“It’s a Cajun expression.”
“I gathered.”
“Why on earth would you want to know all that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t really, although I was curious about you.” He sends a seductive smile that makes that cute dimple appear. That part of me that’s been dormant without the company of men suddenly wakes up. “Mostly, I wanted to know what other people were earning to make sure I wasn’t being screwed.”
“Well, aren’t you the sneaky devil.”
Eric smiles behind his glass. “I used to work in banking, too. Goes with the territory. We know how to find things.”
The bartender returns to check on us, which I would note in my review as a positive thing, but Eric complains about the lack of tequila.
“They all get one good shot,” the bartender explains calmly, but Eric insists they are not up to par and his voice rises, which gives me a chill and I witness the bartender reacting the same way. Sure enough, after a few minutes of complaining, the bartender takes away our drinks and adds another shot of tequila.
“And none of that cheap stuff,” Eric yells across the bar and I see the bartender reach for Patron.
“Holy shit.” I’m seriously impressed.
“Stick with me, kid. You’ll get a whole lot more out of life.”
We drink two more margaritas before I head up to my room. I deposit my bag on the luggage rack and glance around at the non-discript furnishings, beige walls with photos of Biloxi landmarks, an equally bland-colored bedspread that matches the comfy chair in the corner. I do the requisite examination, checking out every inch and making notes, then fall into the bed and realize I’m more drunk than I thought I was. The feeling makes me giggle.
I know I’ve got to get to work so I rise and open the curtains, hoping to open the sliding glass doors and breathe in some fresh Gulf air. Behind the curtains, however, is the wall of the hotel next door, its loud air conditioner blazing.
“Well, crap. That’s a bummer.”
I grab my notebook and head down the hall, take in the ice and vending machines, move down one floor and check out the fitness room and swimming pool, then the lobby and restaurant on the ground floor. All in all, the place is adequate with a few items to be fixed. I’m still buzzing from the tequila so I take the elevator back to my floor and head to my room for a nap. Who should be waiting by the door is Eric. Before I’m able to inquire, he grabs my hand and walks me down the hallway to the final room on the beachside, flips his key and ushers me inside. There’s a gorgeous view of the Gulf, of course, and a basket of fruit with red wine in the center.
“Where’d you get that?”
“I complained about the view of the first room so they moved me here, then threw a fit because the remote didn’t work, vowed to write bad reviews on TripAdvisor and complain to corporate, so they brought this up.”
I laugh because it all seems so easy. “And I’ve been working hard the old-fashioned way, go figure.”
He sits on the bed and leans back on his elbows, obviously pleased with himself. “It helps to know how to screw up a remote.”
I grab some of his grapes and pop them into my mouth, leaning back on the bureau and enjoying a good look at this handsome man before me, his shirt stretched across his chest. He’s long and lean and full in all the right places, one in particular I shouldn’t be looking at.
I clear my throat. “Did they teach you that at corporate or did you learn how to be a dick all on your own.” Shouldn’t have used that word.
He straightens so he’s right in front of me, our eyes almost level since he’s a tall drink of water. That dimple appears along with a twinkle in those brown eyes. “What do you think?”
He slips his arms around my waist and pulls me close and I let him, sliding my own on to his shoulders. I’m not sure I want to do this but then again, why not? I’m feeling empowered by the afternoon, loving the thought of taking life by the horns and creating my own reality, not waiting for something or someone to do it for me.
He starts with my neck, lightly biting my skin and moving over to the breastbone, while he unbuttons my blouse.
“You know, we barely know each other.” My voice comes out shaky.
Now that my blouse is undone, he slips his hands up to cover my breasts and I gasp. Pretty loud, too. “I really. Shouldn’t. Be. Doing this.”
When he fingers my nipples I lose it, lean down and hungrily meet his mouth with mine. I’m starved for sex, I admit it, the drought going on almost two years now and I’m a woman in my prime who shouldn’t be without that long. Although, what’s a girl to do when her ex doesn’t interest her and her fantasy man runs back to his wife?
Eric slips his hands behind me and pulls me on to the bed, shifting as we both fall on the comforter I would give a six out of ten. Make that a five, I think, as my bare back meets the scratchy material. Eric seems to want to take more time than I do so I increase the tempo by ripping off his shirt. A couple of buttons go flying and Eric pauses to notice.
“Wow, I take it you’re ready.”
I answer him by pulling off my jeans. “You have protection?”
He fakes looking insulted, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. “Of course. Do I look like a father figure to you?”
These are the kind of men I wouldn’t give a second look to, so admire the ones who are great fathers, but I laugh at his comment, so caught up in the seductive moment and those gorgeous brown eyes that I let his hands pull off every last piece of clothing. He pulls me so close my naked body rubs against his jeans and that alone is about to ignite me. I roll with it, though, because I can always do it again. I smile knowing we women have at least one thing going for us that men don’t have. And if I work this just right, demand my own satisfaction the way my lover has instructed, I will reach bliss several times this night.
