Requisite Vices Read online

  “Mister Delacroix?” I ask, awkwardly holding out my hand.

  “Ah, Miss Roman, is it?” He takes my hand in his, raising it, and brushing his lips delicately against my skin.

  I blush in response, and he treats me to a knowing smile. His eyes meet mine then slip quickly over my body, scrutinizing every inch of me, and I’m suddenly self-conscious.

  Is there something on my shirt? Am I sweating? I should’ve worn something darker to hide it!

  It’s a matter of seconds, but as his eyes run over and through me; a shiver runs up my spine. His eyes meet mine and crinkle at the edges as he pulls a soft smile to his lips, but I feel exposed, as if his eyes sliced me from head to toe, and peeled back my skin to take a peek at my soul.

  “Shall we?” he asks as he opens one of the doors into the café.

  I return his smile uneasily, step through the door, and am instantly assaulted by the noise of dozens of different conversations going on at once, as well as the ever-present clattering of kitchen dishes. The smell is overpowering; a delightful mix of coffee, sugar, and fried dough. The sugar is absolutely everywhere. It’s on the floors, on the tables, on everyone’s fingers and clothes and yet no one seems to pay it much mind. It takes more than a bit of willpower not to ask for a broom and go on a massive sweeping spree.

  He leans in close and whispers something into my ear, but I can barely hear his voice amidst the noise. Linking my arm in his, he leads me to the front counter, where he leans over to speak with the barista. She nods and passes off the orders to her coworker, who readies two Café Au Laits, and a plate of some breakfast pastry doused in the same sugar that makes up the entirety of the shop. Leading me to a table outside in the heat, he places the plate and both coffees on its surface, then gestures to the chair across from him.

  “Please, have a seat. Have you ever had one before?”

  “Have I had what?”

  “A beignet,” he chuckles and waves a hand to the plate with pastries that are still piping hot from the fryer. “It’s a rite of passage. If you live here, you have to try a beignet.”

  He tears off a piece of fluffy, still steaming hot, dough saturated with powdered sugar, and hands it to me. I take it, not wanting to offend, and pop it into my mouth. It dissolves completely on my tongue, like melted silk. The texture of it is incredible, but other than that, it doesn’t seem any different in taste than something I could pick up by hitting up the local donut shop first thing in the morning.

  “Well?”

  “Well what? It’s a fresh donut without the hole, and smothered in powdered sugar.”

  He laughs lightly, picks up his coffee and takes a small sip.

  “And how long have you lived in Louisiana, Miss Roman? I thought you would have indulged in some of the local cuisine by now.”

  The local cuisine, huh?

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from blurting out something that would leave me sounding like a horny teenager.

  Sipping my coffee, my eyes slip from his eyes to his lips, then down his neck before I catch myself and quickly avert my eyes to a passing horse and carriage.

  “I’ve only been here a few years. Two or three now, I don’t keep track anymore. I’ve tried a few things, but just haven’t had the time, I suppose, for this particular…delicacy. It wasn’t something that seemed important.”

  “Oh, but to really find yourself at home in new surroundings, you must take part of the local culture and their cuisine. How else will you find comfort in your new residence?”

  He shakes his head, as if banishing some wayward thought, or perhaps he’s disappointed in my previous answer. Great. This is already getting off to a bad start.

  “So, Miss Roman, I’m under the impression that you’ve been trying to get ahold of me for quite some time. Or rather, your relentless employer has. It seems she’s very keen on having someone speak with me.”

  “She has. I’m sorry. She can be a bit stubborn when she gets her mind set on something. Thank you again for agreeing to meet with me. I really have enjoyed much of your work, and was hoping to talk to you about it, if that’s okay?”

  Enjoyed his work? God, I hope he doesn’t call me on that load of bullshit. I didn’t know he existed till yesterday, but then again, I haven’t exactly been keeping up on much of anything other than work.

