Villere House (Blood of My Blood) (15 page)

"And you expect us to buy that shit? I know you stayed with Xavier last night."

Once again, she ignored Sam, keeping her gaze firmly on Amanda.

"Did you really?" Amanda wondered.

"Yeah, but it isn't what you think."

"That sucks because he's hot."

In spite of her topsy-turvy, chaotic emotional state, she couldn't help smiling at that obvious statement. "Anyway, I'll be home in a few days."

"What are you going to do about classes? They start in two freaking days."

"I don't know. I'm honestly not really worried about school at the moment."

"Clearly."

"Yeah, lucky for you, your parents left you a small fortune. You can afford it, right Lottie?" Sam's smile was saccharin-sweet and just as fake.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Finally, she set her phone down and approached them. "I am so sick of your shit. Your, 'oh I'm
so
tragic because my parents died' bullshit routine when they left you a mint. And how you're always ragging on us for drinking too much or hooking up with guys when I've seen you puke more than a few times in my day, and I
know
you've had a couple of one-night stands. And here you are immediately shacking up with the first hot guy that pays you any attention. Just because you like to think you've had such a hard life and that you've somehow got it more figured out than the rest of us doesn't mean you have. You're such a fucking hypocrite."

"I—"

"Just admit it, Lottie! Admit you're staying here because of some cock. I might actually respect you then."

"Screw you," was the most clever comeback Lottie could come up with.

Ducking into the bedroom, she yanked her suitcase from the dresser and packed her few belongings as quickly as possible before heading back into the sitting room and straight for the door. Her fingers were on the handle when Amanda stopped her.

"Lottie, wait. Where are you going? Really."

"None of your—" She took a deep breath and reigned in her anger as much as she could. "I'm checking into another room. I'll text you later."

With a hug, Amanda whispered, "Make sure you do. See you in a few."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

S
he felt like she was dragging a dead body instead of a twenty-pound roller as she lugged her suitcase through the courtyard, down the long, narrow hall, through the foyer, and out into the bright sun. Blinded by its brightness, she squinted as she dug in her purse for her sunglasses. Why on earth did she bury them in her purse?

What a mess. What a fucking, awful mess. She just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. She didn't even know why she was so bothered by Sam's comments. They'd never been that close, but she hadn't realized Sam hated her so much. No, more like despised, loathed, detested. She'd actually thought of Sam as her friend.

Maybe what was worse is she knew Sam's accusations weren't off base. She was far from perfect, yet she constantly chastised those around her. Even Xavier. Especially Xavier.

She felt a tear slide down her cheek. God, none of this crying bullshit. She didn't need that, not now.

"Where are those fucking sunglasses?!"

When digging through her purse returned nothing, she squatted down and dumped the contents on the dirty sidewalk. Her wallet, a compact, some crumpled up receipts, a comb, lip-gloss, but no. Fucking. Sunglasses.

She was ready to chuck the empty purse across the street and then throw herself on the ground and have a good old-fashioned tantrum, when a large, strong hand rested gently on her shoulder.

Xavier knelt beside her, lifting the sunglasses from where they'd been the whole time—perched on her head—and handing them to her. He didn't say a word as he began retrieving the discarded items of her purse.

"What are you doing here? I thought I told you—"

"I know," he interjected quietly. "But this is the man I am, Lottie. I can't sit by and watch those I care about suffer. Not when I might be able to help. I realize it can be stifling, but I can't be any other way."

She could no longer breathe. And not because he was stifling.

He continued to reload her purse. Speechless, all she could do was watch. Like her lungs and her voice box no longer functioned.

Did he say he cared about her? Was that what she heard?

As much as she felt like she couldn't read him, or that he looked at her like he couldn't figure out what to do with her, he'd still been nothing but helpful, thoughtful, and attentive.

And yes, maybe she'd been momentarily overwhelmed by his desire to…protect. But that's because there was something wrong with her, not him.

Even the way he retrieved the contents of her purse, the care he took placing each item back in her bag... It made her throat tighten and chest constrict.

Feeling dumbfounded, she mechanically took back her purse when he handed it to her.

"So I was thinking," he said, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet, "that while we're waiting for you to be tired enough to nap, we could hit a second-line parade. There's one rolling out of Treme here shortly."

