by Maggie Ryan
“Really? Oh, that’s fantastic!” Laurie kissed him and then jumped off the bed to hug Quentin and kiss his cheek. “You’ll love it, I promise. Grace is fantastic!”
“I’m sure she is,” Quentin said. “What time do I need to pick you up?”
“Eight sounds good, but you won’t have to walk far,” she said, lifting her left hand and wiggling her fingers. “Just down the hall, in fact.”
Quentin didn’t know how he could have missed the diamond on her finger. “Well, hell, when did that happen?”
“Just a few days ago,” Laurie said, reaching down to entwine her fingers with Brody’s. “If I’d known all it took was some rather spectacular drugs…”
“Hey, I proposed when in my right mind,” Brody said. “Seeing my life flash before my eyes as I fell off that cliff, well, I realized that it wasn’t worth…” he paused and then continued, “I knew that if I wanted the best medical care, I’d get it from my loving fiancée.”
Quentin knew that hadn’t been what Brody was about to say, but didn’t call him on it. “Congratulations, I couldn’t be happier for you both.” When he saw her snuggle closer, he stood. “I’ll leave you to tuck the big boy into bed.”
“Wait. Honey, grab my keys, would you?” Brody asked, motioning to the rolling bed tray. She had it open when Quentin spoke.
“No need, unless you’ve changed the locks?”
Brody grinned and shook his head. “Nope. And, a man who keeps keys on his key ring isn’t ready to shut those doors, my friend.”
Quentin lifted his hand in a dismissive wave. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Right before he stepped through the door, he turned back with a grin. “And, while I rarely can say this, you’d better be a good boy and do whatever Nurse Laurie commands.” His words drew laughter from them both, and he managed to keep the smile on his face until he was out in the hall. He’d prepared himself for returning to the club but had not once considered that he’d have to be more involved than a simple overseer.
In the parking lot, he climbed into his truck and then sat without starting the ignition. He’d agreed to help and yet wasn’t sure how much of a help he would be. Finding no answers, he turned the key and pulled away from the curb with a deep sigh. As much as he wanted to turn around and head back down I-10 to disappear into the Atchafalaya swamp, he had given his word. Weaving his way from the hospital through the labyrinth of streets, he couldn’t help but admit that he could practically feel the blood in his veins begin to rush.
It had been a long time since he’d visited New Orleans proper and yet the scene remained the same. Tourists who had no idea which streets took them into the heart of the action clogged the roads, and horns blared, adding to the din of sound rolling through his window. Turning down a narrow side street, he maneuvered his way towards one of the oldest parts of the city. He left the truck in idle as he got out and unlocked the wrought iron gate that spanned the back driveway. He pulled through, jumped down once more to lock it behind him, and then drove to what had once been a carriage house but was now a garage. After parking, he climbed out of the truck for the last time, giving a whistle as he looked at the silver Jaguar that took up the other half of the garage. He grinned as he lowered the tailgate of his truck to maneuver the motorcycle down. Just as he loved vintage bikes, Brody loved vintage sports cars. The refurbished Indian Sport was his favored method of transportation where traffic was often congested and parking spaces scarce.
Looking towards the house, he decided to leave the duffel bags for the time being. Now was as good a time as any to start paying back the debt he owed his friend. Returning to the truck’s cab, he opened the glove compartment and retrieved a small jeweler’s box. Opening it, he looked down at the ring that would gain him unlimited entrance even more so than his keys. Sliding it onto his finger, it felt both foreign and familiar. He unlocked the small gate and stepped through. If he were going to do this, he’d do it one step at a time.
