Even though it’s a three-stall bathroom, I close and lock the main door behind us. Everyone else can wait until I’m done, although I doubt we’ll get much traffic back here aside from the homeless kids outside. This area of the Quarter isn’t busy this late at night. It seems everyone else is several streets over on Bourbon. But I’m not taking any chances.
I set her back on her feet and give her a pointed look. “Don’t. Open. That. Door,” I order, walking backward until I reach a urinal.
She puts her empty hand on her hip and cocks it sassily. “I don’t care if you’re some big-deal, world-famous celebrity chef. You can’t tell me what to do when I’m not naked, Curtis,” she says with a huff, lifting an eyebrow.
And I stop my backward movement, my jaw dropping when her words register in my brain, and I burst out laughing at the same time my cock grows stiff for her once again.
“Goddamn it, sugar. Look what you did. Now I’m going to have to do a handstand in order to take a leak,” I tell her, gesturing toward the tented zipper of my jeans.
“Yeah, well. Serves you right, going all caveman on me.” Her eyes go from mine, down to my bulging dick, and back up to meet mine once more before she slowly makes a half circle, giving me her back, but not before I catch the little smirk on her sexy mouth. I set my coffee on the nearby sink and make quick work of facing the urinal, having to lean in such a way that I don’t pee on myself, glancing over my shoulder and taking in the view of her perfect ass in those jean shorts. “Actually,” she adds, “who am I kidding? That was hot as fuck. Thank you for saving me from having to stand out there with those people. Some of them can be really fucking mean, even when you go out of your way to be nice to them.”
“I’d like to see them try while I’m around,” I grumble, my hackles rising at the thought of my woman getting hounded by people she was trying to help.
When I’m done, I wash my hands then grab my coffee, unlocking the bathroom before taking Erin’s free hand in mine and shouldering open the door.
“Holy fuck, that is him!” one of the homeless women says. She can’t be older than nineteen or twenty. Her hair is in dreadlocks and her teeth are straight and white as she grins from ear to ear, making me wonder if the group isn’t homeless after all.
“Dude. I fucking love your show!” one of the guys says. He’s around the same age as the girl, maybe a couple years older, and he stands up, bringing his phone into view. He snaps a picture, the flash blinding in this dimly lit courtyard, and when he pulls the phone back down and uncovers his face, there’s a look of awe in his expression. “Bro… did you just bang ya girl in the public restroom? That’s just… gross.”
I look down at Erin and then back into the face of this young man covered in grime from head to toe, a dog leash wrapped limply around his dirty hand, and realize his phone is the latest model iPhone. What the fuck?
I can’t help it. I burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. When I notice the group looking awkwardly at each other, I try to control my chuckles enough to tell them, “Thanks for watching. And no, I didn’t ‘bang my girl’ in the public bathroom. We were in there all of what… two minutes, tops? Give me some credit. I’d last at least five… maybe six. Because look at her.” I hike my thumb at Erin and wiggle my eyebrows. “Like a gentleman, I didn’t want to leave her alone in the middle of the night in a dark… alley, basically.”
The second woman, still sitting on the ground up against the wall, speaks up. “She wouldn’t have been alone. We coulda looked after her for ya to piss, man.”
Erin finally steps out from where she’s been standing halfway behind me. “I appreciate that. That’s not the case a lot of times though. Sorry for judging the situation incorrectly.”
“Ah, you must be talkin’ about Beau’s clan,” the guy with the iPhone says.
“That guy is a fucking dick,” the second guy on the ground says before he stands up, walking toward us.
As I feel Erin take a tiny step back behind me, I stand my ground, pulling up to my full height as he approaches. And it’s not until he comes into the light shining over the bathroom door that I notice… his grime isn’t quite right. It almost looks like… makeup?
He holds his hand out to me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rockwell. Huge fan of your cooking. You actually catered one of my best friends’ sweet sixteen birthday party back home a few years ago.”
