The Art of Sin (3 page)

     “The truth?” Grady fought like hell to stay mad at her, but he couldn’t. She was just too damned adorable. “Quintus Septimius once
said, ‘The first reaction to truth is … hatred.’”

     “Is he a stripper?” she posed with a straight face.

     “No, he’s a ….” Grady snickered, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

     “You know, Grady, I might have been different from all the other women. If you never give a woman a chance, you might never know how she really feels.”

     “How do you really feel about me, Ms. Wagner?”

     Al nodded to the passenger side of the car. “Get in and perhaps I’ll tell you.”

     Blowing out an irritated breath, Grady went around to the passenger side door and opened it. Remembering to play it cool, he climbed in the car, still clutching his bag of strawberries.

     While Al turned over the engine, he took in her profile. “If you hadn’t known it was me, would you have still talked to me?”

     She put the car in gear. “No. I don’t make it a habit to talk to strange men.”

     “What about talking to men you’re attracted to?”

     She waited a few beats before saying, “I’ve never run across one of those.” 

     Her words were like an automatic challenge to him. Instantly, he was desperate to learn all he could about her. Grady kept his eyes on her profile as she drove.

     “Al is short for Allison, right?”
     She nodded and merged with the traffic at the end of Esplanade Avenue. “I detest the name Allison. So if you want to stay on my good side, don’t call me that.”

     “Who called you Allison?”

     She gave him a wary side-glance. “What do you mean?”

     “I find if someone detests a name, it’s usually because someone they disliked either called them that or had that name.”

     “What are you, a stripper moonlighting as a psychologist?”

     Putt off by her wisecrack, he shifted his gaze to the large homes along Esplanade Avenue. “I minored in psych at Yale. I was even considering going on to do some graduate study in it.”

     “Yale? I’m impressed.”

     “Are you going to tell me who called you Allison?”

     She returned her eyes to the road ahead. “My father called me Allison until I was seven, then he walked out on me, my mother, and my older sister, Cassie.”

     “After that you insisted on being called Al. I understand.”

     She pulled to a stop at a red light. “Tell me something. How do you go from being at Yale to dancing in a strip club in New Orleans?”

     “What, that wasn’t in the info Burt sent you?”

     Her hands tightened on the black leather steering wheel. “I shouldn’t have made that crack about Burt saying you were lost. He actually said you were a real stand-up guy, hardworking, and had run into some bad luck after the economy fell apart.”

     Lowering his defenses, Grady relaxed in his seat, and his grip on his bag of strawberries eased. “I was working at Lehman Brothers as a stock analyst, prior to the crash.”

     The light turned green and the car eased forward. “How did you get into stripping?”

     “My roommate at Yale was working as a stripper for a club close by the campus. He introduced me to the owner. The money was great and all the girls from the college went there.”

     She veered the car toward the right as the deep yellow mansion appeared just up ahead. “You ever try to go back to Wall Street?”

     “You know the answer to that one. I’m one of millions, but at least I’m gainfully employed.”

     “Perhaps, but you don’t like doing what you do … that’s obvious.” She swerved the car into a narrow driveway beside the dark yellow mansion. “A man happy in his profession doesn’t care what other’s think, he only cares about what he does.”

     “Where did you learn that?”

     “My father,” she declared, as the car slowly eased through the side entrance. “He was a musician, who worked in about every jazz joint in the city.”

     “What about your mother?”

     “She came from an old New Orleans family. This was their home.” She gestured to the house. “She died when I was sixteen. After that, my older sister, Cassie, took care of me and the house.”

     When the car entered the courtyard in back, high, red-bricked walls rose on either side, while dull, gray cement covered the ground. Along the walls, empty flower beds seemed to cry out for some form of decorative vegetation, while at the rear a single story cottage stood with a hipped, black shingle roof and the same deep yellow plaster that was on the main home. The green shutters on the cottage were closed, giving the building the same abandoned feel as the empty flowerbeds.

     “Where’s Cassie now?” Grady probed, taking in a beat-up blue Volvo to his right.

     She parked the car in a spot behind the rear entrance. “She went west.”

     “Where west? L.A.?”

     Al smiled, but the light of sorrow in her eyes gave Grady pause. “I’m not sure.” Turning off the engine, she quickly added, “You got any family?”    

     He reached for his door. “A brother in Denver. We don’t talk much. His wife likes to keep him on a short leash.”

     “Yeah, marriage can be a real bitch,” Al proposed, opening her car door.

     Grady stood from the car and gazed across the roof at her. “You ever been married?”

     “No,” she told him, collecting a blue backpack from the rear seat. “I don’t want a husband. Never have.”

     “Then why the bad opinion of marriage?”

     She slung the backpack over her shoulder. “I’ve heard enough horror stories to know I don’t have any interest in writing my own.”

     He went around to the front of the car and waited for her. “Maybe it isn’t all bad. Might be nice to have someone to lean on.”

     She slowly sauntered up to him. “The only person you have to count on is you. To other people, you will eventually end up as a burden.”

     “That’s an awfully pessimistic attitude.” He considered her intense gray eyes, trying to fathom the reason for her cynicism. “I thought working in the medical field would give you a kinder opinion of the human race.”

     She pulled a set of keys from a pocket on the outside of her blue backpack. “No, working in the medical field gives you a realistic view of the human race.” She walked to the back door of the house. “Your world and mine aren’t so different, Grady. We get to see the ugly reality of life, not the fairy tale.”

     He came toward her, wearing an upbeat smile. “In my world, the fairy tale is what we sell. It’s the fantasy of having a dancer for the night. If it weren’t for the suspended disbelief of my customers, I would be out of a job.”

