[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine

by Barbara Monajem

  “Especially since whoever it is supposedly likes you,” Constantine said.

  She shuddered. “Zeb says he’s thinking of coming to see you, but I’m afraid by the time he makes up his mind, it will be too late. Someone might get killed, or what if whoever’s playing these so-called tricks figures out what Zeb’s doing and comes after him?” She groaned. “I don’t understand why he’s protecting the perpetrator as well as the victims.”

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” Constantine said. “Are there consequences to him if this all comes out? Is he afraid of the perpetrator? Or does he care about him, too? Seems to be a mighty complicated kid. Anything else to tell me about this morning?”

  “No,” she said absently. “Until the last few days, I would have described Zeb as… hidden? Not exactly reserved, because he’s not shy or socially inept, but he doesn’t let people know what’s going on inside.” She took another swig of tea. “Even I got only glimpses when I first knew him. But unlike you, he doesn’t cover up with a persona, unless surly teenager qualifies as one.”

  “But surly teenager doesn’t seem to jive with desperate protector, does it?” Which meant it might well be a persona. “I got the same message from Zeb this morning by way of Zelda, one of the girls he hangs with. She’s been pestering him to talk to me, not because she knows about any of this but because she thinks he’s suicidal.” He picked a melancholy ballad. “I pretended to consider killing myself several months ago, and Zelda is convinced I meant it then but somehow healed myself.”

  “I remember that,” Marguerite said. “It was right after a riot at one of your concerts where some people were killed. The whole of Bayou Gavotte was in an uproar. Media everywhere, crowds in the streets. I was so worried about you.”

  “You were worried about me,” he repeated, stilling the strings.

  “Of course! A lot of your fans were. Didn’t you aim a rifle at a helicopter and then a gun at your head?”

  “A broken rifle and an unloaded gun. Just a little joke between me and the media.” Back to the ballad.

  She huffed again. “They were saying horrible things about you, but it wasn’t your fault all those people died. They must have been on drugs. In fact, they were, weren’t they?”

  “Some of them, but that’s normal for concerts. And don’t tell me riots happen, too. I know that, but this was far worse than the usual. I was in a foul mood that night, and the playlist was a violent one. What if I was telepathing my thoughts without meaning to, sending death and destruction messages without even realizing it?”

  “Oh, come on.” She plucked another mint leaf. “That’s a theory the media cooked up.” She took little nips off the leaf and chewed them. “You don’t seriously believe it, do you? Is that why you haven’t performed publicly all these months?”

  He shrugged. “No one wanted me at a paying venue. Seemed a good time to take a break.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” she said, eating one more mint leaf and dropping the rest on the table. “You do believe it.” She sipped, eyeing him over her tea. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of,” he repeated. “Yeah, you could say that. I didn’t mean any harm to my fans, so why would my thoughts have such a negative effect?” Might as well tell her everything. Even if she went and told Lutsky, it wouldn’t be any worse than what Jonetta and the media had said. “On the other hand, I know exactly what I did to—”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A monstrous bird dived under the canopy and slammed into Constantine, knocking him out of his chair. He fell in a flurry of flailing arms and wings, and the guitar smashed into the fan with multiple twangs and a harsh splintering of wood. Marguerite leapt up, toppling her own chair, her heart thudding crazily against her chest.

  Constantine scrambled up, roaring out a string of curses. He shook his fist at the bird. “Fucking turkey! I get your point. Did you have to destroy my guitar to make it?”

  It was a turkey. A wild one, like the kind Marguerite occasionally surprised in the woods. This bird didn’t seem the least bit discomposed. Its wattles quivering, it eyed Constantine malevolently and flapped up onto the parapet. It launched itself across the alley to another roof and then to a dead pecan tree.

  Marguerite turned to Constantine, gaping. He was scowling at the turkey, his eyes narrowed so much that they twitched. He indicated the huge bird with a sweep of the hand. “Meet my sp—”

  A jay flew straight into his face, screeching, and zoomed away. He cursed again, picked up the guitar, stroked the ruined wood, and set it on the chaise. He turned off the fan. “Let’s go inside.”

