The items were displayed at the museum for about thirty years before being sold to a private organization, Bondye, Inc. Bondye? It just so happens that items associated with old world Voodoo from nearby plantations were purchased by a company whose name sounds very similar to a secretive Voodoo group? On instinct, I purchase the book and meet King back at the car.
Once we’re on the road, I tell him about my discovery.
“No shit?” He is quiet for a minute as he contemplates this. “Now, how do we find out who owns that business?”
“Well, any corporation has to register with the Secretary of State and that information is available to the public,” I say with a grin. “It should be as easy as going to the Louisiana Secretary of State website and searching.”
“Nice,” King says. I think he’s encouraged, but his tone remains calm. He stares out at the road ahead, his fingers tap on the steering wheel to the music playing. Valentine King is so hard to read, but it doesn’t stop me from trying to unravel the beautiful, cryptic man who sends my pulse racing.
9
“SO EVEN IF WE learn who owns Bondye, Inc., what are we going to do about it?” I ask, hanging my arm out of the window on our drive back.
“The way they’re already all over you, there’s not much you can do. We’ll have to convince someone to infiltrate the group for us or something. I may have to call in some favors,” King replies.
“I think the key here is finding out what happened the last time they were together. It might tell us what’s going on now.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s smart.”
When we finally get back to The Quarter, King is lucky to find parking just a block from my apartment. He kills the engine and we sit for a few seconds, looking out at the street before us. I trace the edges of the gift shop book on my lap for something to do. My stomach growls so loud, King grins.
“You hungry, girl?”
“I’m starved,” I answer honestly.
“Cool. I’ve got an envie for Clover Grill pancakes.”
“On-vee?”
We climb out of the car and step onto the sidewalk. “A craving,” King clarifies.
The more time I spend with him, the more he baffles me. I never know if his words are French or Creole, or even southern slang that I’m ignorant to. As much as I pride myself on acclimating to Louisiana life, I have a feeling that I’ll never fully close the communication gap.
On the short walk to Clover Grill, King explains what an icon the place is. Mostly for amazing hamburgers at low prices and being open 24 hours a day.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this vintage dive was not it. It’s a tiny place and packed, except for the last two stools we snag at the counter. The pink-tiled walls surround the room, only interrupted by doors and the large front window. There’s music playing and the two servers run around with plates and drinks while also taking the time to stop and dance it out when they meet behind the counter.
A guy in a Clover Grill t-shirt and hat stands before us holding an empty coffee pot. He greets me with a smile, but the way he eyes King makes me giggle.
“Hello my tall and gorgeous milk chocolate dreamboat. I bet you got that creamy nougat filling, don’t ya?”
I burst into laughter, slapping a hand over my mouth as King shakes his head with a smile.
“No offense, sweetheart. He’s clearly yours. But remember that sharing is caring. So, what are y’all drinking today?”
“Lemonade,” I say, still laughing.
“And I’ll just take an ice water,” King says, deadpan.
The waiter squints his eyes. “I bet you will,” he says, running off to fill our drinks.
“What does that even mean?” I ask.
King finally chuckles. “Who knows? That’s Joe. He likes to fuck with me every time I come in here. Last time he proposed with a ring made from aluminum foil.”
I gasp, pressing my hand over my heart. “And you said no?”
“As tempting as it was…” King says, trailing off.
I look over the menu and my stomach growls again as I read over all the typical diner food. There are quirky little quotes thrown in that keep it fun.
“If you are not served in 5 minutes, relax, it may be another 5. This is not New York City. Ha. This place is awesome!”
“Lemonade for the lady, ice water for the hottie,” Joe says, placing our drinks on the counter. “Now, what’s the grubs for the future hubs?” Joe gives an exaggerated wink.
King orders the famous bacon cheeseburger with fried egg and an order of pancakes while I order the 24-hour breakfast plate. Joe leaves us with a spin and a toss of his head.
