I didn’t hate New Orleans. In fact, my hotel in the French Quarter was perfectly nice - luxurious even, but the very energy of this place was just different. It threw me off everytime I came. I wouldn’t admit that to Charl though, and I wondered if anyone else in the Club had a similar experience. It was also partially why, when I did visit for Charity work, I ensured that I resided in a hotel as far away from the French Quarter as possible. The energy seemed to concentrate itself in the radius reserved to the quarter itself - that’s not to say that the rest of New Orleans didn’t pulse with Magick, the quarter was simply its heartbeat.
I double checked my outfit, making sure that I did indeed look presentable. At my very core, I was still my mother’s daughter. My houndstooth checkered dress sat just above the knee. The scooped neckline allowed for my jewellery to sit perfectly. I clipped my hair to the side in an attempt to shift as much of it off my neck as possible - aware that it was almost full blown summer in New Orleans.
Grinding my teeth, I read the message from Charl, wishing that I had more time to get ready. My mind was sluggish, my body groggy from the trip. I needed coffee, and stat, but looking at the time, I wouldn’t be stopping for any this morning, at least not before I met the client.
10:30am Café Du Monde. He will be wearing a navy Ralph Lauren Polo shirt. Don’t fuck this up.
Jackass. There was more riding on me performing well for this client than Charl was letting on. I knew that - instinctively and because of the answers my pendulum produced.
Sighing, I grabbed my purse. On the upside, it seemed I would be ordering beignets and coffee after all. Silver linings and all that.
As I shouldered my way onto the street, the hairs on my body stood on end. That was New Orleans energy for you. Every fibre of my being was put on edge as that New Orleans Magick pulsed down the street. It pushed against me, threatening to drown me out as it demanded my attention with each step I took. The heat was nauseating by its very nature, the humidity settling against my skin in a way that made me want to take a shower all over again. I side stepped a group of people gathered on the sidewalk as they each took turns in manning their crawfish boil. Three steps later and the delightful smells of gumbo accosted my senses, and I wondered how anyone could function in this city on a daily basis. My senses were overwhelmed. It was delightfully triggering, but it also made the simple act of focussing - functioning even - near impossible. Two more steps and I was greeted by the smell of urine. A man riding a unicycle dressed in a nuns habit came wheeling down the street. I watched in fascination as people called out to him. He lifted a hand in greeting, his rosary swinging with the movement of his bike.
A few small aeroplanes pivoted above, casting letters in the sky as they ducked and weaved. And even at this time of the morning, a lone saxophone player offered up a melody, his cap on the ground for anyone who could spare some change.
New Orleans was the epitome of humanity. It thrummed with life, begging you to either partake or flee. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to do. Instead, I steeled my spine and marched across the street towards the large green covering, the smell of beneigts beckoning me.
For a landmark, Café Du Monde was surprisingly empty. I cast my mind back towards my last visit, remembering the tables squeezed together, packed to the brim as patrons offered up their coin in lieu of dining in one of New Orleans oldest establishments - even if the only thing they served was beignets and coffee. I hovered for a heartbeat, absorbing the stillness of the place - taking in how unusually quiet it was in here. I saw Dimitri almost immediately. Even if the place wasn’t a muted version of what I remembered, I still would have noticed him in an instant. He had a dangerous air about him. And although he looked appealing, everything else about him seemed uninviting. Every single table around him was empty. Not a coincidence. The thought thrummed through me, divine instinct guiding me at every turn. Why insist on meeting me if he chose to maintain such an unapproachable demeanor?
His polo shirt only served to enhance his broad shoulders. His dark hair was the length of his very chiselled cheekbones, falling loosely across his forehead. My fingers twitched uncontrollably as I itched to swipe the fallen strands out of his face. I could only account for my sudden want to touch him, a leftover response from being in close proximity to the Demon.
A frown marred his brow as he glared down at his phone. I could see him seething from here. Great, not only was I dealing with some version of the Russian mafia, my contact also appeared to be in a foul mood.
