No Trespassing

by KD Robichaux

  Finally, as I turn the corner, finding the twenty-four-hour coffee shop I was unconsciously searching for, three of the five reception bars light up, letting me know I can text Mr. Hosea.

  Mr. Hosea, this is Dean. Letting you know I’ll be staying a couple hours longer. More to the tunnels than what the maps showed. No reception down there, so I won’t be able to respond after this message. Have a good night, and I’ll see you in the morning.

  I reread the message, making sure there are no typos—a habit of mine I’ve had since college—then press send. I figure it’d be better to ask for forgiveness later than to ask for permission, in case he were to actually try to tell me no. Best to avoid that conversation completely.

  “What can I get start—” The barista’s words cut off abruptly when she turns around and looks up at me. The familiar star-struck look overtakes the young woman’s face as she pushes her thick glasses up higher on her nose, probably trying to make sure her vision is perfectly clear. It is this face that always lets me know whether a person watches my show or not. It is the same face on both men and women, but from men, it’s because they are passionate about history, not my looks. Well… most of the time anyways. Not that women don’t like history or anything, but in my experience, my female viewers seem to enjoy watching me rather than learning about the places where I film.

  I smile at her like I don’t see she’s completely in shock at my presence at her counter. “Yes, could I get a large bold coffee to go please?”

  “Room for cream and sugar?” she squeaks, almost like she’s on autopilot. She hasn’t even blinked as she continues to stare at me wide-eyed behind her black-framed glasses.

  “Just a little room for sugar please.” I watch as she grabs a cup, places it under the large urn marked Bold, and then begins to fill it, making me nervous since she’s done all this without taking her eyes off of me. I’d feel horrible if she got burned. “Um, sweetie…” I nod toward her hands when the dark liquid reaches the halfway mark.

  “Huh?” she says dreamily, then finally breaks eye contact and looks down at the cup, jumping a little when she sees it’s almost full. Luckily, it doesn’t slosh, and she turns off the flow before it runs over onto her fingers.

  She covers it with a lid before handing it to me, and I hand her a twenty dollar bill. When she tries to give me my change, I point to her tip jar and turn toward the counter holding all the coffee fixings, stopping when she whimpers a quiet, “Would you…”

  Seeing her phone in her hand, and considering she apparently can’t form words, I put her out of her misery. “Sure, babe.” And just like I knew she would, she turns and holds her front-facing camera up, life coming back into her features when she grins ear to ear and snaps a selfie with me toasting the picture with my coffee, giving my practiced-to-perfection smile I’m known for.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Savageman! I’m a huge fan! I’ve never missed an episode! I can’t believe you’re in N’awlins, in my coffee shop. I can’t wait to see what this show will be about. There’s so much for you to document here.” This all came out in a rush, which is what normally happens after the initial shock fans have when I just show up somewhere wears off. I can’t help but smile to myself, thinking what a surprise she’s going to have when she realizes that all this time, she’s been working above one of the best-kept secrets in US history.

  “Make sure to tag me in your picture, okay?” I always ask fans this, enjoying the light that comes on behind their eyes. It makes them feel special. I may come across as a cocky asshole, but I do have a heart… somewhere in there. I know this, because it makes me feel good when I can make my followers grin like I just made their life.

  “Oh, I will! Have a good night, Mr. Savageman,” she calls excitedly, as I finish pouring sugar into my black coffee, replace the lid, and head out the door.

  My phone buzzes before a deep voice growls, “Mail, motherfucker!” letting me know I received a text and making me chuckle. My ringtone never gets old, Eurotrip being one of my favorite movies. I pull it out of my pocket and glance at the screen, not bothering to unlock it as Mr. Hosea’s message scrolls across my screen.

  Anything you need, Dean. Have a good night.

  Good man. I’m glad I had him to deal with, rather than the ogre who guarded the door to the catacombs like it held the Fountain of Youth in its depths. I shove my phone back in my pocket right as I reach the door to the unmarked building, pulling it open then locking it behind me, ready to explore the unmapped parts of the cavern two and half stories below.

