by Zoey Castile
Violet has a head of wild dark-red hair that falls down her back. I’d say that she’s wearing a vampire costume, but on her it looks like it’s her everyday clothes. A black corset and black patent leather pants. Dozens of metal necklaces around her neck and wrists. Her eyebrows are pencil thin, and her lips are pitch black. She holds her hand out to me.
“Nice to meet you,” she says in a husky voice. “Glad Faith has an excuse to join one of my vampire tours.”
“Vampire tours?” I ask, taking Faith’s hand in mine. “I can’t say I’ve ever been to one. Have you been doing this long, Violet?”
She lifts a shoulder as if it’s no big deal. “Went to school for history, but after I graduated I came here for a summer and I never left. The only thing I’m good at is memorizing things.”
“She’s modest,” Faith says. “Vi has a catalog of little-known history from all over the world. But now she specializes in New Orleans stories.”
Violet takes a pocket watch out and flips it open. She counts the crowd gathered around her and returns the watch to her pocket. The streetlamps cast yellow light around us. I tug Faith a little closer to me, and she grabs hold of my forearms with both hands. I’ve seen Robyn do this to Fallon when they stand in line to go to a game, or waiting for the subway. Like I’m her anchor this time.
“Ready?” she asks, and all I can do is nod because I don’t trust myself to use my words just yet. I’m basking in the glow of her cheekbones, the earth brown of her eyes.
I press my thumb to the base of her jaw, touching that cute freckle, and then we’re off. Her hands slide down my arms and because neither of us let go, we link our fingers together. As Violet leads us down a dark street, she talks about the history of New Orleans, the legends of vampires that might have and might still roam this city. The cobblestone streets and alleys leave so much to the imagination. I’ve never been into things like this, but I remember thinking Aaliyah was the hottest woman on earth when I watched Queen of the Damned.
This is the strangest date I’ve been on, not because of the subject matter, but because Faith and I aren’t talking. Whenever I do date, the goal is to see if we like each other enough to spend the night fucking. Sometimes we skip the date part to the end.
Violet talks about a group of women called the Casket Girls, who were sent over to New Orleans to become wives, and are now the basis of vampire legends in this creepy-ass convent. Faith watches her friend and the reactions of the other people. Some might be too tipsy to actually pay attention, but there’s something in Violet’s voice that makes the hair on my arms stand up. Faith seems to notice and rubs my arm.
Her touch sends all kinds of signals throughout my body. It’s like I’m a pinball machine and every time she puts her hands on me, I’m all frantic light and sound.
“Scared?” Faith asks.
I lower my mouth to her ear. “Only if it means you’ll protect me.”
She smiles widely, and we walk a little faster, getting left behind each and every time because we stand too long, stare too long at each other.
I want to kiss her in the middle of this haunted, dark street, and I want to press her up against a wall. See if her heart is beating as quickly as mine.
Violet gets to a building on a corner with metal posts and a balcony that wraps around the corner. One of the lampposts is burnt out here, leaving us more in shadow as she tells the story of Jacque St. Germain, who was a ladies’ man, wealthy as fuck, and threw tons of parties. Only at his parties he wouldn’t eat anything, only drink out of a goblet. To be honest, this is what Fallon was like before he met Robyn. Only instead of a goblet, it would have been a Solo cup. Anyway, St. Germain brought a prostitute up to his house one night, and the lady then jumped off the balcony and onto the same street where we’re gathered. She said he bit her neck enough to break skin. The next day, St. Germain was gone, and when the police raided his apartment, they found bottles of wine that were mixed with blood.
This city is so fucking weird.
But when I look at Faith, I know that it’s also beautiful. Unexpected. Just like she is.
Toward the end of the tour, we stop in a small dive bar. A woman in her late fifties, with the voice of someone who has a shot of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes a day, greets us. Faith and I trade in our vouchers for the shots of tequila.