Before I can even try to put two and two together, Erin saves the day by blurting, “Okay, what the hell is going on? This cat has a phone as fancy as mine, and I know how expensive that shit was.” She gestures toward the guy still standing near the two women, taking photos or maybe video of the situation. “That gal there is wearing ratty jeans, but they’re freaking designer. She fucking bought them that way, and probably paid six, maybe seven hundred bucks for them! And you, sir—” She steps forward to look closely at his face, and I tighten my hold on her hand still in mine, yanking her back into my body. “—you are wearing stage makeup. I know, because I too am a cosplayer.”
This makes me look down at her in surprise, and I smile, thinking about the beauty dressed up in nerd gear for Comic Con. If I wasn’t in the middle of this completely weird situation, I would pop yet another boner.
“But the question is, what the fuck are y’all cosplaying? There isn’t another convention around here for three more months,” she points out, and I can’t help but wonder who she likes to dress up as. I don’t have time to ponder it though, because the other three kids stand up and make their way over to us.
“We’re a group of students from UCLA… as in Los Angeles,” the last girl finally speaks in a super Valley Girl sounding voice.
“They know where UCLA is, Cameron,” the guy with the cell says.
She shrugs. “Well, I don’t know that. The last guy we told thought the LA in it was for Louisiana.”
“Back on course, y’all. What the french toast is going on?” Erin prompts, and I hold in a snort.
“We’re here doing research for a movie we’re producing. Thought we’d go undercover as homeless people a few hours a night. We have a couple days left out here, and after the first night, when we met Beau and his group, we’ve been mostly just trying to stay hidden from them while still getting the information and stuff we need. I’m Dominik, by the way.” He puts his phone in his left hand and holds out his right for us to shake.
We do, and then the rest of the group introduces themselves, Cameron, Dominik, Andrea, and Carson all politely shaking our hands before Dominik leans down to pet the dog behind his ear, introducing him as Java.
Vaguely, I hear Cameron whisper to Andrea something about how much the photos of me and Erin will be worth when they get back to Cali, and Erin steps in, clearly having heard her too.
“How about we make a deal?” she asks, and Dominik looks up from where he’s obviously recording. “If you delete the photos and video you’re currently taking—” She glares at him until he has the decency to look a little ashamed and shuts it off. “—I will take you to a group of less fortunate people who would gladly let you interview them for your movie. They are kind and good-hearted and won’t be assholes to you the way this… Beau person was. You’ll get all the information you need, and then Curtis, who you clearly are a fan of and wouldn’t want him to suffer any shit for being in an embarrassing tabloid magazine that’ll definitely spread false rumors about him banging a mystery woman in a public restroom, can rest easy knowing that won’t happen.”
The group turns in toward each other, and after a moment of murmuring, Dominik holds out his unlocked phone, the Photos app on display, where we see at least a hundred photos and videos taken of this entire situation, which has only been a total of maybe five minutes.
“One condition. I’ll let you delete everything so you can be sure they’re all gone, but…” He pauses, and Erin and I glance at each other.
“Buuut…?” I prompt, giving in to what he so clearly wants.
&
nbsp; “Dude. You gotta take a selfie with us. No one is going to believe we ran into Chef Curtis Rockwell in the middle of the night in New Orleans, man! This is so awesome!” Dominik exclaims, and I smile, nodding at his excitement.
“Deal,” I tell him, and as I take his phone and delete all the photos, I hear him speaking to Erin.
“And if I can get your information, I’d love to put you in the end credits of the movie. If these people really are willing to let us interview them and get all the intel we need, that’ll make our jobs so much easier than trying to gain it by pretending to be homeless. We’re obviously not very good at acting, hence why we’re studying to be the people behind the cameras.” He chuckles.
When I get everything deleted, remembering to go in and permanently trash the Recently Deleted folder, I spin toward the bathroom door so the light above it is facing all of us. I pull Erin into my side, hit the front-facing camera button, and hold the phone up high so the entire group of us is in focus.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready!” all of them reply.
And I grin and say, “New Orleeeans!” as I hold down the shutter button, getting a burst of about thirty photos just in case someone blinks.