“So, the way a person eats their eggs says a lot about them,” King says before swallowing down half of his drink.
“Really? So what exactly do my scrambled eggs say?”
King finally moves his sunglasses to the top of his head and those emerald eyes find mine. His face is held firm in that unique look that makes me feel like I’m the only one in the room. “That you like to play it safe and you like to do maximum prep for minimal effort.”
“Wow. All that, huh?” I ask, folding a paper napkin over and over until it’s a tiny square.
“Yes.”
“What about the sunny side up on your burger? What statement is that making?” I tease.
He looks out the window with the Clover Grill logo backed by a New Orleans sunset sky. “That I throw caution to the wind and clearly have a superior palette for egg consumption.”
“What about my hash browns? Do they represent oppression and my lack of musical ability?” I ask.
“Nah, those are just potatoes. But my side of grits represent my cultural dexterity and love for butter.”
“Everyone loves butter!”
King smirks as he reaches for the pendant around his neck. I notice that he never does it consciously, but he always rubs it twice and lets it fall back against his chest.
Soon, we are eating and loving every bit of it. The conversations at the tables around us and even Joe’s constant flirting disappears. I feel like we were the only two people on earth, sharing a meal and easy conversation. It’s so natural to lose myself when I’m with King, and I want nothing more than to lose myself.
“King!” a voice calls out from the door.
King swallows his bite quickly, his eyes lighting up. “Curtis! Hey, kid! How you doing today?”
A young boy, around ten years old stands between us. His red hair sticks up in every direction and freckles cover his face in a speckled pattern. He smiles at King, the way everyone does, but when he looks at me his eyes widen.
“I’m good. Haven’t seen you in a while. Who’s this?” Curtis asks.
“Sorry, man. I’ve been busy helping my friend, Laney, here.”
The boy glances at me again and nods. “Is she your new girl?”
“Nah, nothing that serious,” he answers. I hate to admit it, but that breaks my heart a little.
Curtis grins and pushes his glasses up on his nose. “Well, I gotta go. Sissy and Momma are waiting outside.”
“I’ll see you next week. Tell your mom I said hi,” King says, waving at a woman through the window. Curtis scurries off, wearing the biggest grin his cheeks can support.
I empty my drink, making a loud sucking noise with the straw to get the waiter’s attention. Joe sticks his middle finger in the air in my direction, but smiles and says, “I’ll be right there, darlin’.”
“I know Curtis and his family from the rec center I volunteer at,” King says. “Single mom with two kids, trying to make ends meet. I’ve pretty much watched Curtis and his sister grow up.”
I smile, my heart warmed. “You’re like their adopted dad.”
King jerks his head back and throws both hands up. “I wouldn’t go that far.—maybe the cool, fun uncle or something.”
King insists on paying for our meals, leaving a generous tip for Joe, and we head toward my apartment. We pas
s tourists shopping for souvenirs and teenagers looking for beer, two senior citizens resting on a bench, and a street vendor selling hotdogs.
For too long I tucked myself away in a dark, solitary existence—hiding from my mistakes. But right now, in this moment, I feel human again. Whether it’s my research, the city, or the man next to me, something here has changed me. All of it feels so normal and I feel proud that I’ve learned to exist again.
It’s not until we come across a group of young girls, that I become nervous. Without thought, I cross to the opposite side of the street, and keep my eyes on my shoes.
“Laney?” King questions, but I just shake my head. He follows silently, giving me a bit of space.
In the safety of my apartment, I let King boot up my laptop while I use the bathroom. In the mirror, once again, I try to talk some sense into myself.
“Focus on your work,” I chant until I can no longer stand the sound of my own voice. “Let go of the fear. Embrace the healing.” Rolling my eyes at my reflection, I can’t believe I’m quoting a fortune teller right now.
Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I ask King if he wants anything, but he declines. Taking a seat next to him on the sofa, I watch as he pulls up the Louisiana Secretary of State website.