Walking around the corner, he shook his head. It still amazed him that no one strolling outside the fence or eating in the restaurant would suspect what really happened above their heads. The house was located on a corner and took up more acreage than most of its counterparts. His first grin came as he imagined the tour bus narrator spouting how southern belles were once escorted around the grounds by the elite of New Orleans society and served mint juleps on any one of the large verandas that encircled the house. He and Brody had spent a great deal of money restoring every brick and stone after purchasing the house a decade earlier. Massive magnolia trees filled the courtyard, their blossoms sweetening the humid air and competing with the rich spices that wafted out when the door opened to allow an older couple to exit. Their smiles and the gift bag clutched in the woman’s hand guaranteed they’d enjoyed their visit. He again had to smile at the irony. He’d been a bit unsure of Brody’s plan to run more than one business and yet he couldn’t deny the man’s genius. Doing so allowed anyone who visited the city to enjoy great food in the front restaurant, and shop in the adjoining souvenir shop to purchase anything from t-shirts and Mardi Gras beads to bottles of Sammy’s special hot-sauce and packets of his spices to try to replicate the dishes they’d enjoyed. The address might well be one of the great old homes to see, the restaurant touted as one of the best for authentic Cajun cuisine, but only those who had been carefully vetted and who could afford the high price of privacy for their chosen play would ever make it above the first floor.
Chapter Two
Walking into the restaurant, he discovered every table was full, and people were chatting while patiently waiting to be seated. Waitresses scurried between tables, carrying trays full of red plastic baskets filled with mouthwatering dishes and tall glasses of tea, or any one of a wide variety of beers. The hostess gave him a big smile. “Welcome to Sammy’s. I’m sorry, the wait is about a half-hour but I promise the food is worth it.”
“That I know,” Quentin said, “I’m not here to eat…”
“Quentin!”
A shrill voice had him looking up and breaking into the first real smile since he’d left his cabin.
“Hi, Hannah.”
“Hi? Come over here and give me a squeeze.” The young hostess giggled as he obediently stepped around the stand, went to the older woman, and lifting her off her feet, he gave her not only a hug but a resounding smack full on her lips. “Laws, put me down!” Hannah demanded, swatting at his arm and yet never once losing her ear to ear grin. “Oh, Sammy is gonna be thrilled to see you!” Before Quentin could speak, she turned towards the kitchen to bellow, “Sammy! Get out here, you old coot. Come see who’s kissin’ your gal.”
Quentin heard several people chuckle and a couple actually gasp as a man appeared, his body taking up most of the doorway. Sammy Breecher had been a beloved linebacker for the one season he’d played for the Saints before he blew his knee out. The move had averted what would have been the opposing team’s game winning touchdown but had meant the end of his career. His positive attitude and commitment to giving back to his community had ensured his fans would praise him for his cooking just as they had for his ability on the field.
“Stop that hollerin’, woman,” he demanded, reaching the couple and bending to pop his wife’s backside before he threw his arms around Quentin. “It’s about time you got your skinny ass home, son.”
“It’s good to see you,” Quentin said, barely flinching as the man’s ham sized fist pounded him on the back. Though they were both about the same height, Sammy outweighed him by at least fifty pounds—none of it fat.
“Come on back,” Sammy said. “You hungry?”
“With all that food you sent with Laurie?” Quentin said, rubbing his flat stomach. “You keep feeding Brody like that and we’ll have to roll him out of that bed.”
Sammy’s laugh bounced around the room as they stepped through the door. “Just doing my part in keeping him happy. Not much else the fool can do.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll thin
k of something,” Hannah said, giving them both a look that had the men grinning. “Now, I don’t want to hear another word. I’m bringing you a big piece of pie.”
“Thanks, Hannah, that is something I could never refuse.” It was the right thing to say as the woman would never admit it, but he knew she secretly adored the fact that her pies were famous.
“Make that two, and coffee,” Sammy said, leading Quentin toward the small office at one side of the kitchen. “This good, or would you rather go into the other dining room?”
“This is fine,” Quentin said, knowing the man referred to the private dining room that took up the back of the building. Taking a seat, he said, “I’d ask how business was going but from the waiting line you’ve got, I’m guessing it’s good.”
“Can’t complain,” Sammy said, rising to his feet when Hannah entered carrying a tray. “Thanks, darlin’.” He took the tray and gave her a kiss on her cheek. Quentin smiled. The couple had met in kindergarten and had, in their own words, never given another soul a single glance.
