Forever With You (Bayou Dreams Book 5)

by Farrah Rochon

  “Half of the businesses on Main Street had closed down,” she continued. “But then Corey and Mya Anderson discovered a room in the Gauthier Law Firm that was once used as a stop on the Underground Railroad, and everything changed. It put this little town on the map.”

  “That’s amazing. Maybe Gauthier will get as big as Maplesville.”

  “I hope not,” Leslie said. “I like having the convenience of the bigger stores in Maplesville, but I am just fine with Gauthier remaining small. I have to admit that my girls and I do love that new outlet mall out there, though. Probably too much.”

  “You’re a city girl,” he said with a laugh. “Of course you like the mall.” His easy smile was devastating to her peace of mind.

  “You’re a city boy,” she threw back at him. “Do you like the mall?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “There is nothing I love more than mindlessly browsing store after store for hours on end every single Saturday. It kills me that I have to drive twenty whole minutes to get to the closest mall.”

  Leslie’s shoulders shook with her laughter. “You’ve got jokes.”

  “I do all right.”

  Her own grin spread across her lips much more easily than it had during the past two years. She’d found herself laughing more tonight than she had in ages. Once she’d let her guard down, Leslie had discovered that she and Gabriel had much more in common than just their Houston roots.

  At his suggestion, they had driven east to a diner in St. Pierre, a town that was tiny even by Gauthier standards. Other than a waitress with graying hair and a slight limp in her walk, and the cook behind the counter, she and Gabriel had been the only ones in here for the past hour. People in Gauthier rarely traveled this way, choosing to go either west toward Maplesville or south to Slidell. The chances of the two of them being seen were slim.

  Because of that, she had been able to relax and just enjoy his company. And she was enjoying it. Immensely.

  Leslie twirled the flat wooden stirrer through the foam covering her café au lait, making lazy swirls through the steamy south Louisiana staple.

  “Besides having to drive all the way out to Maplesville to get your mall fix, how difficult has it been to adjust to life in Gauthier?” she asked.

  He shrugged, picked up a shoestring French fry from the order they’d shared and dragged it through the ketchup on his half of the plate.

  “Not difficult at all. As I said before, I was looking for a slower pace. Was it hard for you?” he asked, popping the fry into his mouth.

  Her head tilted to the side, Leslie glanced up at him before drawing her attention back to her cup.

  “It was at first,” she admitted. “Probably because it was my first time leaving Houston. I went from being a girl who had never left home for more than a weekend trip, to being in a place that was so different from what I was used to that it seemed as if I was in a different country. It took some adjusting. It was even worse when Braylon would have to go back to base.”

  “He was Army?”

  She nodded. “He served four tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  “That must have been rough on you. I can’t imagine going to bed every night wondering if I’m going to wake up to bad news.” He paused for a moment, then in a gentle voice, asked, “When did the news come?”

  When people who didn’t know the circumstances surrounding Braylon’s death inquired about it, they almost always assumed he’d been killed in action. At one time she would have just let them believe it, but over the past year she’d grown to accept that Braylon’s death and the method in which he’d died were not her shame to bear. It wasn’t her late husband’s, either. He had been sick. There was no shame in that.

  “Braylon wasn’t killed while fighting abroad,” Leslie said. “He suffered from PTSD. He committed suicide after he’d returned home.”

  Shock encompassed his face as he sat back in the green Naugahyde booth and let out a deep breath. Leslie held his gaze, refusing to give in to the urge to look away. His reaction to what she’d just told him would tell her a lot about the kind of person he was.

  “Wow,” Gabriel whispered. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Neither was I,” Leslie said.

  He reached for her hand, his eyes swimming with understanding and compassion instead of pity. It was just what she needed right now.

  “It takes a strong person to endure that kind of pain and still come out standing,” he said.

  Strong?

  It took everything Leslie had within her not to laugh at the notion of herself being strong. She wasn’t strong, not even close. She’d put on a hell of an act for the people around here, though. She’d fooled everyone into thinking that she had bravely moved past Braylon’s death. Even herself.

  “I’m sorry if bringing up Braylon’s suicide put a damper on tonight, but it feels better to have the truth out there.”

  He trailed the back of his fingers along her jawline, the soft caress featherlight. “Leslie, there is not a single thing you could say that would spoil tonight. When I say that this has been, by far, the most enjoyable night I’ve had since moving to Gauthier, know that it is the absolute truth.”

  His words stole the breath from her lungs.

  “My goodness,” Leslie said with an awe-filled whisper. “Do you have a book somewhere that teaches you the exact thing to say?”

  He smiled that smile again, and her skin reacted in the way it had the first time she’d seen it. Tingles skirted along her nerve endings, eliciting all manner of decadent sensations to travel through her bloodstream.

  The reasons she shouldn’t be attracted to him were long and substantial, each item more significant than the next. He was six years her junior. He was her daughter’s teacher. He’d made Gauthier his new home, and she was determined to leave.