“Are you okay?” he asks, giving me a glance as I sip my beer.
“Yeah,” I answer, but King’s gaze holds mine and I know he’s unconvinced.
He turns to me, his knee bent, his shin pressed against my thigh. I find it easier to breathe and harder to concentrate when Valentine King is touching me.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I look away, draining my beer and setting it down on the table. His eyes appraise me and I’m surprised to see no pity there. Why should I talk about it? I’ve talked about it over and over and nothing ever changes. I’ve talked to my family, to my friends, and eventually a therapist. None of it mattered. None of them were able to erase what happened. And the worst part was none of them even tried to hide that look of shame and disappointment I became so familiar with.
I close my eyes and lay back on the couch in an effort to clear my head. I feel King shuffle, but don’t open my eyes. I just can’t watch him walk out on me and my ridiculous crazy.
I gasp, my eyes shooting open, when I feel the weight of his body press down on me. King rests on his elbows, caging me below him. His eyes stare into mine, looking so deep I feel like all my secrets are not mine anymore.
“So much hurt,” he whispers. “Tell me.”
Unable to look away, I simply blink, trying to clear my vision. His lips turn down in a frown and I want to kiss the corners to lift them, hating that I’m responsible for it. King’s hands slide under my back and I feel him trying to pull the confession from me.
“I can’t,” I say.
“Let me in, Laney. Let me help you.”
His words break my last resolve and I lean forward, crashing my lips to his. For a moment, I fear that I’ve made a huge mistake, that the timing is wrong. But King responds in an instant.
Not wasting time, his warm, soft tongue traces the edge of my bottom lip and I open up to him. We taste each other and hum in satisfaction. I can’t get enough, like a drug that I need to kill the pain, King makes me forget. My hands move to his hard body. The more I feel of him, the more I want. It’s euphoric and unfair. He molds his body to mine and shifts his hips against me. We both moan into the quiet room.
I feather light kisses along his neck, loving the taste of his skin against my lips. King smells like coffee and leather. I want to live here, in his space, and never leave.
“Laney?” I ignore him and continue. “Laney?”
“What?” I mumble, my lips still pressed against his shoulder.
“We have to stop.”
My light disappears and I spiral into shame. Dropping my hands from his body, I cover my face in embarrassment.
“Hey,” he whispers as he sits up, nudging my chin so that I’ll look at him. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” I peek through my fingers to see King adjust his crotch. “Believe me, I want to. It’s because you’re deflecting. You’re ignoring what’s really going on in that pretty head of yours.”
I sit up and slide my hands beneath my thighs to keep them still. “I think you should go.”
The words fly out of my mouth before I stop them. I recognize my voice, but that is not my will speaking. King huffs and pushes off the sofa. I don’t watch him go, I can’t. All he wants is for me to open up, but I can’t allow that. So now, I’m the asshole. In the scheme of things, I’d rather him hate me for this than for him to find out anything deeper.
“Fuck!” I shout into the empty apartment, frustration boiling in my veins.
I look over at my computer and see that the Louisiana Secretary of State Corporation Database website displayed. Sliding the laptop in front of me, I type in Bondye, Inc and then click on the details button. When the screen finishes loading, I read through the information, looking for anything recognizable.
I read the name three times before I can believe what I’m seeing. Listed under Registered Agents for Bondye, Incorporated, is the name Cassandra Duvernay.
Cas?
10
I SIT, STUNNED, ON my sofa staring at the computer screen. I barely notice the shadows and light that slide across my floor as the sun sets and gives way to night. Could it be possible that Cas—the scatterbrained lady who talks to herself and her cats more than other people—is a member of the Bondye Saints? The more I think about it, the deeper I sink into dread.
