Authors: Miranda Veil
I shift uncomfortably and find him staring at me with his head tilted ever so slightly to the side.
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Yes, sorry. My mind wandered a bit. I’m still trying to wake up, I suppose. You were saying?”
“Oh. Yes…right. I was actually saying that I’ve kept you quite long enough, and I should be heading back as I must attend yet another meeting. Part of the convention, you understand. I do thank you for the company. It has been a wonderful experience, and I’m honored you agreed to join me.”
“Of course, thank you for the coffee.” I reply, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. I’d love to sit here and do nothing other than listen to the delicious bass tones that resonate out of those soft, parted lips.
“Not at all, miss. Perhaps, if you’re free, we can explore the city together later on.”
His eyes rest on mine and I’m transfixed. The shifting colors demand my attention, and I regrettably tear my gaze away from him.
“I would love to, but I’m supposed to meet up with someone tonight to finish the interview I mentioned earlier. I’m sorry, really.”
“Ah, well I’ll leave you to your day, then. Some rather boring people will be awaiting my presence shortly, and I mustn’t keep them waiting. Perhaps we will see each other again?”
“I would love that.”
I smile sweetly, take my purse and stand. After I thank him again for the drink and offer him a handshake, I head back to the hotel alone. My phone rings the minute I step into the lobby and startles me. So rarely do I leave my ringer on, that I have forgotten what it sounds like. The call is from Alexander Delacroix.
“Miss Roman.”
“Speaking.”
“I’ve made some free time tonight. Shall we meet around 7?”
“Sure. That sounds great.”
“Any preference on a venue?”
“No. I’m not too familiar with this area, so wherever you’d like to meet is fine with me.”
“Wonderful. I’ll text you the address.”
He hangs up instantly with a snap of the line, and I peek at the screen in time to see a text pop up, stating the address he’s chosen for us to meet.
He’s decided not to volunteer the name of the establishment, just an address and the time he expects me. I roll my eyes and head to my room for a much needed shower, a change of clothes and to prepare myself as much as possible before tonight.
Chapter 7
The clock on the des
k
flashes 6:30 as I pull on my heels and make one last check in the bathroom mirror. I run my hands over my hair in an attempt to smooth down any wayward strands, and marvel at the style I’ve whipped up. I managed to pull off a pretty clean French twist, which is normally impossible for me. I’m still unsure of how I managed it, but I’m not about to step on the toes of the good-hair-day gods.
Being unaware of what kind of venue he has chosen, I decided on a simple, tasteful black cocktail dress and a plain silver necklace with a teardrop shaped sapphire hanging from it. I rub my hands together to calm my nerves. Everything will be fine. There’s no need to be nervous.
This time, I’ve gone through the trouble of writing down every single question I plan to ask him. I have absolutely no intention of floundering over my words this time. I’ll make sure I come off as clean, crisp and professional; the ideal representation for Angela’s pride and joy, and I’ll make damn sure that I get enough from him to spin a good article for her.
I take a look at the address and type it into the GPS on my phone. After seeing that it isn’t too far from the hotel, I take the elevator to the lobby and catch a glimpse of the back of Ethan’s head from the open door of the conference center. He’s the center of attention, playing the room with the elegance and grace of a trained ballroom dancer, and I smile at the memory of our early morning coffee. He’s a nice guy, and I find myself drawn to him, but I abolish such absurd thoughts from my head. He’s too sweet, and I’m too fucked up to ever mesh well with someone like him.
Stepping out the door, I slip behind the wheel, letting the GPS chime in and lead me down a street to my right, off of Canal Street. As I turn down the road, my outlook of the city shifts. The roads thin into a nerve-wracking series of one-way streets overflowing with people. They’re everywhere; milling around on every corner and surging out in front of cars in large groups without a care. My fingers grip the wheel as I slowly nudge my car through.
He wants to meet
here?
The skyscrapers fall off and give way to short, thin buildings that I had seen during my trip to the café, crammed together side by side. I notice cables strung between the buildings, and a thicker one following the same path as the road I’m on. Looking down I notice a track in the middle of this asphalt hallway, and as I follow the road around a corner, a streetcar blocks my path. An honest to god street car! I didn’t realize there was still such a thing, much less one that was still up and running regularly.
