Page 54 of The Royal Street Witch
“Oh shut up! You know I care about you—”
“I don’t want to live a life where I can’t be in the sun!” He stands when he says it, towering over me. His stupid suspenders catch my eye, my breath stalling from his words.
I point a finger at him, chastising him like a child. “We did this for Cassius, not you. This wasn’t about you. You were just fine without it.”
“I wasn’t fine. I wasn’t.”
“You can’t have both! You can’t live forever and be rich and do whatever and whomever the fuck you want to do AND go out in the sun, okay? It wasn’t supposed to be forever.”
“We never agreed on that.” He takes a step toward me, but I take a step back. “Don’t you love it? What we’ve started? What we can do together?” He grabs my shoulders and places his head on mine. “Don’t you love me?”
The trees rustle around us, and the sound of a tuba playing in the distance coats my ears and it’s all I can hear. We can’t talk about love. We can’t fall in love. We are sworn enemies and I pull my head from his, grabbing his hands from my shoulders, and look him in the eye.
“We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
I turn around, my heart pummeled to a corpse, and walk into my house, leaving the door open because I don’t want to shut him out, but I do need space. I sit at the kitchen table and do whatever the opposite of thinking is. Staring off with the drum of my heartbeat in my ear, that’s the opposite of silence, and I’m exhausted. And helpless. And want Bastian to come in here and hold me.
Like he’s heard my thoughts, in he walks and he looks exhausted and his color is off. With hunched shoulders he pulls on his jaw.
“What is that supposed to mean? You can’t do this?” His thick arms lean on the counter, ankle locking over ankle.
“I can’t discuss this anymore. I spent the day in hell. A brutal dumpster fire, and you didn’t contact me. I didn’t know if you were alive, I didn’t know if you were in trouble. So I don’t want to talk about the fucking potion anymore.”
A beep comes from his cell phone and he pulls it out of his pocket, reading whatever notified him. Elegant hands, waves of brown hair, aventurine eyes. All I want is him.
“I have to eat soon.” He straightens and takes a deep breath in. “You look tired. You need a good night’s rest.”
I nod, my hands flat on the kitchen table. They look smaller than usual, weaker and feeble. I don’t feel so powerful anymore. “Bastian,” I whisper, and he looks at me, a flash of concern pulling on his face. “Will you lie with me? Just for a little while?”
Slowly, his hand rises over his heart and he nods, whispering, “Yes.”
Our hands entangle as I lead him to my bedroom, kicking off our shoes, no words between us, while we climb on my bed. He lies on his side and pulls my back against his chest while his arms wrap around my waist tightly. Our chests move in unison as his thumb rubs the back of my hand, smelling my hair, then he places a soft kiss on the back of my head. I can tell him that I don’t need his protection, but cocooned in his arms makes me feel so safe. I slip away into a dreamless sleep until he slips away from me with a hunger he can’t ignore.
Motionless, I let him go as he brushes his lips against my forehead, his thumb rubbing along my cheek. My eyes feign sleep, not wanting him to go but also not wanting to talk about the potion or what woman he will entice for blood tonight. It cuts more and more, the fact that he has to play that game in order to eat, and I try to ignore it. Because it’s a warning sign I’m in too deep, so I let him go and will count the seconds until I can see him again.
MY ALARM FIRES OFF ITSdreadful sound the next morning. There’s a message from Bastian that says:
Meet me at Du Monde before work for a proposition. 9 AM?
Which means he has or is going to take the potion and can he ever just listen? My finger hovers over the keypad, realizing that yesterday stirred something inside of me, something that made me understand he’s much more than a fling, much more than a guy I love to sleep with—so much more.
I get dressed quickly so I can meet him and then work as soon as we’ve finished.
Café Du Monde in the morning should be safe enough to not be seen by anyone, but it’s still risky and it’s like he craves risk, can’t get enough of it. And I can’t get enough of him so who is the foolish one here? I pass the artists outside of Jackson Square, bright images pushed together to create pop culture icons on canvas, skeletal mermaids and cats playing instruments. People browse, deciding what piece of New Orleans they take home with them.
Under the famous striped canopy of green and white, my lover waits for me, sipping on a steaming cup of chicory coffee, a plate full of powdery beignets sitting on the round table in front of him. Café Du Monde is world famous with bodies cramped around small tables really designed for no more than two or three people, yet most shove five or six.
He leans in the chair with a leg outstretched, a hand in his jean pocket, Ray-Bans across his eyes. There’s a sensuality he doesn’t intentionally emit, yet there it is, an aura around him. I inspect him for paleness, any signs of a bloody nose, but his tan skin looks so healthy, and I exhale.
“You came.” A slow smile spreads cross his lips, his white teeth peeking out.
“I came.” I sit across from him and he pulls his long body upright, his hand grabbing a strand of my hair, twisting it between his fingers.
“My beautiful girl, with all the power in the world.”
I wish he didn’t turn my insides to puddles, I wish I didn’t lean forward but I do, and he drops the hair and runs his finger up my chest and neck and under my chin, as if he’s inspecting me.
“I took too much. I know that now. I pushed the limits and I didn’t consult with you and I’m sorry. I just—I just didn’t realize how much I missed it. How much I would love experiencing it with you.”