After she left, the two men dug into the huge pieces of pecan pie, sipping on the chicory coffee between bites.
“Seriously, son, I’m glad to have you back. Brody will never admit it, but it’s taken a toll on him, running the place on his own.”
“I know,” Quentin said with a sigh. “I never really expected him to refuse to buy me out or allow me to sell to another. It was almost too much for the two of us, and if the reports of the club’s success aren’t exaggerated, how he’s managed is nothing short of a testament to his dedication.”
“They’re not,” Sammy assured him. “You think the waiting line out front is long then you should ask to see the waiting list for membership. Brody refuses to allow the membership to become too large unless you two agree to expand the club or move it. That man has just been waiting for you.”
Quentin was silent for several minutes as he finished his coffee. “I’ll tell you what I told him. I’m here, but I’m not planning on staying. It’s just too hard.”
“Hell, son, life is fucking hard. You don’t get to crawl into some hole like a mudbug. You grieve, then get up and move on. You’ve got an awful lot of living to do yet, and it would be a damned shame if you did that living alone. Hannah would tear you a new one if she thought you were going to take the easy way out.”
“Easy? I promise, it hasn’t been easy,” Quentin said, a bit of anger coming through in his tone.
“We all lost Beth,” Sammy said bluntly. Finishing his own coffee, he set his mug down. “I know it ain’t easy but, Quentin, you can’t keep blaming yourself. There wasn’t a damn thing you could have done.”
“I should have kept her safe,” Quentin said softly.
“You couldn’t have known she’d choose to ignore your request she either go with you or stay home. And she couldn’t have known that by choosing not to do either, she was gonna pay with her life. Yes, it was horrid and yes, it hurts and will always hurt, but it wasn’t your fault.”
Quentin disagreed but kept his thoughts to himself. He’d never be able to stop wondering whether if he’d only taken the plunge and asked her to marry him, would she have said yes and agreed to go with him that weekend? Instead, he’d backed down, his gut telling him that while he thought he loved her, he wasn’t completely positive that she was as committed to him and their chosen lifestyle as she portrayed. Beth had gotten angry that the proposal she’d expected on their anniversary hadn’t come. The moment he left town, she’d gone out, and never came home. Her body hadn’t been found for almost two months… months that had threatened to destroy Quentin.
He still wasn’t sure what had been worse. Being suspected of murdering the woman he’d considered asking to become his wife, or being left to wonder what had happened to her. Records showed she’d been at the club that night but no one remembered seeing her. Their security checked people in by their use of the rings but, at the time, hadn’t required a fingerprint as well. That had since been changed. Only the fact that several people testified that he’d been in Texas had kept Quentin out of jail, though he’d spent hours answering the same questions again and again.
A hunter stumbled across her body in the swamp and she’d only been identifiable through her dental records, her ring and the braided leather bracelet on her wrist. A bracelet that Quentin had made for her. Looking down, he realized he was twisting an almost identical ring around his finger. How could he move on when he felt such a weight of guilt that it threatened to smother him at times?
He wasn’t aware that Sammy had moved until a hand descended on his shoulder. “I didn’t say it will be easy, but the first steps never are. Just take it one step at a time, son. You’ve got people who love you and are here to help.”
“I know,” Quentin said, realizing his friend was echoing his own words of earlier. He reached up to cover Sammy’s hand with his own. “Thanks, Sammy, thanks for being here.”
“Never gonna go nowhere else,” Sammy said. “This is where Hannah and I belong… where you belong.”
Weariness descended on Quentin as he stood and Sammy seemed to know it. “You get settled in. Take another step tomorrow and another the day after that. I promise, one day you’ll be walking into the light again.”
Quentin managed a nod and went back out the front and around the building. It would have been faster to step through the door from the kitchen and take the elevator, but he wasn’t in a great hurry and admitted he needed the time to gather his courage again. Grabbing his duffel bags from the truck, he went to a door at the back of the building. Draping the straps of the bags over his shoulder, he pressed the raised insignia of the ring into a depression and laid his right thumb onto the adjacent pad. The lock clicked and he pulled the heavy steel door open to take his first step back into a life he’d sworn he’d left behind forever.
