That Old Devil Sin

by W E DeVore

  “Charlie Bourdel, let it never be said that you are not a gentleman poet,” Tom said, putting his arm around Q. “I got some aspirin in the car if you need something to hold between your knees.”

  Charlie and Tom burst out laughing. Q shook her head and tried not to smile.

  “Good night and fuck you both.” She flipped them off as she walked over to Ben’s black Audi. Ben stood leaning against the passenger door, waiting for her. He opened the door and leaned down to kiss her again.

  She put her hand on his chest and pushed him back. “Uh-uh. You wanted to talk business, so let’s talk business. Otherwise, I’m riding with Tom.”

  He bowed his head slightly and said, “Sure thing, ma’am, slide on in and let’s get on down the road.”

  Ben was pulling out of the parking lot, maneuvering around the obstacle course of potholes, when Q’s cell rang. When the Caller ID displayed Pete’s name, she quickly answered it.

  “Pete, what the hell, man,” Q said, exasperated. “You fucking ghost us on a gig?”

  “Q, I’m sorry." Pete’s voice sounded off. "Something came up. I couldn’t call.”

  She was worried now. “Pete, are you alright?”

  “Sure, Q. I’m fine. Come by the practice shed tomorrow around two and I’ll tell you all about it. Cool?”

  “I guess I can meet you there. Pete, you sure you’re ok?” she asked, her voice softening.

  “Yeah, you know me. Just rockin’ and rollin’ with the tide. Gotta go.” And he was gone.

  She looked at her phone for a few seconds trying to figure out what could have caused Pete to be a no show. Peter Drummond Fontain was Mr. Reliable: always on time for gigs and for downbeats, even when he was using. Ben interrupted her concerned musings.

  “So, you never told me. Why didn’t Pete play with you tonight? Thought the Pocket was always in your crew.”

  “Don’t know. Guess something came up. So, what did you want to talk to me about?” She shoved her phone back into the satchel that rested on the floor between her feet. Q didn’t gossip about her bandmates with anyone; especially not someone who owned a club where they played - no matter how tall or ridiculously good looking they were.

  “Got a gig for you, baby doll,” Ben said. “Nice big fat one. Some rich society lady wants to throw a little soiree for her friends. Rented out the Cove Lundi gras night for a mint. Wants QT and the Beasts to play. Bad. It’s your lucky day.”

  “How much?” she asked.

  “Five Gs, girl. The lady’s got songs all picked out and everything for three sets. Should be right up your alley.”

  Q’s jaw nearly dropped. They hadn’t had a gig that paid close to that much since wedding season. It was nearly double what they were getting paid for the two corporate gigs they had booked for Mardi gras weekend combined.

  She hoped the dollar signs flashing in her eyes didn’t show and tried to play it cool. “You drove forty miles to offer us a gig. You could have just called.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, you ain’t been returning my calls lately.” Ben had apparently noticed her devilishly clever Ben Bordelon Avoidance Plan. “Figured I’d come in person and use my considerable charms to persuade you.”

  Q inwardly groaned.

  I am never sleeping with another club owner ever again.

  “Besides, this lady? She wants you to play real bad. Wouldn’t book the club unless I could deliver the goods.” Ben continued, clearly irritated, “Look Q, I don’t know what I did to piss you off, but this is business, and you’re all about business now, apparently, so will you do the damned gig or not?”

  “It’s a great gig, Ben. Thank you. We’re in. You’re lucky we haven’t booked anything that night.”

  He smiled. “Don’t I know it. Last minute party booking. Rich folks do not know how to hold onto their money. Look, I’ll be at the Cove around four tomorrow afternoon, swing by any time after and we can sign the contract.”

  Q internally sighed with relief. She felt her resolve building back up. Just a friendly chat and a ride home. Nothing else. Much to her surprise, they had an almost pleasant conversation as they drove across the Causeway, without a single awkward silence or sexual innuendo. Ben had reopened a defunct rock club in Baton Rouge. It was doing decent business, even though most of the bands were, in Ben’s words, ‘that pussy emo crap.' But if the college kids liked it and drank all night, he wasn’t going to argue. Q was about to congratulate herself for making it home with her integrity intact, when Ben took the wrong exit off I-10.

