Requisite Vices

Requisite

   Vices

      Miranda S. Veil

This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any and all resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Miranda S. Veil

REQUISITE VICES is an unregistered trademark of Miranda S. Veil

Cover design by K. Antonelli: Dreamstime; cover photograph

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For my muse. Without you, there would be no story to tell.

For K.A, who helped encourage me, and who listened to my hours’ worth of ramblings over many moons. Thanks for letting me bounce ideas off of you, for helping to inspire new ones, and for always being there for me.

And to all others who, at some point during this process, convinced me to keep going. I would have never done it without your constant reassurances.

Prologue

“The sound of her voice
sets my teeth on edge.”

Sighing, I slide my phone face down near the edge of the table.

It’s a particularly brutal Thursday afternoon, with the sun beating down on us from directly overhead. Waves of heat emanate from every inch of our surroundings, and the humidity is unbearable; it floods every pore and drowns my lungs, making it near impossible to breathe. Riley, however, insisted on sitting outdoors, most likely to show off her new shoes to whoever happens to walk by. What a princess.

It’s become a bit of a ritual for us to come out once a week and spend time together. It offers a much needed respite to reconnect, and gives us an excuse to get the frustrations of our week out in the open. It can feel, at times, like everything flies across the screen of our lives. The minutes, the hours, the days, and before we know it, we’re lost in a whirlwind of what has become the day-to-day.

And so we’ve settled here for our weekly date. Though the place is very obviously Italian, every restaurant down here has thrown a bit of Cajun flair into every dish. I’ve always had a taste for a bit of heat in my food, so I’m definitely not complaining.

It’s that golden hour just after the lunch rush, but before the dinner crowd, when everything is quiet and serene, and thankfully, we’re left in peace as we sit beneath towering palm trees, enjoying a liquid lunch, and nibbling on delectable stuffed mushrooms.

“What does she want this time?” Riley asks, just before tilting her head back and draining the remainder of her glass. She lifts her finger, motioning to the waiter for another round of drinks.

“She was frantic, which only makes her voice that much harder to listen to. She may have hit glass-shattering notes this time around.” I roll my eyes at the memory of Angela’s voice. “Her choice for the interview with an author from New Orleans backed out on her at the last moment. She already has a hotel room booked for the weekend, and doesn’t want to miss this chance, so she called to see if I had plans.”

The waiter stops by our table, dropping off our drinks. I stir my whiskey sour by the cherry stem, watching the shockingly red fruit swirl around the glass.

“This is a big thing for her, and for the magazine. She must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel if she wants me to conduct the interview. I haven’t done an interview since freshman year, but it can’t be that bad, right?”

“Right! Besides, it may really help launch your career, you know? It could shine a bit more light on your work. Maybe you’ll become some superstar interviewer, like those people on TV. You’ll have your own show and everything!”

“Riley, your imagination is bigger than your boobs, which is certainly saying something.”

“You love my boobs! Don’t pretend otherwise.” She winks, laughing playfully from across the table.

“Okay. I may be a little envious, but I’ve definitely got a better ass.”

We share a laugh and, drawing my glass to my lips, I take a sip, letting the drink wash over my tongue and dance down my throat. It’s been a few days since I’ve had my taste of alcohol. Never again will I wait this long.

Days like this have become the highlight of my week. It makes me feel connected to someone again after walling myself away from the world. I’ve never trusted anyone more than I trust her. She makes me feel like your normal, everyday twenty-something.

“So, what’s this guy’s name? Is he cute? Maybe you can get a
personal
interview.” She winks.

“I think not. He’s probably some old, stuffy writer who thinks tweed jackets are still in. I’m not overly familiar with him. He’s new, I think. Well, new to mass popularity, at least. His name is Alexander Delacroix.”

“I bet he’s full of himself, but I guess you’ll have to find out first hand, huh? You
are
going, aren’t you? Regardless of how much of an ass he may turn out to be, you really can’t pass this up.”

“Yeah. I’m going.” Tilting my head back, my eye catches the palm trees rustling in a phantom breeze. “I’m fairly certain Angela only asked because she knows I don’t do anything on weekends. I should’ve made up something, just to make myself seem more interesting.”

“And she would’ve called you on it.”

“Yeah,” I sigh “she probably would have.” Palming the glass, I tilt my head and drain the drink in one shot. “How does anyone survive in this heat? It’s too hot to be out here.”

The sweat, which had been accumulating on my skin the entire time, has now become a steaming river running between my breasts and down my back. I’m sure the alcohol isn’t helping…

“Ready to go home?”

The heat seems to have gotten to Riley as well, and shows itself on her flushed cheeks as the sweat beads threatening to fall from her forehead.

“Definitely.”

Chapter 1

Opening my eye
s
,
I stare at the clock in a stupor as it sits on the bedside table. It looks so innocent; it’s cold, blue numbers flashing in time with the obnoxious racket ringing from its speakers. Slipping the covers off my skin with a groan, the warmth and security of my precious bed falls away, giving rise to a host of goose bumps in response to the stark cold of the barren room.

