Hot Nights, Dark Desires

by Eden Bradley

  “Yes, I know it.”

  “What? You’re kidding. Barstow is a nowhere town. How have you heard of it?”

  “Fort Irwin Army Base is just north…shit.”

  “You were in the army?”

  His face went dark, his eyes shuttering. “No.”

  She didn’t understand what had just happened, but she knew better than to pursue the subject. A mystery about this man. That was fine with her; everyone had their secrets. Maybe he’d tell her more someday. Maybe she’d tell him hers.

  “Well,” she went on, talking over the momentary discomfort, “I always wanted to get out. Needed to get out. I left when I turned eighteen, put myself through college at UCLA waiting tables.”

  “Ah, I can see you as a student.” That small dimpling smile again, just one side of his mouth, she realized. “What did you study there? What was it like?”

  “I was an English major. I loved it, going to school. But I left before I got my degree. After a while it got to be…too much. Too structured. And I wanted to travel. I felt like…like time was running out. I mean, I was twenty years old, but I needed to just go.” She sipped her chicory-laced coffee, the brew deliciously bitter. “Have you ever felt that way?”

  “I’ve felt that same need most of my life.”

  “And where have you gone, Tristan?”

  He shrugged, his broad shoulders moving beneath the tight black T-shirt, the dragons tattooed on his arms coiling, writhing. “Everywhere, as you said. I left home when I was young too. I traveled. Europe, mostly.” He stopped, his eyes staring into the distance over her shoulder, and once more something dark passed through them. The muscles in his jaw worked, clenched. Then he seemed to shake it off. “I studied art over the years. Not formally. I went to the museums, to galleries. I hung out on the streets of Montmartre, talking to other artists, learning to really draw. Several of them were kind enough to mentor me. And then I went to Japan and learned the art of tattoo.”

  Another delicious shiver, just hearing that word on his lips. “But you came back.”

  He nodded. “I always come back. When you’re born in New Orleans, it’s in your blood. This city is always a part of you.”

  “And are you here to stay?”

  He picked up his mug of fragrant coffee and sipped, taking his time. “Yes. This time, I am. That’s why I opened the shop.”

  “What’s different this time? What made you decide to do something as permanent as opening a business?”

  She watched his fingers tighten on the worn white mug. She was immediately sorry she’d asked. But whatever it was, he recovered quickly enough. “My mother died. She was the last of my family. It was time to come home. Her death made me realize the impermanence of things. And I wanted some permanence, for the first time. I was tired of running from it.”

  “I’ve never wanted that. Not yet anyway. Maybe someday I will. Although I love this city so much, I don’t know that I’ll ever want to leave. I’m in love with New Orleans really, in a way I’ve never been before anywhere else. But to see some of those places you’ve been to, I’d love to do that. I’ve lived all over the United States—in Arizona, in Washington, Colorado, Florida. But the only times I’ve left the country were to go to Canada and Mexico.”

  He took her hand in his once more, and heat flashed up her arm, came to settle in the center of her body.

  “I’d love to show you Paris, Sophie. Paris is the perfect place for you.”

  She laughed. “How can you say that? You’ve just met me. You don’t even know me.”

  “Ah, but I do.”

  That smoky gray gaze caught hers again, and she saw something in his eyes. Something dark and intense. And she knew immediately that he did know her, in some unfathomable way. She had always wanted to see Paris. Her entire body gave a long shudder, and she drew in a shaky breath.

  What was this man doing to her?

  Whatever it was, she wanted more. Craved it, needed it. Needed him.

  “Tell me about the tattoos,” he said quietly.

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “It’s more to you than it is for most people, isn’t it?”

  Her cheeks went hot. She looked away. A group of teenagers were hanging out across the street at the entrance to Jackson Square, smoking, punching one another as teenage boys often do. She couldn’t remember being young. Not in that way.

  “Sophie?”

  “It’s…the tattoo thing is…important.” She looked back to him. His dark gaze was on her, steady, unwavering. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “I know it’s important to me. The art of it. The symbolism of decorating the human body that way.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I think it’s even more for you.”

  “Yes.” The word came out on a whisper. She could not tell this man what the tattoos truly meant for her!

  Too much, too much.

  She wanted to run away. She wanted to stay there with him even more.

  They sat quietly for a few minutes.

  “Sophie, I have to get back to work. But I want to see you. Will you come to the shop on Monday?”

  “Yes. I’ll come.” Her stomach fluttered.

  “I want to show you the graveyards. To show you Saint Roch.”

  “Saint Roch. Yes, I’d love to see it.”

  “Good. I have to go, but you should stay and finish these beignets. They’re too good to waste.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and laid a soft kiss there. Heat surged in her system once more, traveling to the vee between her legs. She grew damp, shaky. From his touch, from the mere sight of the ink on his skin, covering his forearms.

  “I’ll see you Monday. Come in the afternoon. We close early on Mondays.” He smiled, tossed some bills on the table and left.

  She watched as he moved through the crowded patio, in between the tables. Incredibly graceful for a man of his size. He moved like an artist, with an awareness of everything around him.

