“What is it that you want?” she asked him, knowing she was being reckless, flirting both with Gabriel and danger.
If a certain small part of her wanted the excitement of hearing him say “you” she should have expected that didn’t mesh with what she knew of Gabriel’s personality. He wasn’t a charmer, nor was he always obvious.
“I want to solve a murder. Then do it again.”
Of course he did. So did she. But it still felt deflating to hear him say it so baldly. Which was ridiculous. She had no intention of engaging in any sort of affair with him.
“Then I’ll be free to pursue other things I want.”
And that was all it took to re-ignite her desire.
* * *
Sara had envisioned Bourbon Street as a sort of really long pub crawl, and while that was accurate, nothing had prepared her for the assault of sound, smell, and sights. There were people everywhere, walking in and out of bars and clubs, talking, laughing, spilling drinks, grabbing beads thrown off of balconies, and groping each other companionably. Music poured from every direction, spun by djs and played by live cover bands. Lights blinked and flashed, splashing across the dark, humid night, bright and raucous, yet somehow never entirely penetrating the corners and side street shadows.
“Hey, how about a lap dance for your lady?” a doorman said to Gabriel with a wink.
Gabriel shook his head. “No, thanks.” But then he turned to her. “Unless you want one.”
“Uh, no.” Definitely not her thing. Though looking around, she was starting to wonder what was her thing. She’d been pelted on the head by a set of Mardi Gras beads, which hadn’t really been all that fun. She was wearing them now over her t-shirt to blend in a little. To try to embrace the experience. What experience remained to be seen. Gyrating to hip hop wasn’t her thing any more than a lap dance was, though she did like to dance to classic party music. She had an odd fondness for eighties music, probably because her mother had enjoyed blaring Journey, Boston, and Whitesnake her entire childhood. Somehow though she didn’t see herself jumping out on the dance floor in her denim skirt, t-shirt, and ballet flats with Gabriel.
It was too loud to have a real conversation. Which left drinking and people watching. Gabriel gestured they should go in to a bar, so Sara forged ahead of him at his urging, picking her way through the crowd until she reached a bar stool. The bartender asked her what she wanted and she ordered another glass of chardonnay. Before she could even open her purse, Gabriel had paid for it, brushing aside her protests.
“Thanks. Aren’t you getting a drink, too?” she asked him. Sara realized that while she’d had several glasses of wine throughout the night, he had only been drinking water.
He shook his head, putting his wallet back in his pocket, and lifting the glass of wine to hand to her. “No, I don’t drink. I’m an alcoholic.”
Sara almost fell off the stool, her shoes slipping on the rung they were resting on. “Oh, God. I had no idea. I’m sorry.” She instinctively snatched the wine glass out of his hand, horrified that she’d been flaunting temptation under his nose all night long.
But Gabriel laughed. “I wasn’t going to chug it or anything, I promise. I haven’t had a drink in years.”
“That’s good.” God, what was she supposed to say? They practically had to yell to be heard over the music anyway. “But we didn’t have to come here if it’s uncomfortable for you.”
“I’m fine. I’m in control, Sara. It’s not even uncomfortable for me.” Strangely enough, Gabriel found there was truth to that. It wasn’t the alcohol that was tempting him. Even though he could smell beer, could see plastic cups filled with wine, tubes of shots, and containers filled with the infamous New Orleans hand grenade in the hands of people all around him, he didn’t have the urge to drink. What he had the urge to do was to touch Sara. To sweep his fingers across her soft skin, to move his body in closer to hers, to press his lips along the corners of her ripe mouth, and close his eyes while they brushed, connected, and reached for a tactile solace, a reminder that they weren’t alone.
They were both lonely. It was obvious. He had known that about himself, fought the sense that he existed removed from the world around him every day, and Sara wore the same fear in her eyes. She had a naked vulnerability, hidden behind her strength and determination, but when she looked at him, it was there. She liked him. Desired him. Was afraid of her feelings.