Chancing a glance at the clock, it continues to scream, mockingly, from the nightstand. If only my glare could cause it to shatter, and lie peacefully upon the floor among the scattered remnants of clothes from the night before. Rolling my eyes, I knock the alarm to the ground with a sweep of my hand. No one wants to wake up this early, and I’m no exception. I’m honestly surprised the damn clock still has the strength to make any noise at all, after the abuse it’s received recently.

The room is instantly cast into a deafening silence, ominously pressing against me from all sides as it couples with the near darkness of the early morning hour. Staring out across the bed, I can barely make out the indentation of my partner from last night. All other evidence of his stay has been meticulously removed, at my request. I’m glad to see he remembered to follow my instructions, after all, they’re there for a reason.

Stumbling my way into the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is a tangled mass of chestnut curls, my eyeliner, more reminiscent of war paint than a beauty aid, and the fading red stain against my lips portrays a telltale story of the night before.

The memories blur, dripping into one another as my mind grasps to piece together the night. I shake my head to banish the thoughts.

No, it didn’t happen. Nothing happened last night.

Running the cold water from the tap, fractured thoughts stubbornly pull at the surface, struggling to bind together into a clear image. Bending my head over the sink, I scour my skin with my palms until all signs and symptoms of my sins give way to pure thoughts and raw, reddened flesh.

Once I’ve cleaned up, I glare at my reflection. My skin quickly fades to porcelain, and the image that stares back at me morphs into picture of perfect innocence. I’m a common face among the crowd, a whispered voice indistinguishable among a roaring sea of people. I’m nothing special, and I endeavor to keep it that way.

I’ve decided on a simple outfit for today — a pair of ash gray slacks and a cream colored blouse — then pull my cell from where I had tucked it, unceremoniously, into the strap of my bra. Swiping through the messages, there are texts for coffee and cocktails, breakfast to dinner, and every meal from now until the end of the month from half a dozen lovers. They didn’t honestly think there would be anything more, did they? I made my intentions perfectly clear, after all.

With an exasperated sigh, I delete every message other than those work related, and close my eyes tight to concentrate on the day ahead. None of them happened. They don’t exist.

Breathing deep, I force down the shredded thoughts of last night, the night before that, and the one before that. Last night was lonely. Riley went out, and I spent my night curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace reading a book. That’s it. I sipped on a glass of wine and fell asleep alone. I fell asleep alone…

I take a final deep, calming breath and slip into my heels.

Chapter 2

Life in Louisian
a
is such a drastic change from the life I was used to in New York. Everything was so fast paced up there, and you never ever looked anyone in the eye. Since I lack the don’t-fuck-with-me attitude so famous when thinking of New Yorkers, I survived by keeping my head low and my voice even lower amidst the undulating mass of bodies that surged from every corner of the city. I often thought of its inhabitants as hordes of wild animals. They would weave and dance and collide into one another, which resulted in cursed words and verbal shouting matches that often weren’t worth the time it took to gawk.

There was something magical about it though. Something that still tugs at my heart and makes me think back with longing. Perhaps it was the way the steam curled its fingers up from the depths of a manhole on a cold day or the soft seduction of music and smells that came wafting out of every restaurant. Maybe it was the abandoned streets in the early morning hours of the winter, covered in fresh virgin snow that hid the grime of the streets beneath its skirt.

It was a place for everyone, and yet, I still didn’t feel comfortable there. I was awkward. I didn’t fit in, I’m not sure I will fit in anywhere. Even here, I find myself gazing out the window and wondering where I’ll wind up next. What’s the next adventure, where’s the next stop? Where can I go, what can I do? Where will I move to next in order to start over? I’m hoping this time will be different.

My long-time friend, current roommate, and the closest thing I have to a sister, Riley, convinced me to move to this state. Compared to New York, this place feels bleak, and entirely uninteresting.

The city she decided on is, honestly, a bit boring. She moved for the silliest of reasons too — a man — and though I spoke against it, she was pretty adamant. The opportunity to tag along came up, and I had a hard time passing up the chance to add yet another state to the list of places I’ve tried to turn into a home. Besides, I couldn’t let her come here by herself, could I? She’d get in to all sorts of trouble without me!

The man I’m meeting this morning, Alexander Roderick Delacroix, has already sent me the address of where we are to meet. He’s changed the venue three times since Angela sent me the original address yesterday. It’s in times like these that I’m actually thankful Angela gave out my number so he could reach me. I’d be livid if I showed up at the wrong location and waited for hours only to realize I’m not where he wants me to be.