  Monday. Two more days. They would drag interminably. But perhaps she could use that time to get her head sorted out, to get her feet back on the ground. Because this man made her float, as though she were ten feet in the air. The only thing that brought her back to earth was the pervading sense of guilt she normally lived with every day. It was absent whenever she was with him, which scared the hell out of her. And more powerful than ever when she was alone.

  She knew it was the tattoo.

  She’d done it, and she was glad. She loved it. Yet at the same time, that sense of having sinned weighed her down. How was it that she gloried in the sin, even as she regretted it? It was a puzzle she might never figure out, a dichotomy she struggled with every day of her life, that keen awareness of good and evil. Crystal had talked to her about balance, something Sophie had been searching for but never found. Some way to rectify the good and the evil within herself. And it was all worse now, since she’d gotten the tattoo. So much worse. Tristan made it worse. Because every thought she had about him reeked of the very sin she’d spent her life trying to cleanse herself of.

  But if Tristan was all about sin for her, then she was happy to be a sinner. No matter how heavy a price she had to pay.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  For two days Tristan had forced himself to focus on his work. Two of the longest days of his life. What the hell had gotten into him? And here it was, Monday afternoon, and his gut was knotted up and all he could think about was her.

  He could not get the image of that long, dark hair out of his mind, and in every picture he was running his hands through it as it slipped between his fingers like strands of silk. He could get hard just thinking of her hair. What was that about?

  He realized with a jolt that if she decided not to come into the shop today, he didn’t even know how to reach her. He’d gone against policy and had tattooed her the other day without having her fill out a form first, without her having signed a release. S
he’d really twisted up his head.

  They hadn’t set a time and he jumped a little whenever the bell on the front door rang. And he’d had too few clients today, not enough to keep him busy. He’d already cleaned his station, restocked his cabinets, ordered supplies he didn’t really need. Now he was hanging around the front desk, rearranging pens, looking at the appointment book over and over, as though it held some kind of answer. Pathetic, that a woman could do this to him. It had never happened before. He’d never allowed it to happen. Never let anyone get too close.

  Something about Sophie made him all soft and loose inside. And he wanted her in there with him. Except that inside was a very dark place he couldn’t share with anyone. No, that was his burden to carry alone.

  A pang of guilt that he hadn’t gone to Sainte Benedictine’s this month. Or last month. The one cemetery in the city he avoided. There were some days when he could not do it. Couldn’t face it. But Sainte Benedictine’s wasn’t going anywhere. Nor was Phillipe or Maman. He would go next week, he promised himself. And knew it was a lie.

  Bastard.

  Yes, he was. But there was only so much one man could do. At least, that was how he justified things to himself on days like this, when he found himself incapable of facing his past.

  The door jangled and brought him out of his moody reverie. His pulse skittered.

  Don’t be a fool, Batiste. She’s just a girl.

  Then she walked in, and he knew that was a lie, too.

  Yes, that long dark hair that hung to her waist, her eyes a mysterious blend of green and gold, like a dragonfly. And her mouth too lush and red to really look at. He glanced anyway, going hard beneath his black jeans. How much longer could he resist before he kissed her?

  But it would never be enough. He wanted to get her naked, to touch her all over…

  “Hi, Tristan.” She smiled, her face lighting up. Christ, she was fucking beautiful.

  “Hey. You came.”

  “I told you I would.”

  “Do you always do everything you say you will?”

  He meant it to tease her, but she took her time, thinking about it. “Usually. Not always. Some things that come out of my mouth are more wishes than reality.”

  He loved her answer. He didn’t even know why. Maybe because it was so honest.

  “Did you come to go to the graveyard with me?”

  “Yes. I brought a notebook. Will you think I’m foolish if I take some notes? Is that too…bourgeois?” she asked with a small laugh.

  “Not at all. I always take my sketch pad. Give me a minute and we’ll go.”

  Sophie waited while Tristan disappeared into the back room. He was only gone a moment, but it was enough for her to let her lashes flutter closed, to draw in a deep breath of his scent lingering in the air. Male and ink and sex. He came back quickly, and she had to open her eyes, trying to appear normal even though her heart was hammering, the blood running hot and fast through her veins. And between her legs was an insistent, throbbing ache.

  “Let’s go.” Tristan moved past her to hold the door open, and they went out to the street.

  Outside, Tristan swung his leg over a large black BMW motorcycle Sophie had noticed on the way in.

  “This is yours?”

  He grinned and patted the tank. “One advantage of settling here. Do you mind riding on the back of a bike?” Tristan handed her a black helmet.

  “No, I love it, actually.” A small shiver inside as her mind played back the old images of Rory on his bike. “I’ve always wanted to learn to drive one myself.” She put the helmet on and buckled the strap beneath her chin.

  “You should do it. There’s nothing like it, that sense of freedom. When I feel too closed in from staying in one place, I go for a long ride and work it out of my system.”

  “You really are a wanderer.”

  He smiled, held out a hand to help her onto the seat behind him. She slid into him, her thighs on either side of his. This close, she really got an idea of how enormous a man he was. She could feel every solid ridge and plane of his back hard up against the front of her body.