So was he.
And yet they were in a crowded bar, and it felt like it was just the two of them. He leaned on the bar next to her stool, indulging himself by letting his knee brush against hers. She sat up straighter, moving her leg away. Then shifting it back, like she had decided to defy her initial instinct.
“If you want to leave, just let me know,” she said.
“Not until I see you dance.”
Sara rolled her eyes. “Then you’ll be standing there awhile. I’m not going to dance.”
“Why not? You obviously want to. Your foot has been tapping to the music since you sat down, and you’re practically bouncing on the stool.”
It was a Bon Jovi song playing, which was not music that particularly moved his soul, but Sara seemed to like it.
But she shook her head. “No. I’m not going to dance by myself.”
“There’s other women out there already.” At least a half dozen women, and one random guy, were flailing around in front of the small stage.
“No. Quit it.” She tucked her blond wavy hair behind her ear and straightened her spine.
But then the band starting playing ACDC and Sara made a sound, her shoulders wiggling rhythmically to the beat. Gabriel felt her struggle, her desire to stay reserved, to hold herself in control, and it bothered him. He was wondering what she would do if he just pushed her out on to the floor, when the problem was solved by a woman wearing a purple and gold feather Mardi Gras wig. She shimmied over, grabbed Sara’s hand, and gave her a big, friendly “get out here” nod as she tugged her off the stool.
Sara protested, but the woman was determined, and thirty seconds later, had Sara next to her out on the dance floor. For a second, Gabriel thought Sara would bolt and head back to her stool, but her shoulders relaxed and she swayed to the music, laughing with her new companion.
Then she was dancing, hair sliding forward, hips moving in her short denim skirt, arms out at her sides. Gabriel stared, his mouth dry, as the lights from the stage turned and reflected over Sara, as she gave herself up to the rhythm of the music. Her smile was full, genuine, and she glanced back at him, shrugging in amusement.
It was arousing to watch her come alive, to shrug off her reticence and embrace the entertainment. To put herself on display and not worry what everyone was thinking. Gabriel suspected she never did that, not anymore. Not since her mother’s death.
She was beautiful, tantalizing.
He hadn’t had sex in seventy-five years, and his body wanted her aggressively, painfully.
He couldn’t have her.
* * *
“John, where are you going?”
Gabriel glanced back at Molly, who had sat up in her bed, her hair disheveled, her face anxious. She was pretty and enthusiastic, and he’d had her twice that night, a desperate attempt to soak his senses with pleasure and forget. Eradicate the horrific memory of Anne, emasculated and still, from his mind.
But Molly was getting irritating. “I’m going home.”
“No!” She leaped off the mattress with a dexterity that was impressive given she was naked and tangled in bed sheets.
Gabriel hastened to pull his trousers on, head pounding, hand shaking. He needed a drink. His own bed. Now that he had sated his physical needs, the sound of Molly’s voice grated on his nerves, and he wanted to be alone with his absinthe, wanted to climb to a higher place, then crash down into his bed and sleep until he could find the strength to open his eyes and start this all over again.
“Spend the night, Johnny. I’ll make it so worth your while.” Her f
ingers slid across his chest and her mouth came towards his.
Turning his head to avoid her lips, he reached for his shirt. It was smothering, this kind of attention, devotion. She hadn’t seemed such an emotional sort when he’d taken up with her, more out of convenience and opportunity than any real interest.
“No, I’m going home.”
She burst into tears, loud and wet, and he was appalled. Molly stood there, stark naked, her rosy breasts heaving up and down, her hands reaching for him, eyes pleading. “Say you’re coming back tomorrow.”
“I don’t know.” He shoved his arms into his wrinkled shirtsleeves. “I don’t know.”