Standing before him, her body inches from his, her hand wrapped in his strong but gentle grip, her mind still stuttering, she reached up with her free hand and clasped the back of his neck. Extending onto her tiptoes, she pulled him to her and covered his full lips in the softest, sweetest kiss she could manage. No tongue, nothing debaucherous, only her lips pressed against his.

He immediately pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around the small of her back. His moan of approval was so delicate, so subdued, she couldn't hear it, only feel it as it vibrated her lips.

Shyness took over as she pulled away and out of his grasp.

He was grinning. "I take it you like the second-line suggestion."

"Sounds fun." Honestly, she'd never heard of a second-line parade, but since Xavier suggested it, she was all in.

"Perfect. Let's just drop off your suitcase." Grabbing the roller, he turned toward the direction of the Guest House.

"Xavier," she called and he turned back to her. "I'm sorry for—"

"Nothing. There's nothing to be sorry for."

"Thank you."

He glanced at the suitcase. "Of course."

"No. Well, for that too, but for everything else. For being here."

He shrugged. "I wouldn't be anywhere else."

~

She could hear the music a block before they reached the parade, which was nothing like she was expecting. No long line of floats progressing slowly down spectator lined streets. There
was
a small float, and a few people lingered on front porches, but the parade was actually a mass of several hundred people marching down the street. A brass band marched with them—or so she heard. She could only see the tip of a sousaphone. The actual band was obscured by the crowd around them.

They joined at the back of the moving mob, a few feet in front of the police horses.

"Want a beer?" Xavier asked.

"I don't know…" She fiddled with the hem of her skirt. She was glad they'd had time for her to change before catching up with the parade. She didn't think she could stand to be in those clothes for five more minutes.

"Nothing says 'afternoon nap' like day drinking."

"That's true. Though I
do
still have some of Amanda's pills..."

His look was disapproving. She had to admit, she really didn't want to trudge through the post-Amanda-pill-fog again.

"Okay, okay. No pills. A beer sounds great."

Xavier headed into the crowd where he stopped a man wheeling a large ice chest. Still walking, the man dipped into the cooler and produced two cans of beer. Xavier paid him and returned to her side. After handing her one of the ice-cold cans, he popped the top on his and took a huge swig.

She glanced at the officers behind her. She knew drinking on the street was perfectly legal in New Orleans, but she was pretty sure selling beer out of a cooler wasn't. They didn't seem to notice or care. The smell of Marijuana hung in the air and that didn't faze them either.

"Nothing beats a second-line beer," Xavier said. "C'mon, let's get closer to the band." Taking her hand, he wove through the crowd, pulling her behind him until they were right next to the boisterous group of trumpet, trombone, saxophone, sousaphone players, and drummers. Directly in front of them were a group of men, young and old, dressed in bright green suits. Some carried staffs with huge green feather toppers, dripping with beads and glitter, but all danced, their feet a flurry of fast steps, dips, and spins.

The crowd around them danced as well. Some just marched with upbeat steps and bodies that pumped back and forth, some busted out fancy footwork rivaling the costumed dancers.

Including Xavier. He stepped, kicked, spun, and twisted with the best of them. His athletic body strong and powerful, yet smooth and graceful at the same time. It only took Lottie a half a beer to join in. Being so close to the band and being surrounded by so many dancers and so much energy, it was virtually impossible not to.

They followed the parade for several hours, weaving through local neighborhood streets and sometimes occupying entire lanes of wide, tree-lined boulevards. There were stops along the way where people sold food out of trucks or huge smoker grills, and guys with loudspeakers announced the contents of full bars set up on the roof of their pickup trucks. By the time they peeled away from the parade, now twice as big as it had been when they started, Lottie had learned a few snazzy dance moves from Xavier, was enjoying a light buzz, a belly full of a pork chop sandwich and sausage smothered in barbeque sauce, and a bladder about to burst.

She hadn't thought of Élise or Laurent or Amanda or Sam once.

"So, you think you're ready for that afternoon nap now?" he asked as they climbed the stairs to the Guest House suite.

On cue she yawned and they both laughed. "After I use the restroom, yes."