  5 minutes earlier…

  UNLOCKED.

  How in the holy hell was this fortress, normally buckled up within an inch of its life behind three doors with multiple locks, left completely open?

  Am I that drunk? Am I dreaming? I think to myself, as I slowly, quiet as a mouse, make my way down the long hallway that came after the door I never made it through this afternoon. I keep glancing behind me, thinking this might be a trick. Is someone going to jump out with a camera and yell, “Psych”? Or worse, is there a cop waiting for me at the end of the hall, who as soon as I turn the corner will cuff me and drag me to jail for trespassing on private property in the middle of the damn night? I mean, because technically, it wouldn’t be breaking and entering. The front door was unlocked! Of course, I didn’t discover this until I tried using my bobby pin to turn the deadbolt like they do in movies, after nearly breaking my credit card in half in the crack by the knob, before becoming frustrated and just jerking on the handle. I nearly busted my ass in the middle of the sidewalk when the door came flying open. But no one has to know that.

  My heart thuds in my chest as I tiptoe the last few feet of the hallway, and with my back against the wall, I slowly peek around the corner. I breathe out a sigh of relief when I see no one is waiting there to jump out at me, but then immediately gasp, discovering the spiral staircase leading downward. I feel almost entranced as I walk forward and look down. My first step is hesitant, but as the air becomes thicker and that glorious smell becomes stronger, I end up galloping down the stairs, my hand keeping me steady as it runs along the stone wall, which has a string of lights running all the way down. When I reach the last step, my mouth falls open, and I plop down on my ass.

  Tear spring to my eyes; it’s so freaking beautiful. The giant gaping cavern is lit by a nearly invisible lighting system, which continues in the distance down three tunnels. It looks much more modern than the strung lights lining the stairs, as if it were put in recently. It would make sense, since they’ll need it for the documentary they’re about to film.

  I sit there for a while, just taking it all in. There’s not a single inch of the main room that my eyes don’t land on. I wish I had my camera at this moment, but at the same time, it’s kind of nice seeing everything just as it is, not through a lens. I’m able to get past not being able to capture everything on film, knowing Nox will be taking some pictures for me later. So for now, I just enjoy the glory of being here.

  I’ve finally done it. I’m actually here, inside a location hardly anyone on the planet knows exists. I’m seeing things that just a handful of people have seen in centuries. The excitement fills me up, boiling over as I jump up from the step, swing off my backpack, sweater, and purse, and start dancing around, pumping my fists in the air and shaking my ass, squawking, “Oh yeah! Oh yeah! I did it! I did it! I did it, did it, did it! Boo-yah!”

  I continue my victory dance around the perimeter of the cavern, doing the running man across the radius and back again, all while singing my “Whoop whoop!” and “Can’t touch this!” until I’m completely out of breath, and bend forward in the direct center of the room, bracing my hands on my knees as I pant, the grin never leaving my face.

  “Well, that was interesting,” that voice suddenly says behind me, and I let out a scream and fall forward, twisting just in time to land on my side rather than my face, knocking what little air I had out of me. “Oh, my God. Are you okay?” Dean rushes for
ward, sitting a large paper coffee cup on the ground before coming to bend over me. His hand touches my arm and I jolt. A feeling of static electricity shoots up to my shoulder then down into my chest, setting off what feels like the grand finale of a Fourth of July fireworks show.

  What… the fuck? I think, but all that comes out of my mouth is, “Ow.”

  Before I know what he’s doing, Dean scoops his arms beneath me, one behind my back and one under my knees, as he lifts me effortlessly off the ground. I gape like an idiot, seeing the face that begrudgingly haunts my dreams every night, so close to mine.