I do climax against him and let out a groan of pleasure. This is his signal to forget foreplay and hop to it so he pulls off his jeans and uses the condom he has hidden in his jeans.
“Hurry up.”
I would never be this bold with a strange man, but something about Eric has erased my inhibition. His advice about being assertive, plus all those shots of Patron, have emboldened me like never before. Either that, or I’m hornier than I realize.
Finally, we’re together and I wasn’t wrong about the size. I bite my lip and thank God for sending me this asshole and let a second round of bliss take me away.
I’ve inadvertently left a tiny slit in the curtains, and even though my view is of an air conditioning unit and a wall going up five stories, the sun peeks through and nabs me right in the face. I swat at it like it’s a fly, then sit up to gauge the time.
“Crap.” It’s 9:20 and I still have to review breakfast downstairs before it ends at 9:30. I throw on my clothes and brush my teeth at lightening speed, then race down the hallway pulling on my shoes at the same time. A good bit of the buffet bar has been taken away but I implore the clerk for some eggs and to return the dark roast coffee container. I nab some toast and a milk carton and slip some apples and a mini box of cereal into my purse for the ride home.
The clerk returns and announces that they still have bacon and waffles but the chef threw the eggs away. “They don’t keep well, you know.”
It’s all good and I’m about to tell her that, when I think about my day with Eric. I look at my watch and it’s 9:28. I do something I would never do, especially since I really don’t care if I have eggs or not. I turn my wrist and show her the time.
“You put away breakfast before the deadline. I deserve to have what you offer here. If not, then what am I paying for?”
She looks taken aback and I instantly feel remorse. She assures me she will find a way to make this work and how do I normally like my eggs? I start to say scrambled is fine but stop myself.
“I love veggie omelets.”
I doubt that’s part of the buffet but she back-steps into the kitchen, no doubt thinking that
if they have to save face by cooking me up something fresh, it might as well be an omelet.
I look around the restaurant and Eric’s nowhere to be found. After we made love, he fell asleep, and I regrouped and headed back to my room.
I nabbed his basket of fruit and wine, though.
I smile thinking about both our lovemaking and my theft when the waitress returns, looking penitent.
“The chef says he’s very sorry and he has green peppers, onions and cheddar cheese if that works for you.”
“Sure.”
Now, I’m feeling really pleased with myself. Until I see the waitress enter the kitchen and catch the chef berating her. I know deep in my heart that everything we do in life has consequences, whether it be love or negativity emerging into the world. I see an image of a stone being thrown into a pond by a tiny hand, the waves of its impact with the water moving out in circles, stretching far and wide, reaching distant shores.
“Lillye?” I whisper.
“Talking to yourself?”
Eric stands before me, not a hair out of place, his button-down shirt neatly pressed and perfect. How does he do it?
“Breakfast is over. But since I was here slightly before the deadline and they took away the eggs, they’re making me an omelet.”
“Great.” Eric throws down his newspaper and heads for the kitchen.
“It’s past deadline,” I say to his back, but he waves me off. When he returns, he doesn’t say a word but I know he has an omelet coming as well.
He sits down across from me, grabs my cup of coffee and takes a long swig.
“Hey.”
“Payment for the loss of a certain basket.”
I feign innocence. “Have no idea what you’re taking about.”
He grins behind his cup and I realize this guy likes me. I have to admit, this tryst, or whatever I want to call it, has been fun. Just what I needed.
“Where are you headed next?”
He gets that “Oh no, she might be serious” look and I wave him off.
“Dude, I’m not looking for anything here. Believe me, the last thing I need right now is a relationship.” I send him a haughty shake of my head. “Besides, I’m not sure I want to do that again.”
He leans across the table and that sexy dimple appears making me tingly inside. “Funny, you wanted to do it again last night.”
The waitress arrives and her eyes are puffy so whatever delight I received from his flirting disappears instantly. She places two omelets before us and asks if we want more coffee. I start to say “Yes, please” and offer some comforting words but Eric beats me to it, barking, “Of course, we want more coffee.”
I feel more than see a tiny head shaking in disgust. Again, I wonder if Lillye’s near, now that I can finally see ghosts outside of my realm.
“I’m driving up to Hattiesburg tonight, wherever the hell that is.” Eric moves his cup — my cup — over towards the waitress who promptly fills it up from the fresh pot in her hands. I look around the table but there’s no cup for me. “Then I drive to Jackson and fly to Branson for the weekend.”
Eric asks for a glass of water and the waitress takes off before I have a chance to ask. I head to the buffet and retrieve a cup, once again reminded about the squeaky wheel and all that. By the time I sit back down, the thrill is gone, as B.B. King would say. Eric must have sensed something for he takes my hand and squeezes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there wasn’t another cup on the table.”
It works. For now. “No problem.”
We discuss inane subjects over breakfast, then go our separate ways. No kisses, which is fine by me. I head back to my room, finish up the review, and am back on the road to Lafayette by noon. I throw in my retro CD and rock out on the interstate to K.C. and the Sunshine Band. I can’t help it. I love funky seventies music. It’s one of the rare things TB and I had in common.
