She's a Sinner

by Lynn Shurr

  “Sounds healthy.”

  “About the same as beignets. You interested in going to an art exhibit this afternoon at NOMA?”

  “I have no other plans, so sure. Have you been there before?”

  “Ah, no.”

  “Is Alix interested in art?”

  “Not much.” How did Xochi always see through the most simple of statements and punch a hole to the other side so fast? “But she’s going there with Vince Barbaro today.”

  “Aaaah—we’re chaperoning.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. We might run into them, but we aren’t going with them.”

  “Whatever you say. What time?” She had to shout as a saxophone player started playing near her table.

  “One-thirty. I’ll pick you up. Thanks, Xo.”

  ****

  Tom and Xochi wandered through the Robert Rauschenberg special exhibit without catching sight of Alix and Vince. Standing in front of a large, blank white canvas, he had to admit he didn’t get it, but he’d done his homework before arrival and was as prepared as he would be for a trick play.

  “Incoming, three o’clock,” Xochi teased, hiding her full, red lips behind a program as if she were a coach relaying a secret call for that exact play.

  Wearing the exact sundress she’d put on for their walk along Bourbon Street and the identical pair of flats, Alix strolled along fanning herself with the same program, Vince at her side. They’d had such a good time together her first night in the French Quarter. How could she choose the same outfit to step out with Vince? Didn’t she share the same fond memories? Trying to keep it casual, Tom headed their way, not noticing that Xo struggled to keep up with his long strides.

  “Hey, guys. When you said you were headed this way I recalled I hadn’t seen the new Rauschenberg exhibit. Xo wanted to go, so here we are. Vince, you know my sister.”

  “Only from afar since Tom never introduced us at the picnic. Might I say you are more beautiful close up than in the stands, Miss Xochi. Maybe Tom can explain why anyone would pay millions for what looks like faded wallpaper glued to a canvas.” Vince flirted with his sister, expressed an artistic opinion, and issued a challenge in only a few sentences. The guy did have balls.

  “Rauschenberg is considered a precursor to the pop artists, a Neo Dadaist really. He made art from found objects picked up off the street.” Tom grinned. Gotcha, Vince. Xochi’s narrow black brows shot up.

  Perplexed, Alix stared at another piece. “Looks like old cardboard pressed into the paint.”

  “It is. Good eye.” Tom nodded sagely.

  “This one here. It’s blank.” Vince stood before the piece that had mystified Tom only moments ago.

  He recalled what the Wikipedia article said. “Not really. There are tiny inclusions, maybe a little bubble in the paint, an accumulation of dust that changes the painting from day to day. It’s pure and very profound.”

  “I think it’s crap. How about you, Alix?”

  “I admit I don’t understand it either. I think I could do that with a paint roller and a gallon of Sherwin Williams, and I’m no artist.”

  “What we saw downstairs in the permanent collection, that’s classical art. Did you notice how many of the artists were Italian? We got it in the blood. The Sistine Chapel, the statue of David, the Mona Lisa, that’s genius,” Vince opined.

  “Do you paint?” Xochi asked with great curiosity in her voice.

  Vince’s beefy shoulders shrugged. “I dabble, but I can’t come close to that masterpiece of Judith holding up the severed head of Holofernes in the other room.”

  “Pretty gruesome,” Alix said.

  “Yeah, it hits you right in the gut. That’s what art should do.” Vince moved through the rest of the exhibit, not pausing for Tom to show off his newly acquired knowledge.

  Soon enough, they found themselves on the balcony overlooking the duck pond. “What did you like best, Alix? The Rauschenbergs or the classical art?” Tom pursued, hoping she’d take his side and go modern whether she understood it or not.

  “Honestly, the run up the stairs even if Vince did get to the top first. Next time, I’ll wear my running shoes. Look, swans. Two pair.” She pointed out the birds gliding serenely on the glassy surface of the water, doubling their beautiful image.

  “Dad asked Mom to have his babies right over there. She said she felt like she wasn’t a swan either, more like a little brown night heron in the reeds, but he didn’t want a swan, only her.” Tom tried to make a point.

  Xochi sighed. “I love that story.”