  “Of course.” He smiles, then his eyes waver, focusing on a bird that’s landed on the edge of the wrought iron fence that surrounds the outdoor patio. Tilting his head, he refocuses on me, curiosity sparking to life behind his eyes.

  “You have a few interesting pieces yourself, Miss Roman. It was you who wrote that exquisite piece on the state of our educational system, was it not?”

  I nod, trying to hide the look of shock from my face. I’m surprised he is familiar with me at all. I’m not exactly well known, and often I find my own work to be lackluster at best. Nothing I’ve written would hold a candle to a paragraph penned by the esteemed Alexander R. Delacroix, I’m sure. The piece he’s referring to is nothing more than fevered ramblings of an inebriated journalist.

  Damn, a successful subject change. Was he trying to switch the focus to me, instead? Is he actually interested in answering my questions, or has he only agreed to meet with me in order to amuse himself.

  I look up from my coffee to find his eyes locked on me. They’re a soft, light brown, splattered with specks of green and gold, and they’re holding mine firm.

  “Well?”

  I blink, knitting my eyebrows together, then realize I had been holding my coffee and staring into it, completely lost in my own thoughts.

  “Drink, before it cools.”

  I doubt anything would cool in this heat, but his words overflow with the subtle power of confidence, and a sense of authority.

  My cheeks burn with the excitement of forbidden thoughts, which have slipped into each crevice of my brain. Drawing the mug to my lips, I take a sip, his eyes never wavering from mine. A budding hunger peeking out from behind his eyes, causes me to shift uncomfortably in my seat. My thighs press together and my muscles clench, sending a pulse of pleasure through my quickly aching body.

  Clearing my throat, I pick up my pen and poise it over the pad.

  “Well, is there any advice you could tell our readers about your sudden success? Any tips or information on your personal writing process, or how you went about getting published? There are so many options, these days, for aspiring writers, and I’m sure we would love to hear about your personal experience.”

  “Well, Miss Roman, if I could give you any advice, it would be to write every day. Think of it as a muscle you must exercise daily. If you want it to improve, you have to work at it constantly, even if they’re little spurts, say, ten minutes here and there. You’ll be surprised how much the way you perceive things changes and molds your work from an ugly lump of clay into a beautiful vase. I must stress, however, that everyone’s writing process is completely different. You need to find what works for you. As for publishing, well, that’s a bit harder to explain. It certainly doesn’t happen overnight.” He pauses for a brief moment, clearly amused with himself, and asks, “How’s that?”

  Cocking my eyebrow, I glance at him from my notepad, where I had been furiously scribbling notes.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s what I’m supposed to say when being interviewed, right?”

  “I uh, I suppose?”

  He chortles, and brings his coffee to his lips. The steam rolling off the top of the mug fogs up the bottom half of his glasses for just a moment while he takes a sip, and I notice the sweat beading up on his forehead and sliding down his temples. The heat is having an effect on him too, but he seems far more comfortable in it than I am.

  Maybe he enjoys being a sweaty mess.

  “In all honesty, writing can be awkward and difficult. This field is solitary and unstable for the first several years, much like most people’s early 20’s. It takes time to find your stride, and in th
e process, it may often result in many long, lonely nights.” he laughs. “You find yourself seeking out your place in a world filled with many others who are trying to do the same thing. Finding a way to distinguish yourself from the crowd isn’t always easy, and leads many to throw their hands up in exhaustion, as they come across rejection after rejection. It is a solitary, humbling experience, and I don’t think anyone should pursue it unless they’re truly passionate about it. Writing isn’t something you want to do; it’s something you need to do. What about you, Miss Roman? Why do you write?”

  “Why do I write? Right now, because it pays my bills. I know that’s not a good reason, and I’ve had ideas for things that could become something more, but usually those ideas are nothing more than a quick release. I have trouble sticking with it once the mood has passed, and they wind up in a pile cast off to the side.”

  “Well, have you thought about a blog? It’s a good way to force yourself into writing daily.”