The thought of my ex-husband as K.C. sings I’m Your Boogie Man brings forth the usual guilt but I’m determined not to let anything get me down today. I just had wild sex and my body sings in gratitude. I even bypass the exit to New Orleans.
“Screw my condescending family who can’t bother to call, not to mention lend me money,” I shout to no one, and that angry rush feels good.
The cell phone rings and I flip it up with one hand, feeling cocky. “Viola Valentine,” I practically sing into the phone.
“Viola, this is Jacob from Courtyard. Where are you?”
I cringe. I know I say it doesn’t matter how people say my name but it really chaffs my butt. “Jacob, the name’s Vie-o-la, not Vee-o-la like the instrument.”
I can’t believe I scolded the man who’s allowing me to eat this month. Still, would Eric allow it?
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”
I’m about to acquiesce and downplay the whole thing — which is what most Southern women would do — but I catch myself. Time to stop acting the polite female and start being a jerk. “I’m north of New Orleans, outside of Hammond.”
“Great. I’m so glad I caught you.”
Sounds like another job, which would come in handy right now since I have no assignments lined up. But I don’t want him to think I’m easy. “Oh yeah? What’s up?”
“I need you to do another hotel. Tonight, if you can.”
“Does it come with another bonus for being last minute?”
Again, my tone and courage surprises me. I’m sure it’s surprising Jacob as well. “Uh, sure. Same as Biloxi.”
I smile. Yes, being a jerk does have its perks. “Where’s the hotel?”
“Hattiesburg.”
My body tingles with anticipation of what lies ahead in the capital of Mississippi, as the signs for Interstate 55 come into view. We make arrangements and I head north into the piney hills, nibbling on grapes from my stolen basket, a goofy smile on my face that won’t let go.
Chapter Seven
I’m not even five minutes into the great state of Mississippi when Portia buzzes me.
“What?” I say into my cell phone a bit too harshly.
“Nice to hear from you, too, sister. When are you coming home?”
“I’m working Portia. What do you want?”
“We need to talk.” Heavy sigh. “When are you going to be in town next?”
“If you need to talk to me Portia, there’s this wonderful interstate that allows cars to travel west to Lafayette.”
Another sigh. “I don’t have time for this, Vi.”
“Neither do I.” I can’t believe I’m this assertive. Usually I let my family walk all over me. My blood boils hot and it feels good — sort of.
“I won’t give you money and now you’re abandoning your family?”
I grit my teeth and count to three to try to cool the fire that’s roaring up my chest. “I’ve been in Lafayette for two years and you just recently graced me with your presence for what, three hours? And for the record, dear sister, I was in town last weekend, remember?”
I hear Portia reprimand the kids in the background, yell something about having to be at work in ten minutes, then sigh again. For a moment, I wonder if something’s happened. It’s not like her to call me this often.
“Forget it, Vi. Just forget it.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
We hang up and that nagging suspicion remains. I reach out to grab the phone again to call her back and inquire what’s so important, but my new emotional friend urges me to keep driving, keep thinking about what makes me happy.
“Yeah,” I say to no one. “It is just fine.”
The cell phone rings again and I feel vindicated. I have finally stood up to my family and they are going to speak to me on my terms. But, when I answer, the voice is as meek as I usually act.
“Miss Valentine.”
“Sirona?”
“Is this a good time?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Not really. I’m on my way to Hattiesburg, Mississippi.”
A
nd a good romp in the hay if I’m lucky.
“I need your help.” There’s a desperation in her voice that hits me to the core. I’ve heard this emotion in the voices of people with haunted homes or buildings, a mix of fearing the unknown with a lack of control on how to fix it. Only today, I’m not in the mood to be the ghost problem solver.
“Perhaps Elijah hasn’t told you but I’ve been fired.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
I swear I can hear the poor woman swallow. Hard. The sound brings my anger fire down a notch. “Because I don’t know who else to turn to.”
Her words emerge soft and painful, enough to make me re-examine my newfound emotional strength. I want to help, I really do. But Elijah kicked me out of town, Miss Bessie practically slammed the door in my face, and the woman asking for assistance is some mystical being I can’t explain. Not to mention the skeptics at the Hi Ho and the state inspector jerk who’s hiding something. I relay as much to Sirona, leaving out the part about her appearing in an old photograph.
“Elijah’s a good man,” she replies. “But he’s under pressure and I think they got to him.”
“Who got to him?”
There’s a long pause and the silence gives me goosebumps. “Did you look through the box he gave you?” Sirona finally asks, almost in a whisper.
“Most of it.” Not enough, I think, and I feel guilty that TB perused the information more than I did.
“The state owns the springs and the dam, most of the lake. They can do what they want with all of it, although I don’t blame them for what happened.”
“What happened?”
Again, silence.
“Sirona, are you saying the state did something they shouldn’t have and told Elijah to fire me and stop worrying about whatever is haunting Lorelei Lake? That doesn’t make sense. Why would the state care if a small town hires a ghost hunter?”
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