Chapter 13
Erin
THE GROUP OF students tagged along with us a few streets over until I found my old pal and pro bono patient Gunny and his buddies in their usual spot. After explaining everything to them, and after Dominik offered to treat them all by doing the interview in a nearby diner all on his tab, Gunny and everyone agreed enthusiastically. And Curtis and I left them to it, strolling down the narrow sidewalk hand in hand.
“Well, that was… interesting,” he tells me quietly, shaking his head and smiling as he watches his feet.
“Yeah. Crazy shit like that happens every day here in NOLA. Keeps ya young and on your toes, I guess.” I giggle. “You hear that?” I ask, glancing up at Curtis once more.
He cocks his head. “What is all the yelling?” He blinks.
“That, good sir, is the one and only Bourbon Street. We’re currently walking parallel to it. It’s just two blocks over. See the lights?” I point up over the building, where you can see the lights from all the bars, shops, clubs, and strip joints illuminating the sky.
“No shit?” he asks, his face suddenly full of awe.
I giggle once more. “No shit. You wanna go? After all the excitement, beignets, and coffee, I’m one hundred percent sober and fully awake.”
“How about we change that to about seventy-three percent sober and still fully awake until after about the third… maybe fourth orgasm I plan on giving you?”
My eyebrow lifts and my feet halt, our arms stretching out as our hands stay linked because he takes a couple steps before he realizes I froze.
“What?” he prompts. “I thought we were skipping the whole playing coy, pretending we don’t know what’s going to happen at the end of the night thing.”
“Oh, we totally are. I was just surprised by the goal you set. I have to warn you. I don’t fake it. And I’m also one of those chicks who unfortunately can’t get off with just a few pumps of a cock. I’m quite the handful,” I admit.
“Challenge: Accepted, sugar,” he tells me, yanking me to him by our interlocked fingers before he backs me up until I’m against the bricks of the building.
Being literally caught between a rock and a hard place sends a thrill through my veins, making my heart pump. And when he bends his knees and presses forward, allowing me to feel the thickness of him between my thighs, my head falls back against the wall and my eyes close with a groan.
“You sure you wanna go to Bourbon Street? I mean, we could just go straight—”
“I’m sure,” he interrupts, and I whimper as he trails feather-soft kisses up my neck until he reaches my ear. “Not ready for this night to end. Won’t be ready, and won’t bury this cock deep in your tight little pussy, until I know for a fact that you understand it won’t be the last one I spend with you.”
“Curtis,” I breathe, and he latches his teeth gently onto my earlobe.
“So I’m gonna need you to show me to the best place to get us a couple drinks on Bourbon, so I can get back to convincing you,” he tells me, and I moan in agreement.
“Okay,” I whisper, the closest I’ve ever been to an orgasm without being naked and thirty-minutes-deep into playtime. How the fuck did he get me this riled up with just a few kisses?
He takes a step back and takes my hand once more, and when we get to the intersection, I lead the way to Bourbon Street, stopping at the head of the closed off party area. Between certain hours on different days, cars can’t pass through these few blocks, which allows everyone to drink and party in the street.
“Okay, so fun fact. I’ve never actually brought a guy to play on Bourbon Street just the two of us before. It’s always been like, a group thing or just me and my girlfriends. Sooo… what do you wanna do?” I ask, stepping into Curtis to let a few staggering women pass behind me on their way out.
“Well, what would you and your girlfriends usually do?” he prompts, holding me close and looking down at me with amusement.
I bite my lip, wondering if he’d really be willing to go to our favorite place on the street. “There’s this club near the halfway mark up the street. They have great drinks and a cool upstairs area with a balcony. But you might not feel comfortable going.”
“And why is that?” He lifts a brow.
“It’s a gay club. We go because the people are awesome and they have a DJ who plays actual dance music instead of a live band,” I explain.
He nods slowly. “Hey, babe.”
I tilt my head. “Yes?”
“You remember I’m from California, right?” he asks, and he gives me a crooked smile.