  Clearing my throat nervously, I take another sip of my coffee as I think back on a brief spurt of blogging experience. It was definitely more X-rated than your typical blog on cooking or on the one hundred different types of hats to knit. The blog mirrored some exploratory work as a phone sex operator I picked up, in order to gather experience for an article I was writing, and of course, for the extra cash. It lasted a week before I felt myself questioning my own morals. The day I began to dread getting on the phone is the day I called it quits.

  “No, I haven’t had any blogging experience. Not really. My only real writing experience has been in the articles for Angela, and those few things I have submitted were randomly thrown together over the course of a few nights. I suppose I tend to write a bit more on impulse, and that’s something I’d like to get away from. I want to organize it all, I just have a rough time sketching my thoughts out in some kind of order. And yes, I tried an outline under a college professor’s instruction. It was so bad; he was struggling not to laugh. I guess outlines aren’t my thing.”

  My eyes slip from his as he turns his attention back to his coffee, lost in thought, then trail down the side of his neck, over the slight bulge of his Adam’s apple and linger on the hint of chest hair visible only due to the carelessly unrestrained top button of his shirt.

  “Are you okay, Miss Roman? You look flushed. Is the heat too much for you?”

  The pink on my cheeks must have grown to a bright scarlet as I fumble with my pen. His voice is soft, aching with concern, and it seeps through my skin, threatening to set a spark to my already boiling blood.

  “Yes, yes. I’m sorry. I suppose I’m still not accustomed to the temperature down here. I wasn’t made for this extreme heat.”

  “Oh? I would have thought you could handle the heat, Miss Roman.” He smirks, with a twinkle in his eye that stirs my blood. Fantastical images of twisted limbs and impassioned moans push to the forefront of my mind “Would you like to finish our discussion indoors?”

  Indoors, perhaps, but the coffee shop isn’t the first thing that comes to mind. I was thinking something a bit more…private.

  Biting hard on the inside of my cheek to focus my thoughts, I think back on the sound restrained just beyond the doors to the café, and know it would be pointless. I wouldn’t hear a thing in there.

  His phone chimes from the depths of his back pocket, and saves my scattered brain from trying to piece together more innocent thoughts. He pulls it out, apologizing for the interruption, and swipes his finger across the screen. His brow furrows as he reads over the message.

  “I’m really very sorry, Miss Roman, but my free time has been cut short yet again. Perhaps we can continue this another time? Do you plan to stay in the area?”

  “Yes, for the next few days. I have a few things around the city that I need to take care of, but plan to head home on Sunday.”

  “Wonderful! Then we’ll set something up. I’ll text you the details.”

  His lips curl into a soft smile as he rises from his seat and offers his hand. Slipping my hand into his, I give it an awkward shake.

  I really hope that’s why he was offering it…

  His eyes peer down at me from behind his silver rimmed glasses, and his smile takes on a seductive twist to my hormone riddled brain. My imagination is running away with me again, causing enticing delusions to implant themselves into everything I perceive.

  I’m glad he’s was called away, before my imagination had time to fully wrap him into another one of its fantasies.

  As he turns his back, I look down at my fairly empty notepad and write this off as a failure. I’m sure I know what his schedule is like; events, future projects project or helping with various activities around the city. Honestly, I’d probably have better luck seeing him on television than I would in person.

  I finish off the rest of my coffee, and leave the noise of the café, and the memories of my failure, behind me. As I turn the corner towards my car, I find him leaning against it, swiping through his phone. He looks up as I approach and grins, his fingers raking insouciantly through his hair.

  “Ah, Miss Roman. My apologies, is this your car?”

  “Yes, in fact…”

  He can’t seriously think I’d write this off as a coincidence, could he?

  “Well, quite the stroke of luck, then! As I was heading home, I realized that I’m terrible at contacting people.”

  He smiles, and I could feel that oh-so-familiar ache grow inside of me as my eyes try to focus on his, and not on the visible sprinkling of chest hair, how delicious he looks in those jeans, or how sexy his smile is.