  “Ben, this is the wrong exit. Carrollton’s going to take you the long way around.”

  “Maybe I don’t mind spending some more time with you.” He put his hand on her thigh. Q shivered.

  “Maybe it’s late and I’m tired. Take me home, Ben,” she said as firmly as she could muster, which wasn’t very convincing.

  “I’ve missed you, Q. Come on, let’s go to the Cove and have a nightcap.” He slid his hand a little too far up her left thigh. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about our last nightcap together…”

  That did it. Q was not going to end up on his pool table or his desk or up against the wall in that dingy apartment tonight. She and Ben had been sleeping together on and off for the better part of a year and she still had no idea where he lived. They found each other when they were both out and they never made it back to either of their homes. Q had gone from living a near-monastic existence, to having absolutely no control over her libido, and she laid blame completely at Ben Bordelon’s size sixteen feet.

  She pushed his hand off her thigh. “Ben, I’m not fucking you anymore. I can’t keep doing this. We screw in your car, in your club, in the bathroom at parties. I’m too old for this shit and I’m done. I don’t even know where you live, for Christ’s sake. It’s business only from now on.” Q drew an imaginary square between her and Ben. “Brick wall, Ben. I’m serious.”

  “I thought you liked all that freaky shit, QT-pie,” Ben said. The surprise in his voice was decidedly feigned if Q had any say in the matter.

  “Stop calling me that.” She folded her arms.

  “So, what? You’re a nice Jewish girl all of sudden?” Ben prodded sarcastically.

  Q blurted, annoyed, “Yes. I’m a nice Jewish girl. I’ve always been a nice Jewish girl, and I’m not going to be in your fuck buddy harem anymore. Christ, Ben, aren’t you tired of being such a slut?”

  Ben burst out laughing. “My ‘fuck buddy harem?' Jesus, Q, what the hell do you think I am?” Ben paused. “Maybe a nice Jewish girl could mend my ways.”

  He stroked the side of her face. She jerked her head away, folded her arms, and looked out of the window. “Fuck off.”

  “Brick wall, huh?” Ben said teasingly.

  Q continued to stare out of the window at the darkened houses passing them by. Abruptly Ben dropped all his carefree charm and lashed out in clear aggravation, “Fine. You want to fuck in my bed? You want to go on a normal fucking date? What the hell do you think I’ve been trying to get you to do the last ten months? You want to see my house? Well, come on, then.”

  He made a sharp left turn onto a side street off Carrollton. He pulled into a driveway next to a large two-story brick house with a homey looking porch lined with hanging ferns.

  Macho Ferns…figures.

  Q kept her sarcastic thoughts to herself.

  “Home sweet home,” he said.

  She stared open-mouthed at the house in complete disbelief.

  One brick down.

  “I like you, Q, always have. I don’t know why I can’t seem to convince you of that. Please come on inside and have a nightcap with me.” He got out of the car and walked around to her side. Ben opened her door and said gently, “Please. Come on inside.”

  She looked down and closed her eyes for a moment.

  Two bricks down.

  “For what it’s worth, that ‘harem’ you seem to think I have, consists of one infuriatingly sexy woman who refuses to
date me. Come on, Q. Put me out of my misery and come inside.”

  Say no, for fuck’s sake. He’s lying to you.

  But she let him take her hand and lead her up to the porch.

  Three bricks down.

  “I’ve missed you. Come on inside and let’s clear up a thing or two.” He kissed her shoulder.

  Four bricks down.

  On her neck.

  Five bricks down.

  And whispered in her ear, “So what’s it going to be, Q? Are you coming inside or do you want me take you home?”

  And the bricks came tumbling down.

  Stupid fucking brick wall.

  How Do You Solve a Problem Like Pete Fontain?

  Q woke up to sun streaming in through the live oak tree outside the bay window in Ben’s bedroom. She stretched in the cool sheets and looked up at the ceiling fan while she made an account of last night’s events.

  What in the hell is wrong with you? she thought as she sat up and slowly looked around at her surroundings.