  “So, Vince, which do you prefer—swans or night herons or whooping cranes?” Tom waited tensely hoping his rival would give the wrong answer.

  Vince wrinkled his broad forehead. “I’m not much of a birder. Nice pair of black swans on the pond, too. Not sure what a night heron is. Whooping cranes are great, big…ya know. Say, anyone in the mood for gelato? There’s a great place on Toulouse Street. You can follow us over there.”

  “I’ve never had gelato!” Alix said, as excited about Italian ice cream as she had been about last night’s restaurant.

  “Oh, it’s way better than American ice cream, so rich and smooth. You like it, Xochi?”

  “I do,” she answered Vince.

  “Let’s get going.” Vince marched off with Alix as if he were Caesar about to conquer Gall.

  “He dodged that question about the birds, but of course, he knows the best place for gelato,” Tom grumbled, bringing up the rear. “You could have said you didn’t care for any, Xo.”

  “But I do. Perfect on a scalding day like this.”

  They hiked the concourse in front of the museum to where Tom’s SUV sat parked under the shade of an oak. Sweat ran down their backs before the air-conditioning kicked in on their way to Little Vic’s. The sweltering interior didn’t do much to cool Tom’s temper. Damn, it was a great day for gelato.

  “Vince is a thug, a big Italian thug. What does she see in him?” he fumed.

  “Did you ask Alix? Better calm down. You’re giving off little red sparks,” said his very perceptive sister.

  “She said he asked her out, and no one else had. They had a nice evening. I take her out all the time. I don’t get it—like that white Rauschenberg painting no matter what I said.”

  “You certainly did your homework on modern art, maybe not so much on women. You take Alix around like you are still helping her learn about New Orleans as a good buddy. Try asking her what she’d prefer to do on a real date.”

  “I was going to this coming weekend, but Vince cut me out by telling her he had something wonderful planned for her. Then, he squeezes in this Sunday afternoon visit. He’s going to count Saturday as their third date, and you know what that means.”

  Xochi quirked her lips at Tom. “Do tell me.”

  “He’s going to hit on her, get her in bed because he’s waited long enough and she owes him after a big evening.” Tom cut off a smaller car in traffic trying to keep up with Vince who drove an agile red Corvette with Alix in it, but he laid on the horn as if it were the other’s driver’s fault for getting in his way.

  “Tom, I’d like to get gelato, not into an accident. Third date could mean a breakup.” She placed a calming hand on his arm, and her brother relaxed beneath her fingertips. “You know there are no set rules on when a woman will sleep with a man.”

  “Not in the female mind, but it exists in the brain of a sleaze like Vince, believe you me.”

  “Actually, Vince surprised me. He’s genuinely interested in art. You said he was the vocal hit of the performance you put on for Alix. He comes on a little heavy with the everything Italian is the best, but he’s not what I expected.” Xochi gazed thoughtfully at the parade of heat-exhausted tourists dragging through the French Quarter.

  “Et tu, Xochi? Vince is even slicker than I thought.”

  Tom found a pay lot not too far from the gelateria. Vince had squeezed his Corvette into a small parking space. He and Alix waited for th
em inside. They placed their orders: dark chocolate for Alix, coconut for Vince, pistachio for Tom, and blood orange for Xo. They took their treats into the courtyard, eating fast as the heat threatened to reduce the gelato to puddles. Lingering in the shade near the fountain, they stayed long enough to order Sicilian pizza for an early dinner.

  Vince stretched, fortunately wearing a knit shirt with sleeves so none of them were treated to a view of his very hairy armpits. “This is the life. Dessert first, then great pizza. Hate to break up the party, but we do have training camp again tomorrow. Alix, I’ll drive you back to the museum to pick up your car. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Xochi.”

  “Call me Xo.”

  Damn if the Italian gigolo didn’t kiss her fingers in parting. Tom wondered how often he’d touched his lips to Alix’s knuckles, and why she didn’t mind if he came on to another woman right in front of her. Something to chew on at home besides leftover pizza.

  He stayed quiet as he returned Xochi to her apartment, but his sister talked. “Hmmm, you might have some real competition in Vince. He does have a rather slick sort of charm.”

  “Tell me what you see when you look at him. I bet Vince oozes black and orange like Prince or maybe an ugly brown like dog crap.”