This had clearly been a mistake. He had only been seeing Molly for a week, and sporadically at that. He hadn’t expected her to get the wrong idea. He was not interested in dramatics, in a permanent sort of arrangement. It had only been two months since Anne’s death, and he wasn’t ready to attach himself to another woman.
He suspected he had loved Anne.
Her hand grappled at his arm. “Promise me you’ll be back tomorrow. I can’t go a whole day without you, I just can’t.”
The vehement statement was so odd, Gabriel found himself pausing to glance down at her tear-streaked face, her dark brown hair tousled and sticking to her cheek in disarray. “Why on earth not?”
“Because I’m in love with you,” she said passionately, leaning her lower body flush against his. “I have to have you.”
Gabriel reared back in horror. There was nothing about him worth loving. Not one thing.
He had done nothing to encourage, to deserve, such exalted emotion.
“You’re not in love with me. The very idea is ridiculous.” Gabriel stepped into his shoes, dodging her fingers, as she got a grip on his waistband.
“I am! You can’t say that I’m not. I will die if you don’t come back tomorrow.”
That overwrought and childish proclamation, that mockery of life and death, disgusted Gabriel. Breaking free, he moved forward, not wanting to touch Molly, not wanting to use force to hold her back, but needing to get away. “You’re not going to die, and it’s offensive to me that you would suggest such a thing in light of what we have all endured in grief for Anne.”
But the chastisement had no effect on Molly. She threw her head back in defiance, pulling her hair off her cheek, chin thrusting up. “I’m glad Anne is gone. If she hadn’t died, you never would have come to me. And all I want is you.”
Gabriel grabbed his coat and fled, slamming the door behind him on her tears, his heart pounding. The encounter had been illogical, but he was too raw to decipher it.
He’d go home and have a drink.
Everything always made more sense after a drink.
* * *
Mrs. Jane Gallier
117 Esplanade Avenue
New Orleans, Louisiana
Mr. Jonathon Thiroux
34 Royal Street
New Orleans, Louisiana
17 December, 1849
My Dearest John,
I know it is somewhat improper for me to be writing you in such a forward manner, but I have not been able to prevent myself from contacting you. I am entitled to some leeway given my status as a widow, but I know it is still not the thing to engage in correspondence with you. However, it has been three days since I have seen you, and I cannot bear your absence any longer.
I was compelled to write, to express my extreme disappointment in your sudden eviction from my presence, and to ask you most sincerely, most ardently, to allocate time in your busy schedule to pay your addresses to me today.
Perhaps you are painting. I admire and respect your artistry and do not wish to interrupt. However, it was my understanding that since we embarked on a new, more intimate relationship, that we would be spending time together. I feel sorely used, I must say, and neglected now that I have given myself to you. I had thought you better than that, better than so many selfish and insensitive men who charm and flatter a woman merely to gain her bed, than discard her carelessly. If that is what you have done, I admit I was fully duped, and may you feel a sickening and painful shame, along with the sting of my hatred, for such illicit behavior.
But, dearest John, I mustn’t chastise you. That is not you, I know that. You are different, I am convinced of it. I do not mean to scold, to put such unkind motives and character flaws upon you, even though I am hurt and quite lonely. You no doubt have extensive and important demands that must come before me. I am not a young girl, and I harbor no illusions about romance or promises a man makes. Yet, I must tell you that I have never felt the way that I feel about you. It is humiliating, but I find that if necessary I will beg you–yes, beg–that you pay your respects in person as soon as is humanly possible. I cannot bear the thought of even one more day without your touch upon me, without your lips coaxing me to such exquisite pleasure.
I cannot get enough of you, John, and I will go mad with want if you do not return to me immediately. I wait most desperately for return word, or better still, to see your face outside my door.
With love and longing,
Your Jane
* * *
Gabriel’s back hit the wall in the alley, and he glanced right and left, the view spinning from drink. Holding onto the bricks for balance, he tipped his head back, closing his eyes, as the street whore he’d visited the last three nights went down on her knees in front of him.