  “Good idea,” Marguerite said faintly. “Oh, you’re bleeding!”

  Constantine wiped a hand across his brow, catching the trickle of blood. “Of course,” he said, glowering at his hand. “If I’m injured, you’ll have to tend to me.” He ripped off his T-shirt, revealing an expanse of gorgeous copper skin. He pounded his chest, shouting to the sky, “Why didn’t you peck me here, so she’d have to undress me to play nurse?” He tossed the T-shirt off the roof.

  Okay now, this was really weird, but if he was addressing one of the assault birds, it didn’t reply. Thank God for that.

  “Why not peck me below the belt, so she’ll have to take off my jeans?” he said, suiting action to words, stripping down to his tighty-whities, except they weren’t white but pale gray.

  Hmm. He had quite an impressive package under there. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband.

  She got her voice again. “Don’t take that off out here, you crazy man!”

  He ignored her, still addressing the sky. “Huh? See what you did?” No birds dive-bombed in response. “She thinks I’m crazy. No, let’s face it—she knows I’m crazy. Any more bright ideas tonight?” He stripped off his underwear and his erection sprang free.

  “What a relief,” Marguerite said. “Even after all those oysters, it’s a reasonable size.”

  Constantine didn’t seem to notice. “Well?” he shouted. “What’s next?”

  Marguerite grabbed her backpack and his hand. “What’s next is that somebody might show up with a helicopter again, and we wouldn’t want to dispel the thirteen-inch myth.” She tugged, but he didn’t move. What was he waiting for?

  A dove flew over them and pooped on Constantine’s hair. His aura sent out purple zaps every which way. The dove alighted on a nearby wire and cooed, although it sounded a lot like laughter. Marguerite gave a horrible giggle, tugging at Constantine again, and this time he obliged. She got him through the door and then peeked out again. The dove flew away.

  “At least no birds will attack you, or—or poop on you in here,” Marguerite said, giggling again in spite of herself.

  “No guarantee of that,” Constantine growled. Footsteps thumped on the stairs. Constantine cursed and went through the vestibule into the living room, and a moment later Lep burst from the stairwell.

  “Don’t ask me,” Marguerite said, as they watched the rock star’s bare butt recede down a hallway. “He got knocked over by a wild turkey and pecked by a jay, and then took off all his clothes.” She bit her tongue and didn’t mention the poop.

  Lep’s cynical brown eyes assessed her. She assessed him right back: plenty of doubt and suspicion. He was nowhere near as cordial as this morning, but he didn’t seem worried either. As head of the Bayou Gavotte underworld, he was definitely dangerous, but did his attitude mean that he knew what was going on or that he just didn’t care? No, he cared about Constantine—a lot. “Go for it, girl,” he said. “Fuck his brains out.” He turned and disappeared down the stairs.

  Marguerite shut the door and made her way through the living room, which was spotlessly clean and sparsely furnished with a sofa and coffee table, on which sat a laptop. She dropped her backpack by the sofa. A number of guitars sat tidily on their stands, and the cords on the recording equipment in one corner were tucked away out of sight. Ahead of her in the hallway, Constantine dabbed at his forehead with a towel.

  “Just bec
ause Lep says something, it doesn’t mean you have to—ouch! Shit!” He dropped the towel, clutching his head with both hands, and kept going.

  She hurried after him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he snarled, and a cat with a struggling bird in its mouth streamed through her head. “Are you game for shower sex?”

  She pulled her T-shirt over her head and tossed it. “Um… sure, I guess.”

  “You guess?” He whirled, projecting a fire-breathing dragon, and paused for a long look at her breasts. They swelled within the confines of her bra, the nipples hard and tingling.

  “I’ve never been all that keen on shower sex.” She unhooked the bra and let it fall.

  His eyes darkened; his smile sent curls of arousal to her belly. “Apparently I like it a lot. Why else would I have bird shit in my hair?” This made no sense, but he brushed a thumb across one of her nipples, sending all rational thought scurrying.

  Except one. “Do you have a condom?”