He unlocked the door and held it open. She rushed past only to pause at the bedroom door. Another pair of fowl feet hung from the door like a grotesque wreath, only this pair was four times as big as the other. She glanced at Xavier in question. "Dare I ask?"

"Turkey feet. They're bigger, so I thought they might protect the whole room."

She turned back to the talons. Black and twisted with long, sharp nails, they were straight out of a horror movie. She couldn't believe something so awful was meant to protect. The only thing beautiful about them was the symbol scrolling across the top of each gnarled foot. It was the same as the symbol etched onto her necklace—the vévé of Papa Damballah.

Even though her bladder was pleading with her to hurry up, she continued to linger. "The feet… So, I know they're a protective charm to ward off evil spirits. But what about good spirits?"

"I don't know. To be honest, twenty-four hours ago I just thought they were disgusting good-luck charms for superstitious old women, and trinkets to sell to tourists. After last night…well, I decided there might be more merit to the superstition. If anything, it couldn't hurt."

"What if there's too much protection?"

"You think the feet might be why you didn't dream about Élise?"

"Maybe…"

"Well, you're welcome to crash in my room. No chicken feet in there."

"That might not be a bad idea. Just in case, of course." Reaching up, her fingers touched the Papa Damballah necklace.

"It might be all you'll need for protection," he nodded toward the necklace. "Besides, I'll be close."

His grin was nothing short of mischievous, drawing her gaze to his lips. She could get caught up in those.

He turned toward the door. "Follow me, Madame."

"Oh, hang on. Let me use the restroom first."

"We have a couple in the house."

"I like this one. The severed feet really add a touch of class."

"I'll remember that."

His bedroom was one of several on the second floor and faced the street. A door leading out to the wrought iron balcony was open, allowing a warm breeze to buzz through the room.

"Glad I picked up before you saw what a slob I can be," he said, snatching a few discarded pieces of clothing from the floor and tossing them into a hamper.

She took in the entire room before she'd stepped two feet into it. Black and white framed photographs—new mixed with old scenes of New Orleans, including a very old looking picture of the Villere House—hung on the cool, gray painted walls. Antique cameras and hardback books topped the shelves of a bookcase adjacent to a computer work-station, and records filled the lower shelves. The bed was neatly made and looked way too inviting. She yawned again.

Besides the few pieces of clothing, the room was spotless. He was no "slob".

He held out his hands like a game-show hostess. "Welcome to my humble abode."

"'Tis very nice." She bowed her head and flipped her hand extravagantly. "Did you do the decorating?"

"Collaborative effort with a college friend. Same with the Guest House. Sophie has an amazing eye for these things. I'm just lucky she cuts me a deal."

It was the first time he'd ever mentioned a female other than his mother or grandmother. She was shocked by the way she bristled at the innocent mention.

She turned her attention to the wall covered in photos.

"These are cool. You take them?"

"I wasn't alive in the 19th Century, Lottie," he said with perfect seriousness.

"The ones from
this
century." She kind of wanted to add, "asshat" to the end of that statement, but wasn't sure if they were on that level of kidding around or not.

"No, my father did...years ago. After he left, I rescued them from my mother who tried to throw everything out, including the cameras."

"So they're a remembrance to him?"

"You could say that. I don't particularly miss him. He skipped out the minute things got tough and didn't bother checking up on us until things got better. But I think it's important to hang onto parts of him. The good parts."

She walked around the room, running her fingers along the bookshelves and reading the hardback labels. She spotted an old turntable on the middle shelf she hadn't noticed on her initial room scan. Made sense with all the records...

When she looked up, Xavier was just steps behind her. Was she making him uncomfortable by looking at all his stuff?

"I assume this actually plays albums," she said lightly.

"If not, I've been doing it wrong." He winked. "Need a little mood music for your nap?"

"That would be great."

"Any requests?"

"DJ's choice."

He thumbed through the records, selected one, pulled it out, looked it over, and then placed it on the platter.

"Louie Armstrong. Nice."

"One thing we're good at in New Orleans is appreciating our history."

"Except you," she said earnestly.

His brows pushed together until there was barely a millimeter between them.

"You seem to spend a lot of time denying your heritage," she added.