***
An hour later, he was out of excuses. After unpacking, which took him all of ten minutes, he’d walked around his suite of rooms, glad to see that while they hadn’t changed, someone, most likely Laurie, had made sure nothing was left to remind him of the years he’d called this wing of the house home. There was fresh paint on the walls and new linens and towels. The color scheme was clean and the décor uncluttered. Anything that had belonged to Beth had been taken away, except for the one photo he’d found remaining on his nightstand. He wondered how many times it had been removed, only to be returned as Laurie fought to decide whether or not to keep it in place. He’d sat on the bed, the frame in his hands, for several long minutes. It was as if he were waiting for the smiling woman’s expression to change into one of accusation, of betrayal. When she remained a frozen reminder of a woman whose life had been cut short, he took the frame with him. He wasn’t ready to let go but couldn’t imagine falling asleep with an actual memory so close. He had enough trouble with the memories in his head.
Placing the frame on one of the shelves holding books he’d read or had planned to read, he walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Smiling, he removed a beer and popped the cap with his ring. Holding the beer up, he said, “Thanks, Laurie.” After taking the last sip, he took a shower, changed into a pair of black trousers and pulled on a leather vest over his black t-shirt. Out of excuses, he left his suite and walked to the elevator that was between his and the opposite suite that Brody called home. Brody and Laurie, he corrected himself as he entered the elevator. When the doors opened, he stepped into another world.
He stood for a moment, just looking around as if to acclimate himself to the environment. The hostess stood waiting, allowing him to approach her, though her puzzled look had him knowing she was wondering how he’d come upstairs. The elevator used by clients was at the other end of the hall. This one was reserved for only his and Brody’s use.
“Hello,” she said as he walked towards her. “Welcome to Plaisir.” He saw her eyes drop to his hand and widen as she saw his ring. “I’m sorry… I know I’m supposed to know everyone, but…”
“Relax, it’s fine. You can’t be expected to know me. I’m Quentin Doucet.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Ellen. What can I do for you Master Doucet… or is it Master Quentin?”
Again he fought the urge to say it didn’t matter. Protocol was protocol and he needed to remember that for the time he was here. “Master Doucet will do,” he said, not really surprised when a little voice in his head asked when he’d become such a formal asshole.
“Ah, I might not recognize you but I know the name. Again, welcome to Plaisir, Master Doucet.”
“You know, let’s make it Master Quentin, all right?”
He had to give the woman credit as she didn’t question his apparent indecisiveness.
“Yes, Master Quentin.”
“Thank you, Ellen.” He was about to explain his presence when he realized he wouldn’t on any other night. Nodding to her, he stepped around the hostess station and pulled the open ledger from beneath the counter. “Busy tonight?”
“Yes, sir. Members are beginning to call earlier in the week to reserve space in one of the theme rooms and the private rooms. Saturday nights are busier but Fridays seem to be giving them a run for their money. I hate to disappoint those members who don’t call early…” Her words broke off. “Forgive me, I’m usually not so chatty… I’m just a little nervous…”
“Don’t be,” Quentin said, sliding the book back. “You’re doing just fine. Meeting the client’s expectations is invaluable and I appreciate your concerns.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Quentin managed a smile as he moved towards the door, his ring and thumbprint again giving him access. Turning the knob, he took another step back into what had been his past. They had gutted the entire third floor and the space was huge. A bar sat to his left and, from his quick glance, was doing a good business. There were several seating areas scattered around it and a large space behind, where a few couples were dancing. He grinned thinking he’d be able to hear the same music in a bar down the street and yet was quite positive the dancers would be wearing far more than some of these women were. Bourbon Street might see tourists who’d had one drink too many lifting up their shirts to flash their tits in hopes of having strings of beads showered upon them, but the women in his club were often totally topless and if they wore jewelry, it was quite often in the form of their master’s collar around their throats or pretty little clamps swinging from tightly compressed nipples.