I play along. “Sooo… you are gay. Therefore, you’d feel right at home at a gay club! Let’s go!” I pretend like I’m about to run off toward it, but he yanks me back to him, making me cackle when he wraps me up in his arms before swatting me on the ass. It takes everything in me not to purr… or hump his leg.
“Does this feel like I’m gay, when I’m pushed up against such a fine-ass woman?” He takes my hand and slides it between us, pressing my open palm to the front of his jeans to feel he is rock-hard.
“Fuck my life. I guess my assessment in my kitchen was right. You are one virile fucking guy, Chef. How many boners have you had today? I’ve lost count,” I tease, even though inside I’m more hot and bothered than I’ve ever been in my damn life.
“No clue. But I read somewhere that the average dude pops wood unconsciously about eleven times a day, so I’m right on track,” he replies, and I throw my head back and laugh as he holds me.
It’s the most relaxed and carefree I’ve felt in a long time, and it’s all thanks to this amazing man who I just met today. How is it possible I can feel this close to someone, when I’ve known him less than twelve hours?
“So no, sugar. Not gay. But about 98.6% of my friends are, or at least rank themselves somewhere on the sliding scale of sexuality. So I have no problem going to a gay club. My only qualm is… I am a tourist, not a local, so I’d love to go somewhere more… authentic to New Orleans, if I have a choice,” he tells me, and I nod, completely understanding.
“One question. Do we want to pretend like we just hit the legal drinking age, or do we want to acknowledge the fact that we’re pretty much ancient as fuck and will be older than 87% of the population?” I ask, eyes wide, feigning innocence.
He rubs his chin for a moment, thinking about his answer. “How about a little of both? Pick two places. For the first one, make me feel like a frat boy on Spring Break, and for the second, take me somewhere we can rest our old bones and just chill.”
I grin. “I have the perfect places.” I slide away, keeping hold of his hand as I guide him between the two orange and white roadblocks and start weaving between people. A few yards in, and we’re swallowed up by the crowd.
; Music blares, echoing off the buildings as a huge group of partiers dance in unison to “The Wobble.” I turn to face Curtis and walk backward as I take hold of his front belt loops and shimmy, giving him a flirty look. He smiles down at me, a heated gleam in his eyes, but there’s more there than the usual lust most guys aim my way. No, there’s so much more—a possessiveness I feel to the depths of my soul, chipping more windows into the walls around my heart.
His hands reach out to take hold of my waist, guiding my blind walk down Bourbon Street as I don’t watch where I’m going, fully trusting him to keep me from running into anyone or falling off a curb. When I sense an intersection coming up, I spin around, feeling his palms glide around my body as he never lifts them away from me. My tank top bunches, pulling up from the waistband of my jean shorts, and as we pass over the crossroad, I feel his fingertips lightly trailing back and forth over the sliver of exposed skin at my hip. It sends tingles up and down my side, my nipples pebbling against the cups of my bra.
Normally, this place is sensory overload. The smells—good and bad, between the different restaurants battling with that unique NOLA aroma—the neon lights and people coming and going in all directions. Not to mention the music and yelling. It’s always so… just so much and all at once. But for the first time ever, everything seems muted. I don’t focus on the loud voices all around me, or the seizure-causing flashing lights, or the funk of the chick currently throwing up in the alleyway as we pass by, or the beads narrowly missing me as they’re tossed from the overhead gallery to someone baring their breasts in the crowd next to us. No, my focus is on the man who overshadows all of that outside noise and narrows my every nerve ending on him, as if I’m a blossoming flower and he is the sun itself, everything in me wanting to stretch toward his warmth and light.
Finally, we reach his first request—frat boy central. “Here we are!” I tell him, and he glances up at the two-story building, it’s beautiful classic wraparound iron gallery circling the second story of the corner lot. It’s a crazy contrast, the gorgeous old architecture and the loud party scene going on inside, a big neon multicolored sign boasting Tropical Isle, Original, Home of the Hand Grenade, New Orleans’ Most Powerful Drink above the door situated at the corner of the building.
DISHING UP LOVE Page 12