  He led her through a bedroom, where he grabbed a condom from a dresser drawer, and into a spacious bathroom, bright and sparkling clean, the shower tiled with a garden of tangled vines and hanging flowers, red, sensual… wicked. He turned on the shower and faced her. God, he was good to look at, even with blood oozing onto his forehead and bird poop slowly slipping down his hair. His aura reached for her, snakelike, hissing about past treachery and lies, perilous desire…

  She thrust away the frightening images. “I’ve never been keen on any kind of sex, if you want the truth,” she babbled nervously. Those were just his random thoughts leaking through to her; there was no real reason to be afraid. “It didn’t seem worth the bother. I had planned to—”

  He stopped her with his mouth. It was a ruthless, take-no-prisoners kiss, and she leaned into it, slinging her arms around his neck, heedless of poop and plans and visions of snakes. She mashed herself against him, every inch seeking contact, skin to tingling, slippery skin.

  He broke the kiss. “With me it will be…” He stuck his fingers into her waistband and pulled her toward the shower. His aura twisted. “Memorable.” He let her go and stepped under the water.

  “Memorable is good,” she said, ignoring the twist of her own heart at the thought that this would soon be a memory. Little whips of anger suffused his aura. They frightened her, but she was shaking with need, the need she’d always scoffed at in romance novels as something that didn’t exist. Maybe it was just a want, but she wanted this more than anything, ever. She fumbled with the button of her shorts, yanked the zipper down, shoved them over her hips, and kicked them aside.

  And then suddenly he wasn’t with her anymore. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed as the water ran over him and his roiling, pent-up anger. A lion roared anguish and threat and thunder through Marguerite’s mind. She didn’t understand, but she refused to let him back out again. She stepped into the shower, took hold of his penis, and dragged her hand slowly up that hot, waiting shaft. He hissed. She caressed him again, running her thumb over the head.

  Constantine sucked in a long, harsh breath and rolled her panties down. Her clit pulsed expectantly. Light as feathers, his fingers slid down the crack of her butt to her waiting core. God, she was wet, so slick and ready, and he kissed her again, plundering her mouth with his tongue, while below he caressed and opened her with mind-blowing gentleness. She mewed with delight and ran her arms around his neck and rubbed her bare leg up against his, wanting to climb him like a tree.

  He ripped open the condom and sheathed himself, then cupped her ass and lifted her, poising her over his shaft. She smiled down at him, and his lips quirked just a little, sending a shiver of love twirling through her in response. So beautiful he was, eyes closed now, wet lashes against his copper cheeks. She took his penis in one hand and rubbed the head through her slick folds and across her clit, once and then again. He let out a groan and held her still, utterly silent except for his harsh breathing. She positioned him at her vagina. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex, I’m going to be tight, go slowly…”

  The coils of a serpent surrounded her; its head probed at her entrance. “Tight is good.” He pushed and withdrew, probed again, deeper, deeper, sending little tongue-licks of flame through her belly. Slowly, slowly, he lowered her until he was inside her to the hilt. His aura let go of the remnants of anger and pain and flared with pleasure.

  “Your colors are so beautiful,” she breathed, almost on a sob.

  He braced her against the cool tiles and began to move. Golden trills of excitement, throbs of crimson lust, purple sensual twists… his pleasure flowed into her with every stroke. She dug her fingers into his back and clung to him, reveling in the squish and squeak of her breasts against his chest, the water sneaking past her nipples, his hands, one under her ass, the other cupping a thigh, the slow, teasing thrusts and the answering clench of her sex around him. Higher and higher she climbed, the golden darkness swirling up to flush out all thought, to sweep her into a pulse and throb that went on and on and on, until he came hard and harder, and then held her still against the shower wall.

  When he let her down, she slumped against the tiles to let her shaking legs recover. He said nothing, merely ditching the condom and reaching for the shampoo. She watched, sated and yet not, while he shampooed and rinsed his hair. She savored his powerful arms and thighs, the copper-brown muscles of his chest and abs, the penis nestled now in its bed of dark hair.

  She wanted to do him again.