  With an amused glance sent his way, his sister said, “Pink.”

  “Pink? You think Vince is secretly gay—because that would be great.”

  “Don’t make assumptions.” Xo wagged a finger at him. “Vince exudes a love of life and the ability to bounce back from disappointment, two very attractive traits in a man.”

  “Go slow. Everyone tells me to go slow, and now I’m breathing his fumes.” Tom braked abruptly in front of the cul-de-sac housing Xochi’s apartment.

  “Big brother, I’d say you better pick up some speed.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alix had to admit Vince produced a magical night after a week of sweating at training camp with coaches whipping the rookies into shape and culling the injured and those who couldn’t make the grade. Prince Dobbs raced around straining to show how fit he was and praising the Lord with every other panting breath. She and Tom did the warm-up exercises and kicked and kicked and kicked. To be honest, an event that didn’t stink of perspiration and testosterone held great appeal.

  She adorned herself in the peach chiffon gown of many layers and a handkerchief hem, added glittery heels, matched her lipstick to her dress, and laid on the eye makeup, giving some gloss to her lids, too. When Tom’s eyes widened as she asked his opinion, she was glad she’d gone all out.

  He stammered a little. “M-maybe you should tone it down a little. This is your third date with Vince, and here you are looking like a gift box anyone would want to open.”

  Alix treated him to an eye roll. “You really don’t believe that third date thing, do you?”

  “To be honest, most girls who want to sleep with football players don’t wait that long, but you aren’t most girls. You are a football player. I don’t know how that works.”

  “No one does. I guess I get to set my own rules.”

  Truthfully, she didn’t know what her new rules were either. She had toyed with Tom a bit on Sunday by not returning in her car immediately from the museum. When Vince dropped her off, they’d sat for a while in her roomier, more private vehicle with the a/c running and made out. After several of his aggressive kisses, she’d let Vince get to second base. His big, rough hands found their way inside her sundress top with few impediments. His touch felt good against her flesh, making her nipples peak and her breasts swell with sensitivity—but she’d hardly go any farther in a car sitting in a public park. Yes, Vince pushed all the right pleasure buttons, but still it wasn’t right, and that puzzled her.

  Unsettled, she’d returned to the condo to find Tom in full daddy mode. “What took you so long? Did you get lost? That tie around your neck doesn’t look right.” He raised a flush on her cheeks.

  Alix guessed she had a jock mentality concerning sex. If it felt good, do it. When the attraction wore off on either side, you moved on without tears or excuses. The sex was nice while it lasted, and then it was done. This need for something more had never entered into simple enjoyment in the past.

  Oh well, they’d had a lovely evening with an early dinner at a fine uptown restaurant not too far from the theater, then a performance of Phantom of the Opera at the grand, refurbished Saenger Theater with its ceiling of twinkling stars. Pressing through the après-theater traffic, Vince delivered them to the Café du Monde for beignets and coffee and a discussion of the play. Alix admitted the music didn’t grab her—too much like opera, but she’d been awed by the special effects, the river of lights, the crashing chandelier. Vince briskly defended true opera. He had season tickets as it turned out.

  Alix held up her hand. “Don’t ask me to go. Opera sounds like screaming in a foreign language to me. I’m more a Sound of Music, Oklahoma kind of gal.”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to see that,” he said as he wiped the powdered sugar from the five o’clock shadow covering his heavy jaw.

  Alix blew the sugar from the bodice of the filmy peach-colored dress and considered. She and Vince weren’t right for each other. Better to end it tonight. With the condo not a far walk for two athletes, even one in high heels, Vince left his car in the pay lot and escorted her home through a night as warm and sticky as hot maple syrup. At the entry, Alix invited him in praying he wouldn’t interpret that in the wrong way, but she knew Tom would be home, waiting like an anxious father for his teenage daughter. Punching in the entrance code, she flung back the door and narrowly avoided giving her roommate a black eye as he leaped backwards.

  Regaining his balance, Tom said, “Have a nice evening?”

  “Great. Magical in fact.” Alix tossed him the small, greasy bag she’d carried from the café. “Brought you some beignets.”

