Page 8 of The Royal Street Witch
I pass a group of young ladies twerking in the street for a gaggle of fraternity boys, whose jaws are wide and hungry. Standing tall in front of this display is The Jazz House, one of my favorite music spots. I wink at one of the twerking girls as I enter the House, a gothic piano piece sending chills upon my flesh. It was here my mother first took me for good jazz, it being only minutes from our shop.
“Evenin’, Aster,” Ronnie the hostess greets me as she grabs the menu. I raise my hand to decline, already knowing what I want.
“Oh, but we got new specials tonight, baby,” she says and takes off toward my usual spot in the back.
“Thanks,” I say as she lights the candle on my round table and I settle into the leather booth. The room is dark with all the light focused on tonight’s artist, a man working his own kind of magic on the piano keys in front of a velvety curtain mixed with hues of yellow, red, and burgundy. “I’ll have some alligator bites and a lemon drop to start,” I say, placing my purse on the table and wiping my hair from my face.
“You got it,” Ronnie says, and I sit back, allowing myself to relax. I pull out my phone and look at my texts, the last one from my mother, a picture of her feet in a new pair of Louboutin heels, and the question:you like?
Yeah, I like. I like a lot. But that’s not my life since she left me to run the family business and live out her dreams with some guy in Prague. She feels she can finally do all the things that having a daughter held her back from doing, and I’m handling things just fine without her. In fact, she rarely asks about the business or the Agreement; most of our interactions through text are about mischievous spells she’s cast or whatever beautiful new thing she’s acquired, material or male. That’s because she trusts me. Trusts me not to make secret deals with vampires. Having taught me everything I know throughout my entire life and picking it up easily and eagerly has left me powerful with many responsibilities. Responsibility being the key word here because I’m in control of my family’s legacy now, and it’s a weight that I hold up every day.
I’m not a crybaby. I know that she should be free to live her life on her terms. But leaving me to not only run our family business but to salvage it as well, makes me feel like I’m being buried alive at times.
They aren’t blackI text back with ashrugging lady emoji and then slip my phone back into my purse.
“Did you order me a Bloody Mary?” a familiar voice whispers, and Bastian slides into the booth next to me. “See what I did there?”
I close my eyes for a long moment, taking an annoyed breath. “Hilarious.” I open my unamused eyes. “So clever.”
“Tough crowd.” He winks, taking the menu in his hands, his cologne more pungent than yesterday, his thigh grazing mine.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I followed your scent.”
I lean back, not sure if he’s telling the truth.
“Mint and obstinacy, in case you were wondering.” He peruses the menu, not looking at me on purpose. When he slaps the menu shut, his eyes meet mine. “Okay, I followed you.” He cracks a smile, but I don’t break my death stare.
“Next time I’ll make sure to leave when the sun’s still out,” I sneer, my index finger tapping on my garnet. “I don’t like you tracking me.”
“I apologize. You know…” He inhales deeply. “Your eyes may be the bluest I’ve ever seen, like two turquoise that want to kill me.”
I squint, instincts full of suspicion, not believing his bullshit. “Why are you always dressed like you’re going to a business meeting?” It’s May in New Orleans—another sweltering summer is just around the corner. Tonight he’s in a deep burgundy dress shirt with the sleeves folded up, his thick veins embracing his forearms like vines.
“This is a business meeting.” His tone turns serious and gruff as the piano envelopes us then suddenly rolls into silence, the song ending, the patrons clapping.
Ronnie approaches with my lemon drop, her eyebrows rising at the sight of Bastian. “What can I get for you, baby?” she asks with a smile that reaches her eyes, and Bastian orders a brandy then crosses his leg, his ankle casually resting on the opposite knee.
“All right,” she says and walks to the bar.
“I came here to avoid you. And here you are, taking up all the space in the room.” My foot is tapping the ground, the urge to spill my drink on his lap growing strong. I down the whole thing instead.
“Okay, look. I’m sorry. It’s just that I want this to work so badly and—what do you mean, I take up all the space in the room?” Intrigued, his eyes twinkle in the candlelight.
I hate that I’m in public and can’t make myself vanish. But it’s true. Bastian commands an audience just by existing. I saw it in Ronnie’s eyes. I see it in the eyes of the bartender and the older couple sitting in front of us, stealing glances in our direction.
“Never mind. I’m leaving.” I grab my purse, but his fingers wrap around my wrist. Cold, to be expected. Soft, not to be expected.
“Please wait,” he begs. “I brought you something.” He releases me and lifts one ass cheek, pulling something from his back pocket, while a fresh song seems to grow louder along with my anticipation. His hand reappears with an envelope between his fingers.
“Your prepayment.” He slides it toward me with a steady hand, and I snatch it, lifting the flap and peeking inside. My stomach plummets as I suck in. It’s a blank check for one hundred thousand dollars.
“All you have to do is write in your mortgage company’s name. And that’s just the beginning. You’ll be paid in full once the spell works. And if it doesn’t, you get to keep that.”
“Potion.” The word falls from my lips, spellbound by the check in my fingers. “It would have to be a potion.” And now I’ve just slipped. His breath hitches because I’ve just bred hope, and I wish I could take those words back.
“Potion, of course. Whatever you say.”