  “Memorable for sure,” she muttered. “But addictive is a better word for it.”

  His aura twisted, flamed. “Don’t even—” He grunted, squeezing out his long hair. “Fucking bird won’t let me get a word in edgewise anymore.”

  “What bird? What were you going to say?”

  “Some bird, any bird, anything that would stop you from fucking me over and over again.” He reached out of the shower for a towel and handed it to her, then got one for himself.

  “If there’s something I should know, you need to tell me, bird or no bird.” She dried herself and turbaned the towel around her head. “Well?”

  “Apparently, I’m not allowed to say it yet.”

  “Who’s not allowing you? Don’t say a bird. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Me, then,” he said, shrugging again. “I guess. I never have been able to figure it out.”

  What had she said to start this crazy conversation? Her cell phone rang. She padded naked into the living room for her backpack and dug it out. Lavonia. She flipped it open.

  “Marguerite.” Lavonia sounded absolutely awful. “Please be careful. I’m so scared for you.”

  Marguerite stood and moved to the far side of the room for some privacy. “What’s up?”

  “My horrible dreams.” Lavonia’s voice was thick with tears. “I had another one this afternoon. Everybody’s dead in it—you and Janie and Zeb—and I’m blind, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

  Janie? What did she have to do with all this?

  Nothing, Marguerite admonished herself. She was becoming as superstitious about dreams as Lavonia. “Stop what? I thought you said we were dead.”

  Lavonia sobbed at the other end. “Don’t joke, Marguerite. I’m so scared it’s a prophetic dream and I’m supposed to do something, but I don’t know what!”

  “It’s not a prophetic dream,” Marguerite said. “It’s your imagination running wild.”

  “I know,” whispered Lavonia. “But I don’t feel right. Not at all.”

  “You and I both know feelings can’t be counted on. It could be something as simple as PMS. You know what that does to the female brain.”

  “I’m not PMS-ing,” Lavonia retorted, more like her usual self. “It’s not that time of the month.”

  “That doesn’t mean your hormones aren’t out of whack. Have a good strong cup of coffee to perk you up, go eat a fabulous supper, and have a great time at the theater.”

  “That’s wha
t Al said.” She heaved a huge sigh. “And I agree with him that you need to stay away from that rock star. He’s not safe.”

  “Since when?” Marguerite demanded. “This morning you said you liked him.”

  “That’s why he’s dangerous. He overrides a woman’s common sense. You need to go someplace where he’s not so you can think straight again.”

  With difficulty, Marguerite refrained from pointing out that Lavonia was the one whose thinking had gone distinctly wonky. Marguerite was doing just fine, considering she was dealing with attack birds and a lunatic lover.

  Oh, God, what a lover. Why was he so conflicted? Why shouldn’t they make love again and again?

  “Can’t you go someplace else for a few nights?” Lavonia pleaded. “Get away from here until this all blows over?”

  Not a chance. She had better things to do tonight, such as trying Constantine out in a bed. She was utterly ravenous for more. She’d never been like this before. It might not last, but it was way too good to waste.

  “I can’t go anywhere. I have work tomorrow,” Marguerite said, and then said it a couple more times before finally hanging up. She took off the turbaned towel. “My friend Lavonia thinks I’m in danger associating with you. She wants me to leave town.”

  Constantine sat naked and cross-legged on the carpet, combing out his long hair.

  “Some part of you agrees with her, the same part that’s been keeping me at arm’s length,” Marguerite went on. “On the other hand, your bird, whatever that is, or some part of you that identifies with the bird, wants me to stay and sleep with you again.”

  He watched her from under hooded eyes, and her nipples hardened instantly. “And again and again,” he said.

  “I want to do that, too,” she said. “But apparently some part of you doesn’t think it’s such a good idea, the same part that avoided it in the first place.”

  “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, babe. It’s a real turnoff. Let’s just do it.”

  She wrapped the towel around herself and dug in her purse for a hair pick. “Your weird, secretive approach to things is a turnoff, too. If you can go around acting like a nutcase, I can ask questions and try to figure out why.”