  “Why don’t you try me tomorrow night?”

  He eases his hand into his front pocket to fish out his business card. I thank him, and watch as he heads off again.

  The usual questions such as ‘How did he know what car I drove?’ pale in comparison to the mental images assaulting my thoughts as I watch him walk off, and as I climb into my car, I begin fantasizing about how he’d look shirtless.

  Shaking the images from my head, I check my phone to see several missed calls and a handful of messages from Ann begging me to stop by as soon as I can. I had mentioned I’d be in the city to her, and she was overly eager to have me check over her work. Sadly, she’s also incredibly impatient.

  I start up the car, throw it in gear, and head towards my hotel to change from these stuffy clothes into something a bit more casual for her. By the time I’ve changed and grabbed a quick — albeit unsatisfying — bite to eat, the sun is beginning to set and there are twelve new messages on my phone from Ann. I should probably learn to keep my phone, at minimum, on vibrate. I have this awful habit of slipping it on silent at all times, mostly because I hate to be disturbed by the constant ring of calls and texts.

  Grabbing my purse and keys, and head out of the hotel towards the address Ann sent in her very first text, then reply with a quick ‘On my way.’ before tossing the phone into the bottomless void of my hand bag.

  Chapter 3

  In addition to my submissions to LAddict, I was lucky enough to land a more stable, part-time teaching job at the local college when Riley and I first moved to here. It was there, that I met Ann. She’s a former coworker that I met during my first semester teaching.

  Ann carries herself with an air you’d expect from someone who’s grown up never wanting, however, I do admire her ability to stay semi-grounded. She’s not the type who will look down on someone for not having what she has; she just doesn’t know how to relate in certain social aspects, almost as if she lacks the graces you’d expect from the general population. It’s just another one of those slightly annoying qualities she possesses, and her impatience is less than charming.

  I walk up to a pair of large, intimidating mahogany front doors and with a single knock, they fly open. She’s standing before me; her eyes, a sunlit forest of jade, and her hair is reminiscent of the red and black of smoldering coals.

  “Oh! Thank goodness you’re here. Come in, please!”
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br />   She reaches across the threshold, grabs me by the wrist and drags me through the expansive parlor until we’re standing hip to hip in the doorway to the office.

  “I’m really sorry for calling on you, but since you were in the area, I…”

  “Really, it’s not a problem. I was finishing up a meeting not too far from here, actually, so it’s not an inconvenience. Perhaps, next time, I could do without all the messages.” I smile.

  Her eyes are absolutely enchanting.

  With crimson cheeks, she stares down at her feet, clearly embarrassed by my statement, and I regret saying it immediately. I didn’t mean to offend her, but spamming me with messages isn’t going to make me come here any faster.

  “I’m sorry. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I just wanted to make sure you were still coming, I suppose. I’m sorry…” Her eyes are still downcast, and I wish I could pull my previous comment out of the air and erase it from existence.

  “It’s okay! Really. It’s no problem at all. However, I’d hate to be a disappointment. I’m not perfect, and I’m certainly not a professional editor, or anything. There will be things I miss, and different people may see it in different ways. If you’re certain on going forward with this, I really do encourage you to seek out a second opinion to give it a more in depth review.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She states pointedly as she ushers me into the room. “You’re far better than I am, at least, and I would really love your opinion.”

  Ann pushes me toward the desk as my eyes sweep over every inch of the room. It’s spectacular; something I could only dream of having as an office.

  A rich, espresso wood spreads across every inch of the floor, naked if not for the lush cream carpet beneath a solid cherry wood desk. The walls are a shimmer of white, but can hardly be seen amongst the towering white bookshelves, which are pushed into every corner of the room. The ceiling is an ornate pattern of leaves and vines stamped out in polished copper panels. Each bend, curve, and twist in its surface reflects the dim light from the chandelier, which dangles from the center of the room as if it were a ladies prized pendant.