She makes the cutest face when she bites down on her lemon. There’s a bit of salt on her lip, and I don’t know if it’s New Orleans, or the adrenaline beating my heart senseless, but I bend down and kiss it from her.
She chases my mouth with hers, and then we’re full-on kissing. A flash of lightning hits outside. The rumble of thunder. She jumps, like she’s only just realizing that we’re in a public place, that people are watching us. She lowers her face and tucks her hair behind her ear.
“We should go. Everyone is outside.”
Vi smirks at us as we exit the bar. “All right, it’s about to pour, but the next stop is our final one.” She launches into the story of a pirate left caged above the church during a storm. The next day, the cage was empty and still locked.
Faith’s hand finds mine, and we walk the rest of the way like this. I cling to her like a drowning man to a raft. And when the tour is over, I know that I should pull her aside and do the thing I promised to do. Tell the truth. Come clean. Be a good man.
But when she says, “Do you like jazz?”
All I say is “Lead the way.”
* * *
Faith and I hop into a cab and take it to Frenchmen Street. It’s the middle of the week, but the bars are bursting with all kinds of people. Music spills past every door we pass. Jazz, reggae, all sorts of horns and drums that have my feet wanting to split into a dance.
Man, I’ve missed music.
The way the sounds make me feel like a marionette, every single one of my muscles reacting to the rhythm and beat of a song.
That’s when I hear it. The sway of the music I grew up with. Faith tugs on my hand because I’ve stopped in front of a tiny bar. I can see the band against the wall. A bunch of old men with white pants and Panama hats. Saxophones and congas and guiros. One of them has a beaded Puerto Rican flag around his neck. A small crowd is dancing to the salsa, but most of the people there are sitting around the bar and watching.
“Do you want to go in?” Faith asks.
I flash a smile and then we’re inside the bar.
We weave through the small crowd. I can’t stop my shoulders from bouncing to the song. It strikes a chord instantly because I remember it. One of my mother’s favorites, a cover from a Colombian band. The feeling is overwhelming, and I have to push it down.
The bartender slides two napkins in front of us, a lanky young guy with a short blond Afro and a septum piercing.
And I don’t know if it’s the tequila I had on an empty stomach or the nostalgia of the music, but I say, “Dos margaritas, parse. Sorry—”
He looks at me with wide eyes and cuts me off. “Parse? Qué hubo, paisa?”
We make the same strangled cry because we recognize each other as Colombian. He takes my hand and shakes. “Just passing through or new in town?”
The music gets louder, so I don’t have to answer this question. “Aiden.”
“Javi.” He throws a bar towel over his shoulder and takes up a set of shakers.
“Do you know each other?” Faith asks.
I shake my head. “No, but he’s Colombian.”
“Did you recognize that from a word?” She looks amused.
I smile into her hair and nod. This is perfect. I have the perfect girl. The perfect bar. If I could capture this moment and this feeling forever, I’d have no reason to leave.
“Even when I was a kid, I didn’t grow up around a lot of Colombian kids. When we moved to New York, my tía Ceci was always working and my mom was sick. I mostly stayed in the apartment building.”
“There weren’t kids your age?” She swivels on her barstool. Whoever invented these has my
praise forever. Her knees are between my legs, her fingernails tracing circles on my thighs.
“There were. I grew up around kids from everywhere. It was mostly a Caribbean neighborhood. But I always had to explain my accent. So every time I meet someone from Colombia I get a little overexcited.”
“No, I get that. I did a summer program in Boston once. Every time I saw a Black girl in the room we’d make eye contact. Like, you good? We good.”
“Why were you in Boston?”
She lifts her hand to brush her hair out of her eye. “It was a land conservation summer program.”
“I think the only reason I’d ever be back out in nature would be because of a beautiful girl.”
She smirks, like she’s trying to reject my flirtation with the cute wrinkle of her nose.
We watch each other for a moment that stretches into infinity. I can feel it wind around us like a cord. So tight that I can hardly breathe. I don’t like this feeling. I don’t want this feeling. It’s like being hit in the gut over and over again. The salsa band’s song hits all the high notes, my heart thumping along with the rhythm, her fingers tapping out the same beat against my thighs.