My fingers grip the steering wheel tighter; can I pass it? Do I wait? The tight confines of the roads, mixed with the crowds of people, leaves me anxious, and my mind racing. I feel permanently overcharged with nervous energy, both for this second chance, and because of the slight case of claustrophobia that’s creeping its way up the back of my spine. My nerves feel worse now than they were for my initial meeting with him, and I can’t decide if it’s the area, the tight space, the suffocating streets, the quickly depleting daylight or a combination of all of the above.
A few more turns and the GPS announces ‘You have arrived.’ Arrived? Great, but the street is packed to the brim with surging bodies and cars parked along every edge. I glance around and notice the street sign. Bourbon Street…wonderful. The address he gave me apparently shares a common corner with this notorious street, and it only serves to further heighten my anxiety. I’ve heard my fair share of stories of this place; everyone has, and they’re always a mix of crazy and dangerous.
Driving around eagle eyed, I search for a place to park and finally settle on the only parking garage in the area with vacancies. Unfortunately, it is several blocks away from the venue.
After grabbing the parking ticket, I head back to the address, once again searching around for him. I’m hesitant to call; I’d hate to be a bother, but it’s hard to pick him from the hundreds of other people currently occupying the road. I pull out my phone and zoom in and out of the map, trying to pinpoint the exact building, but they’re all melded together and I see no sign of a building number on any of them.
I walk along the block, then cross to the other side of the street, hesitant to place even a toe on the corner of Bourbon. After several moments, I come across what I believe to be the place. It’s a small building tucked between two larger establishments, and adorned with thin, dark wood French doors. I finally spot his auburn curls just behind a group of five revelers, and approach cautiously.
“Good evening.”
“Ah, you’ve made it! Wonderful.” He smiles broadly as his eyes sweep over me. I feel so vulnerable here; so exposed. I’m sure it’s just the area…
My mind is frantically working to fill my thoughts with every worst-case scenario possible, and I’m trying my hardest to keep my hands from trembling in nervous fear. I’m not used to being in this area, nor am I accustomed to being around such large groups of people.
“Shall we?” He asks as he opens one of the doors. I slide through and am greeted by a green tinged light that spills out onto black and white tiled floors. It vaguely reminds me of a New York subway bathroom sans the trash and stench of urine.
He steps in front of me, and I follow him toward a desk where two young women are dressed in black pants, crisp white shirts and black vests. They nod before he makes it to the desk, and motion toward another set of French doors to their right. He ushers me through.
The room is long and narrow with high ceilings and muted light spilling from ornate glass wall lamps. The bar itself occupies two thirds of the far long wall. It’s a gorgeous, gleaming dark wood with a small woman standing behind it in an old-style bartender’s uniform; black vest, black bowtie, white long sleeved shirt underneath, and black pants. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and there’s a clean towel tucked into her belt. She’s petite with shoulder length light brown hair, and greets us with a pleasant, chipper voice. A tall, husky man with an impressive mustache waves at us from the far end of the room nearest the street, then walks to meet us in the middle and begs us to take a seat.
“Can I get your usual?” he asks Alexander.
“I’m not sure tonight, Charlie. I’ll let you know after we settle in.”
Alexander leads me to the side of the room that faces the street, and eases me into an ornate, lion claw loveseat positioned right beneath a large window with wooden shutters that obscure the view of the street, and thankfully, the crowds.
He pulls up a chair and positions it at an angle with a small table between us. The female bartender comes up and hands us both menus then asks if she can get us anything. I stare uncomfortably at the menu; I’m not well versed in cocktails, and have no idea what any of these are. I’m much more comfortable pouring some rum in a glass of coke and calling it a night.
He speaks softly to her, placing his order, then looks over at me with a spark of amusement in his eyes.
“And what would you like?”
“I…I don’t know, honestly.” I stutter, embarrassed. “Do you have any suggestions?”
He glances back at the waitress and smiles.
“Why don’t we get her something on the sweet side, with a bit of citrus thrown in? Thanks, Rebecca.”
“Right away.” She replies, and scurries off to start the drinks.
“I’m sorry about our earlier meeting, so drinks are on me. I’d show you around, but honestly, I’m in a more sedentary mood tonight.”
“It’s fine…” I respond, as I nervously glance at my phone to check the time. “I don’t know how comfortable I would be walking around here at this hour, anyhow.”
“That’s silly.”
Leaning over the table, he looks through me with soft brown eyes.
“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you while you’re in my care.”
Smiling, I press my lips together to stifle any impending laughter, as the idea of this man taking down some armed assailant is preposterous. He’s not exactly the body builder type, and with his lean build, I doubt he could take down a grandma coming after him with a box knife.