  But Leslie refused to acknowledge any of that tonight. For now, she would enjoy this feeling again, of being desired by someone she desired in return. It had been so long since she’d felt this way.

  “You know what I noticed when we walked in here?” Gabriel asked. “There’s pecan pie in that glass case on the counter. You think you can handle that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she answered.

  He went up to the counter and returned minutes later with a thick slice of pie and two forks. As they indulged in the flaky, buttery pastry, Leslie asked him about his time in New Orleans.

  “How did you end up teaching in New Orleans?” she asked.

  “The fraternity I belonged to at Texas Tech sponsored a cleanup event after Katrina. I spent spring break helping to rebuild a church in the Ninth Ward, then returned the summer of that same year and worked with Habitat for Humanity.”

  “That’s amazing, Gabriel. I always said it was people like you who helped to put the city back together again after the hurricane. So many came from other places to pitch in.”

  “There was just so much need, I couldn’t not help. My family wasn’t swimming in dough—more often than not my mom would go without just so us kids could eat—but Katrina put things into perspective for me. Seeing so many people lose everything in the blink of an eye, it just made me that much more grateful for the little I did have. And it showed me that no matter how much I think I’m struggling, I can always do something to help someone less fortunate.”

  Leslie was so touched that she could barely speak past the emotion lodged in her throat.

  “So much compassion in one so young,” she said.

  “I’m not that much younger than you,” he said. “I thought we’d already established that.”

  The bell above the door of the diner chimed and Leslie’s back stiffened. She quickly turned, her shoulders wilting in relief when she didn’t recognize the couple that had just walked in.

  Gabriel glanced at the door and then
back at her. “You’re really on edge, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t help it,” Leslie said. “Do you understand just how scandalous this is?”

  “The assistant principal and president of the PTO? It would set the Gauthier grapevine on fire.”

  Leslie bit back a smile. “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Just a little,” he said.

  “Have you always been this incorrigible?”

  “That depends. Where does incorrigible rank on your list of traits you like in a person?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Well, then, I am not incorrigible at all, and I am offended that you would even suggest it.”

  A loud crack of laughter shot out of her mouth. She looked around, embarrassed, but no one was staring. No one cared that she was laughing out loud.

  For the past two years Leslie had been so hyperaware of every display of outward emotion that she’d gotten to the point of showing none at all. She feared if she exhibited even a hint of sadness people would pity the poor Army widow. If she laughed too much they would think she was having too much fun for someone who’d lost her husband. Sometimes she felt like an emotionless robot.

  But not tonight. Tonight, Gabriel had reintroduced her to the joys of letting go and enjoying herself. She’d missed this Leslie. It felt good to find her again.

  “Maybe I haven’t given that trait a fair chance,” Leslie said. “Being incorrigible can’t be all that bad, can it?”

  He slowly shook his head. “It’s not bad at all. I’ve found that being incorrigible gets me what I want.”

  She could feel his hot stare on her skin.

  “And what is it that you want?” she asked.

  Those lips turned up at the corners again, and her cheeks heated. She looked away, unable to handle the scrutiny of his hot, steady gaze.

  “You’re determined to get me in trouble, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Maybe you haven’t given trouble a fair chance, either.” He captured her chin and lifted it until her eyes met his. “In my experience, a little bit of trouble doesn’t have to be a bad thing, cariño. In fact, it can be downright good.”

  Leslie’s heart drummed against the walls of her chest as Gabriel’s mouth closed in on hers. A potent, intoxicating rush of sensation flooded her body at the first touch of his incredibly soft lips. Slowly, deftly, he laid siege to her mouth, applying just enough pressure to drive her wild.

  A low moan climbed up from Leslie’s throat and she gave in to the impulse to part her lips and let him inside. Once there, his tongue continued its gentle invasion, every swipe deliberate. Seeking. Devastating to whatever resistance she may have felt.

  But resisting him was the last thing she wanted to do.

  She curved her fingers around his neck, her thumb brushing faintly along his jaw as she encouraged him to move closer. Gabriel heeded her silent call, slanting his lips over hers and thrusting his tongue in and out of her mouth. Every lick, every taste was like manna from heaven, feeding her starved body with sensations she had not experienced in far too long. Leslie drank in his flavor, returning his decadent kiss with everything she had within her.

  “Uh-hmm” came a groggy voice.

  Leslie and Gabriel jerked away from each other. The waitress stood at their table, a coffeepot in one hand and their check in the other.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But I wanted to make sure you paid the bill before you two cut out of here to look for the nearest motel room.”

  Leslie should have been mortified, but she was too satiated to feel even an ounce of embarrassment.

  Gabriel handed the waitress a twenty-dollar bill and declined the coffee refill. When his eyes returned to hers, they twinkled with devilment.

  “You see? I told you trouble can be good.”