My first reaction is to call King and tell him the news, but after what just happened between us, I can’t bring myself to do it. On top of the Bondye Saints and Cas Duvernay, I am a complete mess about possibly losing my only ally in New Orleans. More than I fear for my life or care about my dissertation, I care that I might never again hear my name from his lips or feel the strong grip of King’s hands on my body. The darkness—as King and his family call it—creeps back in. This time I feel it, I am aware of it.
Heavy dreams fill my head, leaving me tossing and turning until early morning. Finally, when the sounds of the city starting a new day echo up to my ears, I am able to fall asleep, somehow feeling safer now that the world is awake.
I distract myself with timelines and organizing my research notes into folders on my laptop for two days. I wake, eat, work, sleep, and repeat, all the while trying to not feel sorry for myself. Sifting through my handwritten notes, I wonder how long I can keep this wall up around myself. How long will it be until I’m so lost that I can’t be found?
I wake to a loud pounding noise Tuesday morning. Still jumpy from my dreams, my heart thunders against my chest as I sit staring at the door from across the room. The pounding rocks through the stillness of my apartment again as I manage to drag myself toward the sound.
I check the peephole and find King leaned against the wall, his face turned in profile. I jump back as if he can see me and smooth down my tangled hair. When I finally open the door, he pushes past me, and slams the door closed. He locks the knob, turns the deadbolt and slides the chain into place before leaning against it. I stand, dumbstruck at his display.
“This is pas bon, Laney. Not good at all. I had a really bad feeling the whole way here. I felt like I was being followed.” He shakes his head, raindrops flinging out onto me. “Who do these fuckers think they are?” he asks.
King throws himself down on my sofa, draping an arm across the back. His legs are splayed, with one Converse kicked up on my makeshift coffee table. While his words seem worried, he remains the cool, calm, and collected Valentine King everyone knows.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him and retreat to the bathroom.
I use the restroom, wash my hands, brush my teeth and change my t-shirt before reemerging. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I bring it to him. He just shakes his head and I am at a loss as to what to do next. So, I take a seat on the sofa and wait.
I give him a tiny smile and nod. Even when telling the harshest truth, he makes it feel like a compliment. “I didn’t sleep much.”
“Me either,” he admits.
“So, what happened?” I ask.
King stretches out his legs and leans back against the arm of the sofa. “Nothing really happened. It’s just some bad juju. Something ain’t right.”
His fingers rub over the pendant at his neck before dropping it and looking up at me.
“This is such a mess,” I mumble.
“What’s a mess?” he asks. “The way I want you? The way you’re in my dreams every night since I met you?” My breath stalls in my chest and I lace my hands together to keep from reaching for him. I want to warn King away, tell him that I’m too damaged, that I’ll only ruin him. But as much as I believe those things, I can’t bring myself to say them. Maybe I’m selfish or desperate, or maybe he’s exactly what I need. Either way, I’m not going to keep myself from finding out.
King sighs and continues. “Or is it the prophecy of your death? The way my family begs me to stay away from you or the way I can’t seem to? Add to that a secretive Voodoo group out to keep us quiet by any means possible?”
“Yes, on all accounts,” I breathe. “I’m a mess. All of this is a mess. And there’s also the fact that the registered agent for the Bondye corporation is Cassandra Duvernay.” King looks at me, his brows heavy over serious eyes. “Cas,” I clarify, pointing to the floor, indicating the bookstore below us.
“Oh, that’s fucking icing on the cake.”
“Yeah,” I huff, scrubbing my face before pulling the band off my wrist and tying my hair up into a messy bun.
Both of us sit, unmoving, in stunned silence for a few minutes. The only sound is our rhythmic breathing and the drip of the kitchen faucet. I feel jittery, like my brain is going to implode.
“We need a plan,” King says, his long fingers tapping out a rhythm on his knees. He meets my eyes and sees what I need. King holds one arm out and waves me in. I nod and slide across the sofa, tucking myself into his side. I am instantly calmed by the feel of his body and the way his arm curls around my shoulders.
King Me Page 10