  Ben’s bedroom was neat and plain, with the customary New Orleans fifteen-foot ceiling and all-encompassing scent of cypress. He had already gotten up out of his four-post bed and wasn’t in the room. Q looked at her reflection in the round mirror of the antique vanity facing the foot of the bed. Black hair mussed, mascara smeared, and a rather large bite mark on her collarbone. Her eyes, normally closer to turquoise than blue, were red-rimmed with lack of sleep.

  My, what lovely red eyes you have, grandma. Thirty-two is too old to pull off this look for sure. Lovely.

  She sighed and took a quick assessment of her situation, looking down at the clothes scattered on the dark hardwood floor.

  Red leather pants? Check. High heels? Double check. Falling for a near-legendary philanderer’s bullshit…again? Check. Check. Check. Great. Gig clothes for the walk of shame on a Sunday morning.

  Failing to locate them with the rest of her clothes, Q looked around for her underwear and the sparkly tank top she knew she had been wearing the night before, when she suddenly realized she never did get that explanation Ben had promised.

  “I am an insane person,” she muttered to herself.

  She had just dug out her underwear from between the headboard and the mattress and slipped back into them and her pants, when Ben walked in, carrying two cups of coffee, and wearing nothing but a smile. Her tank top was hanging by one of its straps on his arm swaying lightly against his torso.

  “Clementine Toledano, topless in my bedroom…. not a bad way to start off a Sunday." Ben grinned as he handed her a cup of coffee. Q gratefully accepted it, taking a sip.

  How 'Q' had become an abbreviation for 'Clementine' was a mystery to her. Most of her mother’s Cajun relatives had stopped coming around after her mother had died, and no Toledano had the foresight to ask for the origins of the family nickname. Convinced that her mother's family were upset because she'd converted to another religion so that she could marry a Jewish attorney from New Orleans, who’d had the audacity to have her buried in Jewish cemetery, Q's father stubbornly refused to both inquire about the origins of the family nickname and to call his only child by it. But if her maternal grandmother's bland Southern 'June' had become 'Toonsie' to every blood relative, Q figured she got off easy. Not to mention that being called ‘Q’ instead of having to endure the constant taunts of ‘Oh my darlin’ Clementine’ at Hebrew camp while growing up suited her fine, so she never questioned it.

  “Thought you might be looking for this.” Ben twirled her tank top around on his index finger. “Found it on the stairs.”

  “You’re awfully proud of yourself.” Q put her tank top back on, and reached for her shoes. Looking at herself again in his mirror she asked, “You got a shirt I can borrow? I’m just not up to being out in red leather and sparkles on a Sunday morning.”

  “I’ve got a better solution.” Ben set his coffee down next to Q’s on the nightstand, taking the shoes out of her hands, and letting them fall to floor. He put his arms down on either side of her on the mattress. “Let’s stay in this bed until the sun goes back down again.”

  He kissed her and they fell back onto the bed together. He started to undo her pants and slide them back off.

  “Ben, I can’t.”

  “Why? You turn into a pumpkin the fourth time in a row or something?” He finished pulling her pants back off, throwing them in the general vicinity of where she found them this morning.

  Déjà vu.

  For a few minutes, the memory of the past night, combined with Ben kissing her earlobe, blocked out all the reasons why she had to get home. Q shook her head trying to get him to stop.

  “Seriously, Ben. I have stuff to do. I have to meet Pete at two. I have to take a shower. I have to change clothes. I have to catch a bus to the practice shed.”

  I have to get some perspective.

  Q decided she could and would be firm. She didn’t exactly believe Ben’s line about her being his only lover.

  “It’s barely ten.” He lifted her shirt to kiss her belly. “You have plenty of time.”

  “Ben…” Q squirmed away. Bad decision.

  He now had a better angle to playfully begin pulling off her underwear with his teeth.

  Once she was naked from the waist down, Ben kissed her inner thigh and said, “And I have a shower.”

  Kissing her stomach, he whispered, “And I have shirt that’ll make a fine dress for you.”

  He kissed her hipbone. “And I’ll give you a ride to the shed.”