There was a sharp chill in the air, but it just added to the sting, to the over-heightened sense of his legs struggling to hold him upright, the cloud of confusion that swirled around in his brain.
This one would be different. This was a hardened, angry woman, with filthy fingers and missing teeth. She wouldn’t want anything more from him than his money so she could buy herself whiskey, or a bit of bread to eat. There would be no communication, no expectations, no professions.
And he could ease his panicked mind.
Swallowing hard, his mouth dry, missing the bottle he’d emptied a full thirty minutes earlier, he tried to enjoy her ministrations, tried to pretend that his stomach wasn’t rebelling in disgust at what he was doing.
But it was, and he wanted to turn and toss its entire contents onto the fetid, sewage soaked cobblestones. Taking deep breaths, he focused on his cock, on the warmth that surrounded it, on the base human throb that rose from deep inside it, and grew to a feverish pitch with the strokes of a hot tongue. It had nothing to do with his head, his heart, but sought only guttural release, and he forced himself to distance, to focus, to let his body take what it wanted.
He was grateful the event was quick and to the point, absolutely relieved that his body cooperated, and she was rearranging his trousers in less than two minutes. He wanted to go home. Prying his eyes open, he held his hand out to her, so she could rise off the street.
The sudden coy smile on her face startled him. “You’re an odd one, ain’t ya?”
It was only the second time he’d heard her speak, and her voice was high in pitch, but rough. Gabriel shrugged, fumbling around for a coin to give her, his fingers ineffectual, shaking.
“Same place tomorrow?” she asked, straightening his coat in an oddly tender gesture.
Gabriel felt his alarm returning. He was about to say no, he wouldn’t be seeing her the next day, when the street-hard whore, who had probably lost her place in a bordello due to bad temper or excessive alcohol consumption, brushed his hair back off his face with her filthy fingers.
“A body could fall for a strange one like you. Please say you’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll do it for nothin’.”
“No, that’s not necessary.” He didn’t even want her physical attentions. It had been to prove a point to himself, to show that what he suspected to be his punishment was merely a figment of his fanciful imagination.
But her fingers gripped the front of his shirt. “Please say you will. I like the way you taste. I been thinkin’ ‘bout you all day.”
Oh, God. Gabriel felt the automati
c plea rear up in his mind, though he knew he was not going to receive any help from that quarter. He was fallen, so deep and dark down in the pit, that he had been given the ultimate punishment beyond banishment from heaven. He had been given the curse of having his flaws emulated in the women he encountered.
“I’ll do whatever you want, just let me be with you, love you,” she said, eyes red rimmed and desperate, greasy hair tumbling over her shoulders, callused hands running along his chest.
And he knew it was true. This was his punishment. Every woman he had an intimate physical relationship with grew to crave him, to desire him the way he longed for his absinthe.
He was addicted to alcohol and opium, and they were addicted to him.
It was overwhelming in its horror, and Gabriel shifted left, moved out from under those smothering, clinging hands, and stumbled down the street, ignoring her pleas, the pounding of her shoes as she followed him, chased after him.
There would be no more women, ever.
Chapter Six
“Are you sure you don’t want to stop in anywhere else?” Gabriel asked, as they walked down Bourbon towards Dumaine.
“No, I definitely need to call it a night.” Sara couldn’t believe she’d danced as long as she had. Gabriel must have been bored out of his mind sitting there with his ice water while she danced through an entire band set.
But it had been so much fun, so liberating to just move to the music. To not think, to not worry, to just feel. To interact with people in such a casual, anonymous way.
She sighed, fingering the strand of beads around her neck. Lack of sleep and the wine was catching up with her, making her weary, but in a pleasant, content way. “Thanks for taking me out. I had a good time, and I appreciate you suffering through a boring night to show me Bourbon Street.”
“It wasn’t boring at all,” he said. “I enjoy your company, and I like to people watch.”
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 38