Wordlessly, I slid into the chair opposite him. It wasn’t as if I was interrupting - this meeting had been pre-arranged. By this point, he was stabbing his fingers across the screen of his phone, his frustration evident, the swift movements of his hands causing the phone to lag even more. Yup. Definitely pissed off. After a few moments, agitation rolled off of him, making the air around him uncomfortable. I shifted, aware that he still hadn’t looked up - still hadn’t acknowledged me. I cleared my throat. Was it possible that he was so absorbed in his phone that he hadn’t noticed my arrival?
Piercing green eyes glanced up at me. “Just wait,” he scowled and snapped. His voice was a low rumble that had my spine straightening as I leaned forward, waiting for him to speak again, just to make sure that it wasn’t a fluke - that he did actually sound deliciously animalistic. I huffed in frustration, annoyed at the very betrayal I was experiencing from my body. My skin prickled and I was keenly aware of how much being in his proximity was affecting me - and, how much of an asshole he actually was.
You have got to be fucking kidding me. Taking a deep breath and reminding myself that Charl wanted this client, I signalled the waiter and ordered myself coffee and some beignets. I mean, if I have to sit here and wait for him, it would be on his dime, and I wouldn’t be uncomfortable while doing it.
By the time my order had arrived, his fingers were still flying across his phone. His lips pressed into a grimace, and when I thought this couldn’t get any worse, he snarled at his phone. He actually snarled as if the piece of technology was to blame for whatever messages it had been delivering. His left hand flexed upon the table, his fingers smoothing out in long, elegant lines.
Refusing to feel uncomfortable, I watched him from beneath my lowered lids, staring at my own phone in a posturing of business. I exhaled through my nose, refusing to give the man in front of me any further attention than was necessary, at least not until he acknowledged my presence. I was in the midst of replying to a series of function ideas aimed at fundraising for the Children’s home in New Orleans when he finally spoke.
“So, Charlain sent you.” It was a statement, not really a question. The way he dragged out Charlain’s name was filled with disdain as if he couldn’t believe that he was entertaining a Tarot reader.
Not my problem.
I glanced up at him, willing myself to not flush in embarrassment. I refused to let him make me feel any less than what I actually was.
“Yes,” I spoke calmly, keeping my voice even and measured as I embodied my best impression of Emily Rand herself.
I wasn’t about to sit here and defend The Club, not after travelling all the way here on the belief that we had already been hired. Damn Charl for his half-ass measures. Or was it me that he had taken exception to? Well, I wouldn’t justify why I was the right choice for the job or even wax lyrically on all the things I could do.
I uncurled my fingers as I extended my hand in a formal greeting, waiting for him to shake it. I caught the flash of surprise cross his face before he reached out. No one could ever say that I was neither polite nor professional.
His hand engulfed mine. My throat bobbed as my mouth became dry. Dimitri definitely wasn’t one of my mother’s political darlings. His rough calluses grazed my knuckles, rubbing against my palm. None of the boys who ran in my mother’s circles had calluses on their hands. Image after image tumbled through my mind of how one got such calluses and what they would feel like rubbing against the sensitive parts of my body.
“Dimitri,” he introduced himself.
The low rumble of his voice had me leaning forward to simply hear his name fall from his lips. Not a fluke. A flash of ink crested out from under his shirt, skirting dangerously close to his neck. As he pulled back his hand, his shirt slid back into place, deftly covering his inked body. As if the way he presented himself - the way he dressed - could somehow disguise that he was my contact in the Russian mafia, when danger radiated out of every pore of his being.
Answering him with a tight smile, I spoke, “Corinne.”
The waiter’s attention had been solely fixed upon Dimitri, so it was no surprise when he stepped towards him to take his order as soon as Dimitri had placed his phone onto the table, screen facing downwards. Surprisingly, he declined the offer of coffee with a tight smile, his leg bouncing erratically. Dangerous energy. That’s what this man was. The waiter bowed with his departure, leaving Dimitri looking squarely at me with my empty tray of beignets and my half-cup of coffee. And suddenly we were back in that awkward territory that I so often found myself in. Grinning with confidence I did not feel, I saluted him with my coffee cup and drank it in one swift gulp.
Dimitri scowled, annoyed by my playful action.
“Did Charlain explain what we need from you?” His voice came out gruff, the low rumble of it skittering along my skin as he got straight to the point.