  Q just couldn’t argue with that kind of logic.

  ~~~

  Several hours later, Q and Ben pulled up in front of the old warehouse off of Earhart that served as QT and the Beasts’ rehearsal space. It wasn’t much to look at, but the roof didn’t leak and it was surprisingly secure, given the neighborhood. A slightly out of place keypad was mounted on an old wooden fence post beside the steel garage door. It was the only exterior sign that the building wasn’t abandoned.

  Q got out of the car, walked over to the keypad, and entered the code to open the steel door. It creaked in rusty protest as it opened. She opened the passenger door and told Ben, “You can park out here. I’ll walk up. Pete can give me a ride home.”

  He glanced around at the deserted industrial surroundings and the entrepreneurs on the next block up, passing their wares into the passenger window an ancient Camaro. Eying the plywood walls and rusted roof of the old warehouse with suspicion, he said, “Not a chance, darlin’. You’re not getting rid of me that easy. Get your pretty little butt back in here. I’ll drive you up. This place gives me the creeps.”

  “Alright, have it your way. Take a right at the top of the ramp. Be careful, it’s pretty tight.” Q got back into the car and closed her door.

  Ben slowly navigated his car up the steep bargeboard ramp between the thick beams that held up the second floor. Inching his car forward up the steep incline, he let out a low whistle once they arrived at the second floor. “Christ, this place is a freakin’ maze.”

  The second floor of the warehouse was a wide hallway lined on both sides with thick cypress beams. Plywood walls on either side revealed mostly padlocked doors, each with a spray-painted number scrawled in the center. The hallway wrapped around in essentially a large ‘U’, dead-ending on either side in the most disgusting bathrooms known to mankind. Navigating the narrow lane involved careful practice and a good deal of prayer that someone wasn’t coming too fast in the other direction. A few lonely cars were parked along each side, the occupants hard at work, contributing to the low rumble of various types of music coming from all directions.

  “Our space is just up there on the right. You can park about halfway up.” Q pointed to number seven and grinned. “Home Sweet Home.”

  She looked around for Pete’s familiar brown LeBaron and was disappointed when she didn’t see it. “We must be early.”

  Ben carefully parked the car between two support beams. Q climbed out of the car and was diggin
g in her satchel, searching for her keys, when Ben put his hand on her shoulder and shook his head, pointing to where the padlock ought to have been.

  “That’s weird,” she said as she started to slide the door open, curiosity getting the better of her own safety.

  He stopped her, placing a protective hand on her hip. “Better let me go first, darlin’.”

  Opening the door, Ben cautiously walked into the dimly lit room, but he quickly backed out with his hands up.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Pete’s distressed voice came from inside the room.

  “Easy man,” Ben said. “I just gave the lady a ride. Put it down. It’s all good.”

  Q called out Pete’s name in apprehension before she rushed into the room ahead of Ben. Pete ‘The Pocket’ Fontain was standing in his boxer shorts on a makeshift bed of packing blankets and QT and the Beasts t-shirts. He was holding up the business end of a weighted microphone stand like a battle-ax. Even in the hazy light streaming in from the dirty window next to the ceiling, Q could clearly see that his eye was black, his lip was split, and his body was peppered with bruises.

  “What in the hell happened to you? Where are your clothes?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Q?” Pete almost collapsed with relief and rushed forward to wrap her in a bear hug. He held onto her like a drowning man on a piling, dropping the mic stand to the floor with a clang.

  Surprised by this sudden outpouring of affection, as well as being held so tightly by her nearly naked best friend, Q awkwardly patted Pete’s back and tried to think of something comforting to say. Ben came near and moved to help her set Pete down onto the bed. Pete tensed up and picked up the mic stand again, brandishing it at Ben.

  “Jesus, brother, I’m trying to help you,” Ben said, backing off.

  “What is he doing here, Q?” Pete demanded, obviously not pleased with her choice of chauffeur.

  “He gave me a ride, Pete. What is your problem? Drop the mic stand and sit the fuck down before you fall over,” Q commanded, staring him down.

  Pete complied and half fell, half sat back down on the pile of blankets.