“Toma, hermano,” Javi says, pushing the drinks toward us. “On the house.”
“Thank you for being Colombian,” Faith chuckles.
“It’s a blessing,” I say. “What should we cheers to?”
She thinks on it. “To Colombia. For giving me Aiden Peñaflor.”
Peñaflor. A name I never use, but the one I’ve given her. My lies are snowballing into each other, and the only one who can stop them is me.
“Thank you,” I say instead and squeeze her thigh with my free hand.
A horn blares, and the light dims a little bit more. Faith’s stunning features are highlighted by neon lights. Her brown skin is incandescent in this light, a vision in the night. This is my world. Night clubs and sex and money. Hers is in the sun, among trees, with brunches and banquets.
But both of our worlds also have music.
“I love this song,” I say, standing with her hand clasped in mine. “Dance with me.”
“I don’t know how.” She tries to be demure, but I’ve felt the way she kisses and the way she tastes. I’ve seen the spark in her eye.
“I’ll teach you,” I whisper in her ear, and I feel her shiver against me.
I place both hands on her waist and guide her. We move to the push and pull of the trumpets, her feet are fast and mimic each of my steps. I give her a little push. Hold my arm out and she reels back into me, against my chest. We sway together from side to side, until I turn her in place. Press my hand on her lower back. Her heat radiates against me. Her mouth is slightly open and inches from mine.
I want to kiss her.
I want to bury myself inside of her.
I want to worship the ground she walks on.
But instead, we just dance.
The song comes to a head, sweat trickles down my spine. My heart runs laps around my chest, as I hold her, tilt her toward the ground. Her hair spills back, her eyes searching mine as the lights go out.
And in the dark, she finds my mouth with hers.
9
When You Put Your Hands On Me
FAITH
Kissing Aiden in the dark sets my entire body alight. I could power this entire club with the heat of his body against mine. The sway of his hips grinding against mine to a song I don’t know the language of, but I understand every word nonetheless.
There’s a flutter between my legs as he slides his hands from my waist, around my hips, and he cups my ass. I dig my nails along the fabric of his shirt as if I could press him any tighter. If that were possible, then we’d be fused together in the pitch black of this club.
The music cuts, replaced by the chatter of the crowd, the metallic clinks of instruments. Apologies for the blackout. The rain. Something about the electricity coming back. Something that isn’t about Aiden’s lips on mine.
He comes up for air first, breaking the kiss to tease his teeth in the crook of my neck. I hiss against him.
“Did I hurt you?” he whispers in my ear, his face buried in my hair.
I kiss his ear, tug on his earlobe. “Do it again.”
It’s so dark I can’t see him. Someone is talking about staying calm. But I’m not calm. I’m pushing him against a wall. Someone brushes past us, trying to exit. There’s a flashlight guiding people out the door.
But I don’t want to leave. I want to stay in this hidden place, my fingers exploring his hot skin under the sweat-stained shirt. I reach lower still. I find his erection.
“Faith,” he sighs against my mouth.
I love the way he says my name. The way he reacts when I touch him. When I look at him. It’s a strange sort of power to have. I keep one hand on his abdomen and lower myself to my knees. I rake my nails against his thighs.
I kiss him through his jeans. His fingers grab hold of my bare shoulders. Maybe it’s the dark. Maybe it’s the cacophony around us. Maybe it’s the thrill he gives me. But I unbutton the top of his jeans. Tug the zipper all the way down. I hear the intake of his breath. His dick strains for release as I press another kiss there.
“Come here,” he says, everything about him hurried, from his hands pulling me up to his mouth parting mine. His tongue searching. His fingers running a line between my legs, wetness soaking through my jeans.
“I want you,” I tell him.
Then, a flashlight beams near us and we shake apart.