Alexander Delacroix is a writer based out of New Orleans, and I was encouraged to gather as much information as I could on the ins and outs of his work by Angela Leveaux, Editor-in-chief of LA
ddict
magazine.  According to her, he’s a hard guy to get in contact with, and she has stressed over and over, the importance of this meeting. She called in a fit yesterday, begging me to take over this interview, since the guy she had originally picked for the job ducked out on her. Seeing as how I had nothing better to do, I figured the extra cash couldn’t hurt. I imagine I’ll get at least a pat on the back and a coffee out of this, if I manage to spin a decent piece on the ever-elusive Alexander Delacroix for her precious magazine.

Through the few years I’ve lived here, I’ve never bothered to venture into the city of New Orleans. I have always heard of the crime, and how gross Mardi Gras really can be, but I still hoped to experience it for myself one day. I’m sure I’d never forgive myself if I moved away without enjoying the celebration.

My palms slip across the wheel as I near the city, sweaty from my poor attempt to repress my nervous thoughts. Mr. Delacroix is a fairly prestigious author, from what I’ve managed to scrape up; the winner of multiple awards, with some of his best work topping the best seller lists. It’s normal to be nervous, right? I wish my stomach would stop flipping head over heels like an acrobat tripping on acid. I feel sick, like that mix of excitement and dread you feel the night before the first day of a new job.

Majestic silver giants rush up to greet me as I approach the city, cruising by the Mercedes-Benz Superdome in what I believe to be the Central Business District. The city is beautiful, and not at all how I expected it to look. I didn’t expect skyscrapers or gleaming streets. I imagined dilapidated buildings, crumbling architecture and half-flooded streets with buildings so tightly packed together, one would become claustrophobic just walking by them. I expected worn homes and unfriendly alleyways surrounded by a desolate landscape; the ruins of a once great city, but what I encountered today was something entirely different.

Glancing over at the GPS, it chimes in with its all-too-chipper voice, directing me down a street on the left. Ushering me past the skyscrapers of the business district, it guides me toward smaller, more compact buildings that had been hidden from view. These buildings are much more charming, with architecture the likes of which I’ve only ever seen in history books. Being here amidst the historic homes and horse drawn coaches plodding down the side streets, transports me to another time; a simpler time, that harbors street musicians streaming jazz into the streets, and closely packed homes decorated with French doors and wrought iron balconies.

A space clears to the left dominated by walkways, perfectly trimmed hedges and impossibly green grass. Between two tree lines stands a breathtaking, regal, white building topped with three grey spires that stretch toward the heavens. This is the St. Louis Cathedral I’ve read about, and it’s every bit as prepossessing as I had imagined. As much as I’d really love the chance to take a closer look, my time is a bit pressed this morning.

The thought of being in the city makes me nervous. Physically being here, is much more nerve wracking than I thought it would be. It’s beautiful, really, but there are so many people. I hated New York for that reason. The crowds always made me anxious.

I can still hear Angela’s shrill voice in my ear and feel those cold, black eyes staring me down as she slaps the paper in front of me detailing this assignment. I know. It’s a once in a life-time thing; she made that abundantly clear, and I’m honored, really. I’m surprised she would trust me with such a heavy hitter, but, she could’ve given me more forewarning. I didn’t prepare well enough for this! I only managed to think of a handful of questions to ask, shrugging off the rest of it by thinking I’d just wing it. Wing it!? What the hell made me think I could wing this interview? This is going to be a disaster.

As I wander down the road, my eyes frantically search for some obscure coffee shop in a city I’ve never stepped foot in before today. The oppressing heat and humidity does my poor curls no favors, and I can feel the sweat beginning to bead on my skin. The sun has come up just over an hour ago and the weather has already become unbearable.

Shit, where the hell is it?

Nervously glancing at my wrist watch, I stare in horror as the hands meticulously slip to rest at 8 o’clock. This is not the type of meeting I want to show up late to. Angela will have my hide if I ruin this for her.

My heels echo on the pavement and the sun assaults me with its glare as I wander past the crowded square. The sight of the people surging against the sidewalks makes my skin crawl. I can’t wait till this is done, then I can get away from the city center, and I’ll be okay…

Creeping up on my right, is a large green and white striped awning with white letters printed along the side.

This must be it!

Pulling my notepad from my purse, I head across the street with renewed haste, and leaning precariously against a pole holding the awning, is Alex Delacroix. It’s not hard to recognize him after I spent the greater part of yesterday night skimming every website with information on him, and their accompanying pictures, in order to get more of a feel for my subject.

He’s taller than I am by about six or seven inches, with loose auburn curls, and what looks to be the beginnings of a beard borne from a few days of missed shaves. His hair rebels against the frizz that so often accompanies this disgusting humidity, and cascades down to his shoulders with silken perfection. I really should find out what he uses in his hair…

Dressed casually, in a pair of dark jeans and a thin gray shirt with the top button undone, his eyes are accented by a pair of slim, silver glasses. I take a deep breath to calm nerves, smooth my outfit and pray that any sweat from this incessant heat hasn’t shown through my clothes. He’s incredibly attractive, far more than I thought he’d be, with a fire glinting in his eyes as he glances up to watch me as I draw closer.

“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.