  God, his eyes are even more gorgeous in person. I can see specks of gold throughout his blue irises, reminding me of a cave that hasn’t been mined. His nose captures my attention next, making me want to trace down the bridge, where it looks like it might’ve been broken years ago. The tiny flaw seems to make him even more attractive, seeing he’s not as perfect as he looks on TV. My eyes travel downward, landing on his lips. So many days I’ve woken up, pissed that I’d subconsciously fantasized about that beautiful mouth of his, the bottom lip much fuller than the top, making me dream of nibbling it between my teeth.

  The thought pulls me out of my trance, reminding me the man holding me is my sworn enemy, the bane of my existence, the bringer of all my life’s frustrations, and I start to wiggle in his grip.

  “Whoa, calm down. You’re gonna hurt yourself again,” Dean says, and it adds fuel to the budding flame that is my temper.

  “One, do not ever tell a woman to calm down. No one in the history of ever has ever calmed down by being told to freakin’ calm down. And two—what are you doing down here?” I ask, sounding almost like I have the authority to be throwing out the question. I feel awkward standing there in front of him, having that restless feeling of not knowing what to do with my hands, so I begin brushing myself off, trying my best to ignore those beautiful eyes staring at me as I knock the dust off the hip I’d landed on.

  One side of his mouth lifts, along with an eyebrow, as he repeats, “What am I doing down here? I think that’s a question better aimed at you, love.”

  “Don’t call me that. I meant I thought…” I cut my words off, not wanting to out myself.

  His eyes light up with understanding, making me cringe. “Oh, you meant you thought I was supposed to be out by midnight.” At my guilty look, he adds, “Yeah, love, I saw you today. You were listening in on our conversation, huh?” When I don’t answer, he smirks. “Did we interrupt a little something-something going on between you and the big guy?”

  I gasp as my eyes widen. “What? No! I was…” I stop myself again, but I realize it doesn’t matter when he starts to chuckle.

  “I’m just kidding. I’ve seen you at enough sites now to know you’ve been trying to get into one. So tell me, did you make it this time?” he inquires, and I glance away.

  Right now, I could totally lie and say I beat him down here, that I’d gotten to see it all first before he showed up, stealing back the glory that was so close to being mine. But the thought of being dishonest about the discovery made my stomach turn. And the idea of lying to Dean himself didn’t feel right either, which confused the hell out of me. Who would feel bad about lying to the bad guy in their epic adventure tale?

  So instead, I popped my hip, placing my hand on it, as I said as haughtily as I could muster, “Obviously not. You just caught me in the middle of my happy dance, remember? Or are you so used to girls falling at your feet that you already forgot about scaring the ever-loving shit out of me?”

  He rubs the back of his neck, looking somewhat guilty, which surprises me, seeing how I always imagine him as being a heartless, cutthroat douche-canoe. “Yeah, sorry about that, love.” He clears his throat and a mask seems to pull over his face, and I see the Dean I’m used to viewing on my television screen. Cocky, sarcasm heavy in his voice, he adds, “I was just so enthralled by your amazing dancing ability that I didn’t consider you thought you were down here having a solo party in my catacombs.”

  “Your catacombs?” I squawk. “You… I…” I can’t even form a sentence I’m so pissed. How dare he call them his catacombs? I was here first! I might not have actually been down in them first, but I had been told stories about this place since I was little. I was the first one who showed up at their front door. I was the first one to smell their dense air wafting through that last locked door as it was opened before me. They were not his fucking catacombs!

  When I finally got the words unscrambled in my head, they came out in a bellow. “You site-stealing, dream-crushing, arrogant bag of dick tips!” I ignored his sharp, quick cough of laughter. “These were mine! Everywhere else you got in that I didn’t, okay, I was shit out of luck. I got there first, but you had the power to get in when I didn’t. Sucks for me. But this? This is personal, you jerkoff. My Gran told me stories of this place since before I can even remember, and you stole them from me! You weren’t even supposed to be here yet!”

  Absently, I hear a light rumble. They must be scrubbing the road above. It’s the right time of night for the trucks to make their passes up and down the one-way streets. My heart pounds in my ears as I try to control my growing anger. Any alcohol left in my system has dissipated by now, my fury burning it off like kerosene. I feel like I could rip Dean’s pretty eyeballs right out of their sockets for getting to see my dream site before me.