It’s the bouncer. He keeps the flashlight pointed at the ceiling. Which I’m thankful for because my lipstick is probably smeared all over my face. “Everyone out! The storm’s cut the power.”
I head in the direction of the light outside. The entire street is dark. Some sort of power outage. I’ll have to call my mom in the morning.
“Wow, it’s the whole block,” Aiden says.
The bottom of his shirt barely covers his still-open jeans. He keeps an arm around me, and I do my best to put myself together, fix the shoulders of my blouse.
Police sirens ring from the distance.
“You can’t be here,” he says. “Come.”
We weave through the people in the dark. There’s a fight somewhere. People pushing each other. This can get ugly real quick. Aiden keeps his hand firmly around mine, pushing his way past other silhouettes.
But I tug on him. “I have to make sure everyone is okay. If my mother were here, she’d do the same thing.”
He sighs, brushing the side of my face with his fingers. “No offense, but you’ve got lipstick all over your face and mine.”
I dig through my purse to find a face wipe and use the flashlight on my phone as a mirror.
“Do you also have a Swiss Army knife and an inflatable tent?” he asks, chuckling.
All of my lipstick comes off. There’s a rumble up above, and that’s when the sky breaks open and it begins to rain.
“I’m not leaving you here by yourself.”
I look up at him. My eyes adjust to the dark only just, but I can make out the slope of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose. My heart makes a strange squeezing sensation. “Let’s go.”
AIDEN
I get back to the hotel by myself in a daze. Faith is unbelievable.
When the police chief arrived, they set up a barricade with high-powered lights. In the middle of the street with nothing but rain, somehow, they managed to get an evacuation route for everyone.
The police chief recognized Faith and shook her hand. She spoke to him briefly. It didn’t feel right intruding, so I hung back under the mist.
Soon enough a couple of news vans arrived, but the street was blocked off, so they all clustered in a corner and tried to interview the police chief, people standing and waiting for the rain to pass.
An officer offered us a ride back to Faith’s house, but neither of us wanted to explain why we were leaving together, so I lied and said I had a car on the next street. That I had
n’t gotten a chance to drink, so I was stone-cold sober.
That’s when things got awkward. A reporter in a long brown trench and a wrap around her head ran up to Faith, shouting, “Miss Charles! How did you happen to be at the scene of the blackout?”
Faith looked over her shoulder. “I decline to comment.”
The woman looked familiar. I don’t remember where I saw her before. “Did your mother send you here? Who’s your friend?”
That’s when Faith turned around. “Perhaps instead of trying to talk to me, you should ask Mayor Moreaux why this is the third power outage of the month.”
The reporter looked at me, tilted her head as if she, too, recognized me.
Satisfied with whatever she got, the woman went away. It took an hour and a half, but Faith and I walked all the way to her house.
We could have called a cab, but the rain had stopped and the breeze was warm. We didn’t talk much. To be honest, I don’t know what I would have said. But even in her silence, I could feel her anxiety over what she’d snapped at that reporter.
It’s not my world. Not my place to tell her what she should say. She handled it a lot better than I would have. When we could hear the teeming sounds of the Quarter I put her in a taxi.
Just before she closed the door she said, “Tomorrow night?”
And I said yes. Of course I said yes. If it hadn’t been for that blackout, what would have happened? I replayed the intensity of the way I wanted her.
When I walk through the doors of the Hotel Sucré, I’m arrested by the cold air pumping through the lobby, which is probably a good thing.
“Mr. Buenos Aires,” a small voice calls from the front desk. The young receptionist is alone and filing through papers.
“Yes?”
“You have a message from Ginger Thomas.”
I try not to deflate at her name. Ginny. I keep forgetting about Ginny. Fuck.
“What is it?”
The girl slides a piece of paper across the counter and doesn’t seem to be able to look in my eye.
I shove the paper in my pocket and head for the elevators. But what I see when I get there stops me cold. A poster of an upcoming show. Was it always there and did I miss it? No, it had to have gone up today.
