up . . . Jesus Christ on a cracker.

  “Oh,” he croaked, because it’s all he could manage. The idea of such a lovely creature doing such a filthy thing was intoxicating. He could have cried when she climbed off him. He started to follow, pushed himself up from the bed, but she wagged her finger under his nose and oh-so-gently pressed on his chest until he flopped back into the pillows.

  “No. This is how we’re going to play. You get to stay there, on the bed. Do whatever you’d like. Nothing at all. Stroke your cock. It’s up to you. I, however . . .” She let the sentence trail and walked away. The plug was hidden for the most part, but every fourth or fifth step there was a flash of purple. He was hungry for every glimpse, his cock at full attention and ready for whatever came next. She crossed the room and pulled a simple wooden chair over to his side of the bed. It was just out of his reach at four feet away. She angled it toward him before reaching back into her suitcase for the purple bag. She produced two things: a dildo with a suction cup—veiny, thick, and eight inches long—and a tube of lube.

  Oh. Oh.

  Oh.

  I don’t know what—it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what she’s going to do. I need it.

  She hadn’t even started yet and he was fumbling with his pants and shoving them off, the motion a little too severe for his injured arm. It didn’t do anything to dampen his ardor. Come to find out, having a boner and a throbbing arm were not mutually exclusive phenomena.

  He closed his hand around his cock and slowly pumped, watching her stick the toy to the seat of the chair with the suction cup. She opened the cap on the lube bottle and upended it, drizzling the glossy clear substance over the toy back and forth, like she was administering chocolate syrup to ice cream. She stroked the fake dick in much the same way she’d stroked him before, slowly, from base to tip and back. A sheen developed on the cock, and when she was satisfied that it was properly greased, she simply tucked the hand with the excess lube between her legs, smearing her pussy with her open palm.