  Tom caught it with a puff of white powder escaping from the top. “Vince, you want something to drink?” he asked as the punt protector made himself at home on the couch.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Ah, Tom. Could we have some privacy, please?” Alix requested.

  “Sure. I’ll eat these in the kitchen. Glad you thought of me while you were on the dream date.”

  Alix detected a hint of sarcasm in his statement, but he left the living room to them.

  “Vince, I need to…”

  “Alix, I want to… Ladies, first,” Vince said, minding his manners.

  Alix took a deep breath and noted Vince watched her bosom heave. “I need to say I’ve had a wonderful time these last couple of weekends. You spent a lot of money on me and I appreciate that, but I think we aren’t very compatible.” She waited for a burst of anger, accusations of leading him on and delivering nothing, but Vince only sat there studying his hairy knuckles.

  “Yeah, I think you’re right. I’m Verdi and Wagner. You’re Rodgers and Hammerstein. I appreciate good food, and you gobble it down. I enjoy fine art, but the highlight of your day was running up the museum steps and getting gelato. I want to say you are a great gal, but just too much of a jock for me. I need a more girly girl. To give myself some credit, I think we both liked making out.”

  “You do that well, too.”

  In the kitchen, glass shattered. “I’m okay! Just a mug. I’m cleaning it up,” Tom shouted loud enough that he seemed to be nearly in the same room.

  “So no hard feelings, babe. I mean Alix. How about a goodbye kiss?”

  “I think a handshake or buddy pat might be a better idea.”

  They stood and Vince engulfed her in a huge hug. As they walked to door, he asked, “You think your sister, Tille, would be interested in going out next time she’s in town, or maybe you could set me up with Xochi.”

  With a dustpan still full of broken glass in one hand and a broom in the other, Tom burst from the kitchen. “Never a good idea to date a teammate’s sister.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Most people think I got this scar playin
g football.” Vince pointed to a break in one heavy eyebrow. “Veronica Mennoti’s brother gave me that when we played ball in high school. Ronnie and me got a little too intimate for him. See you at practice, Alix. I still got your back.” Vince aimed a finger at her and pulled the trigger, a gesture that seemed to fit all occasions.

  “You’re a good guy, Vince, and I think my sister will hate me if I don’t put the two of you in touch. I’ll let her know you’re interested. She played in the chorus of Cats in college. Big Andrew Lloyd Webber fan.”

  The glitter entered Vince’s deep, dark eyes again. “No kidding. I wonder what kind of cat she portrayed. Does she still have the costume?”

  “No idea. She’d love if you asked her.”

  “I’ll do that!” Vince pulled his imaginary trigger again and sauntered away.

  Alix shut the door behind her personal protector. That had ended well. She turned to Tom. “I’ll bet you heard every word.”

  “Only the important part—that you aren’t dating him any more. If you’re free next weekend, may I invite you to go on the Moonlight Mississippi cruise?” He made the offer so formally with the dustpan and broom still in hand as if he’d been ready to sweep Vince away and a ring of white sugar around his mouth from the beignets that Alix’s big laugh exploded into the high corners of the living room.

  “Is that a yes, no, or a don’t be ridiculous, I wouldn’t go out with you on a real date in a million years?”

  She offered her wide smile. “It’s a yes, but you’ve got powered sugar all around your mouth.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He juggled the broom and dustpan trying to get them into one hand in order to free an arm for a quick swipe across his lips. A large white shard slid to the carpet.

  Alix picked it up and placed it back in the pan. “We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt. Let me take care of the problem.”

  She placed her hands on his shoulders and affixed her lips to his. Her tongue licked the sugar from his light growth of ginger-colored weekend beard and slipped inside his mouth. Sweet, very sweet. Maybe Tom wanted to wait for a special occasion, but she didn’t. Alix’s hands strayed from his shoulders down his sides, caressing each rib she passed, circling round to his buttocks when she arrived at his waist. Oh, how she loved watching that well-developed backside in motion every time he kicked, so firm beneath her fingers now. She drew him close right into the V of her legs where they fit so perfectly. Through the layers of peach chiffon and a very small pair of matching panties, she felt his desire grow. Glass tinkled to the floor as the dustpan tilted.