  * * *

  Gabe tried his hardest to focus on grading the essay questions he’d posed to his fifth-grade class, but the high-pitched vocals of Jackie Wilson blaring next door stole every ounce of his concentration. He jumped up from the sofa and walked over to where his television was mounted. He banged his palm against the wall that divided the double-shotgun house he rented from Clifford Mayes, the sixtysomething-year-old who lived on the other side.

  “I’m trying to work, Mr. Mayes. Can you turn it down?”

  Several beats passed before Jackie’s crooning about lonely teardrops began to dissipate.

  Thank God.

  Gabe had nothing against Jackie Wilson, per se, but he had an awkward relationship with sixties music. His dad had loved that era, and whenever Gabe heard music from that time period his mind automatically went back to those days of sitting next to the hospital bed that had been set up in their living room, he and his dad singing along with Sam Cooke, Solomon Burke and The Drifters. Singing eventually became too difficult for his dad, his deep baritone becoming nothing more than a weak, thready whisper during those final weeks.

  Gabe ran a hand down his face. He had too much work on his plate today; any reminders of Gerald Franklin—even happy reminders—would put him in a headspace he didn’t want to be in right now.

  But Jackie Wilson’s singing had unlocked the vault, and Gabe couldn’t stop the deluge of memories from flooding his brain. He sank back onto the sofa and closed his eyes, making a valiant attempt to fight the memories but failing miserably at it.

  Damn, but he missed that old man.

  Gabe hadn’t had a clue as to how taboo his mother and father’s marriage had been: a twenty-one-year-old girl from Honduras marrying a black man from Houston nearly twice her age. He had never witnessed anything but love between them. His mother had been the happiest he had ever seen her during those days when his father had still been healthy. Gabe couldn’t help but think about how different life would have been for him—for all of them—if cancer hadn’t cut his dad’s life short.

  Of course, if his dad hadn’t died, his mother never would have married Raynaldo, and his sister and brother never would have been born. He would not trade Daniela and Elias for anything in the world, but he would give his asshole of a stepfather up for a nickel. Hell, he would pay for someone to take him away from his family. Although, knowing Raynaldo, he likely wasn’t around anyway.

  Thinking about his loser stepdad, who could never stick around for more than a few days at a time, reminded Gabe that he hadn’t talked to his mom all week. As he reached for his cell phone, it trilled with the ringtone he’d set for his mother.

  “Hola, Mami,” Gabe answered. “I was just about to call you.”

  His mother started in rapid Spanish, which was his first warning that something was horribly wrong. Other than calling her children the occasional endearment, his mother rarely spoke in her native tongue anymore.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Gabe said, trying to get a word in. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your sister,” she said. “She was supposed to be home three hours ago, and she is not answering her cell phone.”

  “Where was she going?”

  “That’s just it! She didn’t say. She just left the house! I don’t know what I’m going to do with that girl, Gabriel. She makes straight A’s. How can I punish her?”

  “It’s her job to get good grades in school,” Gabe said. “It’s not her job to turn your hair gray. Let me try calling her, Mami,” Gabe said. “She’s probably out with one of her friends. I’ll call you as soon as I hear from her.”

  “You tell her to call me.”

  “I will, Mami.”

  Gabe disconnected and immediately speed-dialed his sister’s number. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his free hand, trying to stave off the worry that was building in his gut. His biggest fear with living six hours from Houston was that something would happen to his mother or one of his siblings, and he wouldn’t be around to hel
p.

  Daniela answered on the second ring.

  “Gabe. What’s up?”

  “Daniela, why did Mami just call me, frantic because she couldn’t get in touch with you?”

  He could practically see his sister’s eyes roll as her tired sigh drifted over the phone. “I texted Elias and told him to tell her that I was fine.”

  “Why didn’t you just answer when she called?”

  “Because she would give me all kinds of shit if I talked to her.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Gabe said.

  “Oh, please. I’m seventeen.”

  Gabe lightly pounded his fist in the center of his forehead. He needed an aspirin. Or a drink.

  “Call your mother, Daniela. She’s worried sick about you.”

  “Ugh,” his baby sister groaned. “That woman lives to spoil my fun.”

  That woman?

  “You’d better show her some respect,” Gabe said. “I mean it. If I get another call like that from Mami, I’m coming to Houston and carting you here to live with me in the sticks.”

  “I’ll call her!” Daniela practically screamed.

  “Where’s Raynaldo?” Gabe asked. His mother shouldn’t be the only one dealing with Daniela.

  “Who knows? He dropped in on Sunday, but he was gone by Tuesday morning.”

  Gabe’s jaw stiffened.

  “I gotta go, Gabe,” Daniela said. “I promise I’ll call Mami.”

  Gabe tossed the phone on the old chest that served as his coffee table and leaned his head back on the rim of the sofa.

  It was the same old story. It had been this way since his mother married Raynaldo Gutierrez the summer before Gabe started sixth grade, two years after his own dad died. Raynaldo had been worthless from the very beginning. He’d drift back home when he was out of money and needed a place to stay. All it took was a few halfhearted whispers of sweet nothings into his mother’s ear, and she welcomed him back.