  He started the engine. “Hold on.”

  He reached for her hands and slid them around his waist, held them tight over a stomach taut with muscle, her breasts crushed against his back. She nearly groaned.

  And then they were off, weaving in and out of traffic, in between the sleek Cadillacs and Mercedes the old-guard New Orleans crowd loved so much, the more modern compact cars and the old streetcars on St. Charles Avenue.

  They got onto the highway, the speed of it giving her a small thrill, pressed up against Tristan’s body, the heat of him coming through their clothes. And the vibration of the powerful engine beneath her, thrumming between her thighs. Her sex went damp, swelled, while she tried to concentrate on the view flashing past on either side. Impossible.

  Too soon they were exiting, turning onto a wide street that led to a smaller one, until they approached the high walls of St. Roch. The stone was almost white, bleached with age and the sun, the years of New Orleans heat and humidity. But even here, the bougainvillea and vining lantana grew in a profusion of color, a stark contrast against the old white walls.

  Tristan parked the motorcycle at the curb. They both got off it, pulling their helmets off. Tristan took hers and hung both helmets from a bolt under the seat, locking it.

  “This place isn’t safe, Sophie. Don’t ever come here by yourself. Promise me.”

  “I promise.” She felt ready to do anything he asked. But there was also a warm, lovely surge that he was so sincerely protective of her. Odd, after her years of independence. But she couldn’t help herself.

  They walked up the sidewalk to the entrance, an arch of black ironwork between two enormous stone pillars, topped by a pair of praying angels.

  “Saint Roch, Campo Santo,” Tristan said, reading the words worked into the scrolling iron. “This place is dedicated to Saint Roch. They say the saint’s divine intervention saved the people of New Orleans from a yellow fever plague in the eighteenth century. It’s one of the few cemeteries honoring the living as well as the dead. In the chapel there’s a room full of relics: crutches and leg braces, plaster castings of hands and feet. It’s bizarre. The strangest sort of altar. They say voodoo rituals were practiced in that chapel, that it’s haunted. We can see it later, if you like.”

  “Yes, I’d like to see it. I’ve heard about it. I think it’s fascinating, these sorts of rituals people go through. I think all of us can relate, on some level. That we all have our rituals. I’m not even certain there’s that much difference between the Catholic rituals and the voodoo rituals, in the end.”

  “I agree.” He paused. “You’re a very interesting person, Sophie. I like the way you think about things.”

  He smiled at her, and she had the oddest sensation of…she wasn’t sure what. Connection? So strange that they were having this conversation about the cemetery, about old saints and voodoo, and she felt they understood each other on this weird level. Maybe it was something about being artists, about being creative people?

  They walked beneath the archway and down the wide main aisle of the graveyard. On either side stood rows of the old aboveground graves, stone and marble blocks with gorgeously inscribed gravestones topped by crosses and angels. Some had small iron gates around them; some had stone pillars, short staircases and marble urns, like the entryways to miniature mansions. It was a little spooky, which she liked. But it was also a little romantic.

  God, she must be losing her mind.

  When she turned to glance at Tristan she found his gaze on her.

  “What?” She was self-conscious suddenly, that he’d found her daydreaming over the graves.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  She relaxed inside. “Yes. Beautiful and fascinating. Doesn’t it make you wonder who all these people were? How they lived? How they died?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly it, the sense of history
in this place. And the colorlessness of the stone, the starkness of it. It’s lonely.”

  “Yes, but the stone is gorgeous, and not really colorless, if you look closely.”

  He laughed. “Don’t ruin my illusions about the lack of color. That’s what I love about it.”

  “Ah, yes, I almost forgot. You like to work without color. Black and white.”

  “And shades of gray, yes. Sort of a statement about life.”

  “Maybe. About parts of life, anyway. I like to think there are moments of color, though, don’t you?”

  He was quiet a moment. “Not nearly enough of those.”

  She saw again those shadows passing over his face, and wondered once more what his secrets were. Something he held close. None of her business, really, but she wanted to know about Tristan—who he was, what had made him into the man who intrigued her so.

  They moved down the aisle toward the small chapel at the end. The sky was gray overhead, adding to the sense of quiet isolation, to the monochrome color scheme of the day. Yet the warm humidity of New Orleans was still there, sultry and damp. Sophie could feel the slightest veil of moisture on her skin.

  “Do you want to explore the chapel now?” Tristan asked her. “Or look at the graves?”

  “Is it okay if we just look at the graves today? I want to sort of absorb the atmosphere.”

  Tristan nodded. “We can come back again. Come on, let me show you one of the mausoleums here. The stonework is incredible.”

  He took her hand, and suddenly she could barely focus on anything around her as he led her down the long aisles. The gray and white of the stone moved past in a chiaroscuro blur as heat radiated through her fingers, up her arm, making her body ache with need.

  They stopped in front of an old mausoleum. Dark gray and white marble created a texture on the smooth walls; in front, a pair of carved pillars flanked a heavy door. Tristan sat on the marble stairs, pulling her down beside him. But she was too distracted to take it all in.