  I HAVE YET TO learn the name of the beauty before me, but she is absolutely stunning in her fury. She’s like an exquisite, ferocious feline, with her snapping green eyes and pearly white bared teeth. As she hisses and spits her angry words at me, I have to reach down to adjust myself before I tent my pants, and her eyes follow the movement, taking her vehemence to a whole new level.

  “You did not just do that! Are you seriously getting a boner right now?” she yelled, and the small tremor I’d heard previously sounded again.

  “Look, you need to calm—”

  She cuts me off with a screech. “Ugh! Did I not just tell you never to tell a woman to calm down? How about you un-swell your head enough to where you can actually listen!”

  The rumble grows louder, vibrating the ground, and my heart starts to pound. “Listen to me. Stop yelling. Do you not feel that?” I raise my arms a little, palms facing the ground, trying to center myself and get a feel for the cavern around us.

  “It’s just the street sweepers. Stop trying to change the subject and answer me! What gives you the right to come down here, calling these your catacombs? How do you keep showing up before you’re supposed to, thwarting every chance I get to actually make it into a site? And why the hell are you getting a hard-on, when I so clearly hate your guts?” she yells the last question, and this time, the ground begins to shake beneath us.

  Dirt starts raining down on us lightly, before a rock is shaken loose, causing a downpour of clay and dust. Without even thinking, I scoop up her bags, throw them over my shoulder, and practically tackle her as I pick her up in my arms, sprinting as fast as I can into the closest tunnel. We barely make it through its entry before the cavern starts to collapse behind us.

  I keep running, the lighting system flickering in the ceiling. I hadn’t had the chance to explore this tunnel, so I pray it leads deeper than the other one I’d wandered just hours ago. The dust cloud that will soon head our way will be a force to be reckoned with if we don’t get far enough away from it, and that is not something we want to have to deal with on top of being trapped down here like I know we probably are.

  “I DID THIS. I’m the most wretched human being on the face of the planet,” the girl says, repeating what she’s been chanting for the last twenty minutes as she sits next to the ceiling-high pile of boulders and dirt blocking the tunnel we ran through. Her cheek rests on one of the rocks as she strokes it apologetically, tears streaming down her now-muddy face.

  I don’t even have the heart to scold or share in her self-accusations. She’s doing enough of that on her own. She looks pitiful right now, c
ompletely brokenhearted, and I find myself wanting to comfort her, rather than make her feel worse about what’s happened. But I don’t dare try to make her feel better. The girl made it perfectly clear what she thinks of me, her disdain literally coming down on top of my head.

  So I just sit and watch her pet the boulders, listening to her cry about being the most epic failure in the history of archaeology, praying she doesn’t jostle anything loose that could fall down and hurt her. Thankfully, Mr. Hosea had listened to me a couple weeks ago, when I’d told him about the lighting system that needed to be installed for the show. Each fixture is independent, with it’s own power source, so we still have light since the whole system didn’t get knocked out.

  Which means I have the perfect view of her killer figure. The way she sits, pressed up close to the wall of what used to be the cavern’s ceiling, I can’t help but admire the curve of her ass covered by skintight jeans that encase her thin but shapely legs all the way down to her ankles, stopping at a pair of light pink Converse. The choice in shoe color surprises me. Her feistiness doesn’t make her seem like a pink-wearing kind of girl. She comes across more like the blood red of her purse she’s got cuddled to her generous breasts.

  When I’d finally stopped running farther into the tunnel, after hearing the last of the rumbling die down, I set her on her feet and held her steady by the shoulders while she shook with shock. I knew it was shock, because the first thing out of her mouth when she spoke was, “You saved my Kate Spade,” pulling her typewriter-print bag off my shoulder and hugging it to her chest. I mean, I didn’t know if it was normal for a woman to name her purse the way a man names his car, but in either case, she had to be in shock if the first thing she worried about in the disaster was her bag.