Rebecca brings our drinks and places them on the table along with glasses of water. With one sip, the bubbles dance along my tongue and tease my nose, but it was his eyes and silver tongue that intoxicated me long before the first taste. As he launches into a conversation about his recent perusing of an exhibit that had come to the local museum, I feel his words delicately weaving themselves around my body. German artwork, I believe, is what he’s speaking about…but the low murmur of the bar patron’s melds with the blood pounding in my ears, and I find it hard to concentrate on his words.
The drink tastes like a mix of champagne and sugar with a lemon wedge sitting peacefully in the center of the glass. I chastise myself for not eating before this meeting. The alcohol goes straight to my head as the heat from my blood pools into my cheeks.
What was he saying?
It was an engaging conversation that I was actively participating in, but I’m having trouble really grasping what’s spilling from my lips.
What did I just say?
Words are sliding unrestrained from my mouth before I’ve finished fully forming the thought. I hope I don’t sound like an unintelligible mess.
“Are you enjoying it?” he asks, with a small glance toward my drink.
I nod, smiling broadly. I can feel his gaze slip from my eyes to other aspects of my body; feel them piercing through me. Everything in the lounge has taken on a soft haze, and I’m drunk on the atmosphere.
“It’s quite good. I’ve never had anything like this.”
As I take another sip, he leans back in his chair, resting one ankle on the knee of his other. He lights a cigarette, takes a drag from it, and lets his arm dangle languidly over the edge of his chair. He regards me with warm eyes, never taking them off of me as an infinitesimal smile tugs at his lips.
“It’s an awful habit, I know.” He sighs, as he glances down at the cigarette resting precariously between his fingertips. “I haven’t gotten around to kicking it yet. Does it bother you?”
“No, not at all.” I reply, though in a normal setting, I can’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke. It makes me cough and gag, but something about the smoke spilling from his lips seems to draw me into a trance, and I find myself craving the sight and smell of it more and more with each passing second.
“This is much more comfortable for me. I’m quite fond of this establishment, and I’m glad we were able to work this out. So, tell me more about you.”
I take another sip to calm my nerves and it surges through my body, sending liquid courage into every inch of my being. Parting my lips, the words materialize before me with no regard to keeping myself aloof. I scramble to grab them, to hold them close to my chest and bury them deep, but it’s no use. They’re drawn to him as if he were a hypnotic flame, coaxing them closer and closer to their death.
I open myself up completely, spilling my hopes and dreams on the table for this man to scrutinize.
What has gotten in to me? I’m never this open, and certainly never this honest. What happened to my composure? Where was that professional and distanced personality that I was due to wear this night?
Regarding me intently, he leans forward, his eyes holding mine. His fingers reach across the table and rest on my arms, which have crossed in front of me in an unconscious attempt to hide myself. I have this terrible hate of my own body; a hate that’s only ever shed in the dim of night while wearing a personality that isn’t quite my own.
Gently stroking my forearm with his fingertips, he pulls my arms aside, exposing my body to him.
“You don’t have to hide yourself from me.” He says tenderly, his eyes piercing through my veil.
I blush, my words floundering on my lips.
“I’m sorry… It’s a bit of a habit.” I stutter. “I didn’t realize I was doing it…”
“I understand. Continue. Tell me about your work.”
“It’s, well honestly, I’m not very good at describing things in general. I haven’t prepared or rehearsed anything…”
He smiles and strokes the back of my hand with a single long, slender finger. The sensation turns my blood to ice in my veins then pours napalm on my skin. Everything is thrown into a heightened state. I can smell the faint aroma of cigars on the air mixed with the scent of wood, and feel the electric current jumping from his fingertips to my skin.
He waves for a member of the staff and orders a second drink for us, though I don’t remember when I finished my first. I glance over and see the lemon wedge sitting alone in its glass; the only trace of the cocktail is on my lips and tongue.
The night slips by in a flurry of colors and scents, the flame burning ever hotter between my thighs as he coaxes a confession about my secret little blog and previous work experience, for the sake of research, I assure him.
I don’t remember the second drink, nor can I place its taste or texture, or the way it coursed through my blistering veins. Every ounce of my attention is solely on him as his voice lulls me into a trance-like state, leaving me unable to break myself away. I don’t want to break away. I’m his puppet; his play thing.
“My dear Miss Roman, you have yet to tell me your first name.”