     Al opened the massive solid cypress door that filled the rear entrance. “They know what they’re getting, Grady: a little flash, a little bump and grind. Then, it’s time to go back home and crawl into bed with men they have learned to put up with for the sake of money, children, or because they are too afraid to make it in the world on their own.” She pushed the heavy door open.      

     Before she could step inside, Grady stretched his thick arm across the doorway in front of her. “Who was he?”

     Her gray eyes angrily whirled around to him. “Who?”

     “The guy who made you so bitter about relationships.”

     Al pushed his arm out of the way, and then smiled seductively. “What makes you so sure it was a guy?”

     She glided in the doorway. Grady stood behind her with his mouth slightly ajar.

    
“Well, that would explain a hell of a lot,” he muttered.

     Inside, a narrow hallway was paneled in dark oak with occasional framed drawings of old New Orleans decorating the walls. Sconces of brass shaped like lilies occasionally appeared from the rich wood, lighting their way. Eventually the corridor opened up, and to the right the staircase Grady had used when first entering the house rose up alongside them.

     Before they reached the beginning of the staircase, Al stepped up to a formidable man with short-cropped black hair, rugged features, and a very well-defined torso. Standing by a table just inside the front doors, he was taller than Grady and probably a good twenty pounds heavier. He was wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and in his hands were an assortment of envelopes.

     “Hey, Doug.” Al sorted through a few envelopes. “Is this today’s mail?”

     Doug looked up and Grady noticed the blackness of his eyes. They had a sinister appearance that was compounded by his olive complexion, the thick black stubble on his chin, and his prominent carved cheekbones. His jaw was square and added a brooding quality to his face.

     “Hey, Little Al.” He handed her a few of the envelopes. “Yeah, I was looking for my check.”

     Al pointed to Grady. “Doug Larson, meet Grady Paulson, new tenant in C.”

     Doug shoved a stack of envelopes under his arm and stretched out his free hand to Grady. “Welcome to the dorm.”

     Grady shook his hand. “The dorm?”

     Al rolled her eyes, turning to Grady. “Doug’s way of making fun of my ground rules.”

     “Well, you do have a lot of them, Al.” Doug retrieved the envelopes from under his arm.

     “I don’t see you leaving,” Al quipped.

     Doug shrugged his broad shoulders. “Hey, I love it here.” He removed an envelope from the pile. “There,” he said, handing it to Al. “Light bill.”

     She took the envelope and added it to the stack in her hand.  “The mail comes jointly, Grady. I don’t use mailboxes because people come and go so frequently. If you need anything shipped or mailed, just put your name and apartment number above the address.” She waved to a brass mail slot in the lower portion of one side of the double oak and glass doors. “First person to pick up the mail on the floor gets to sort it.”

     “Which is usually me,” Doug piped in. He handed Al another envelope. “Cable bill.”

     Al read the address on the envelope. “Grady’s dancing over at The Flesh Factory.”

     Grady eyed Al suspiciously. “I never told you I was dancing there.”

     “No, but Burt did.”

     Doug smiled at Grady. “Heard that’s going to be the new hot spot in town.”

     Al eased toward the stairs. “I’ll see you two later.”

     “Thanks for the ride,” Grady called to her.

     Al careened her head around. “Enjoy the strawberries,” she added, waving to the bag in his hand.

     The two men stood in silence, seemingly mesmerized by Al’s ass as she jogged up the steps.

     Letting out a low whistle, Doug returned his gaze to the envelopes in his hand. “Hell of a woman, huh?”

     “A very interesting woman,” Grady expounded.

     Doug snorted. “Don’t even think about it, man. That is one smart lady. She also never gets involved with her male tenants.”

     “Just her female ones, right?” Grady asserted with a grin.

     Doug let out a heartfelt roar of laughter. “You fell for that line, too.” He shook his head. “She tells every new guy that walks into the place that she’s into girls, but she’s not, trust me.”

     “How do you know?”

     Doug placed the last of the envelopes in his hand on the walnut table by the door. “She’s been dating some older guy for a few years now. He’s got a key. I’ve seen him coming and going at odd hours.”

     “Then why give me that line about being interested in women?”

     Doug shrugged. “To put you off. She never gets involved with her tenants. One of her ground rules.”

     Grady should have trusted his instincts. From the moment he had peered into her eyes, he felt that stirring of interest from her. Now he was beginning to understand why he had sensed such animosity from her. She had been attracted to him, too, but never wanted to entertain the notion of breaking her steadfast rules.

     Grady fixed his eyes on the imposing man beside him. “Suzie told me you work at Pat O’Brien’s.”

     “Yeah. I started out dancing like you, but then the gigs dried-up and I got the job at Pat O’s. It’s steady, tips are great, and the female companionship … even better.” He studied Grady’s blue eyes and good looks. “How long have you been dancing?”

     “Started in college, quit when I graduated, but thanks to the economy, I got laid off. I had to go back to it four years ago.”

     “Damned economy is killing everyone. I’ve got a financial planner and a CPA working behind the bar with me. Both of them got laid off and turned to tending bar to pay the bills.”

     “Yeah, there are a lot of us out there, nowadays,” Grady agreed.

     Doug slapped the envelopes in his hands against his thigh. “How long you here for?”

     “Four months.”

     “When you get done at your club, you should stop by Pat O’s one night, and I’ll buy you a drink. I work the main bar from eight to two every night except Monday.”

     “Thanks, Doug. I’ll do that.”