Page 13 of Bourbon Sins
“That fucker!” I shouted to no one, as I realized I only made a little over one hundred dollars in tips last night, when I should have at least pulled in a cool six hundred.
“Fucking Christ.” I slammed my head on my pillow and thought about what the hell I was going to do. I was easily getting screwed every night by Marv and there was nothing I could do about it.
I pulled out my phone and looked at my online banking account to see where I stood. When my parents died, I was luckily able to consolidate all their loans into one giant payment, but it had a ridiculous interest rate that was slowly burying me each and every day. I didn’t make enough money to catch up to the banker’s demands who was pounding on my door looking for payment.
After logging in, I took a look at my bank statement and saw a measly three hundred dollars and some change parked in my account. I had a couple hundred dollars still waiting to be deposited, but I didn’t have nearly enough to pay rent, my bank loan, and afford food.
“Shit.” I put my head in my hands and tried to think about what the hell I was going to do.
Needing to get moving for the day, I got up and strolled toward my dresser to grab some clothes to change into. That was when I saw the black matte business card with the purple font staring me in the face. It was calling to me, as if I didn’t have any other choice. I really didn’t. I was drowning with no end in sight.
Relinquishing all thoughts that were telling me to not make the call, I grabbed my phone and typed out the number. My thumb hovered over the green call button, not quite ready to press down, but I knew I would have to, I was running out of options. I took one look in the mirror and observed in my sad and disorderly appearance. I was a fucking mess. Bags under my eyes, hair frazzled, and a little thin from not eating nearly enough.
Capitulating, I pressed the call button. There had to be a change in my life, no matter how it came about.
The phone rang as knots in my stomach churned from not knowing what to expect. Who did I even ask for? All I got was a card with my name on it. Did I kindly asked for the perverted stalker that followed me around dishing out cards? That probably wasn’t the most professional greeting . . .
Nervous grabbing ahold of my courage, I was about to hang up when the other line picked up.
“Goldie, it’s about time you called.”
It wasn’t the voice that caressed my body in Jackson Square, nor the voice from the blackout booth. It sounded like the first voice I heard that fateful night in Kitten’s Castle, the one with a bit of a rasp to it, the one that said, “I’ve seen things that should never be talked about.”
“Uh, hi,” I sounded like an idiot, but I had no clue who I was talking to. “Wait a minute, how do you know it’s Goldie?” I asked a little defiantly.
There was a low chuckle from the other end of the line.
“Meet me at Café Pontalba at noon.”
“How will I know…?” The line went dead, and that was the end of our conversation.
I stood in the middle of my room, butt-ass naked, as I stared at my phone wondering what the hell just happened. Confusion rolled through my head as I subconsciously moved through my morning routine. I had about an hour to get ready before I had to show up at Café Pontalba.
Was I really going to go? For all I knew, the guy I just talked to could be a psycho killer and was planning on taking me to his psychotic torture room. It was New Orleans, where voodoo lingered on every side street; I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy was a total cannibal freak.
As I brushed my wet hair from the shower I just took, I realized I had no fucking choice at all. I was living in a dump that was way too expensive, I was drowning in debt, and my boss was screwing me over in “shared” tips.
There were no options left for me; I had to meet the psycho killer.
* * *
I madesure to dress like a librarian, covering up all my girly bits because, for some reason, it made me feel safer, not being so exposed. I clutched my purse as I walked up to Café Pontalba, which was luckily right across from Jackson Square, so if the guy wanted to steal me for his own organ harvesting pleasures, I at least could kick and scream and cause a ruckus.
As I approached the door to the café, I heard someone clear his throat. I turned around to see an Adonis-like man wearing tight fitting jeans, a baby blue T-shirt and a slate grey zip-up hoodie with the hood draped over his head. His hands were in his pockets and one of his feet was propped up against the pole he was leaning against. He was . . . HOT!
God, what was wrong with me? I was getting all steamed up over a possible psycho killer.
He lifted his head and showed off a nice amount of scruff on his face along with his deep blue eyes. Yup, my vagina was applauding me for my decision in making that call. Down girl!
“Goldie.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
“Uh, yeah. And you are?”
“Let’s get a table,” he said, as he nodded his head toward the door. He walked in without even giving me a second glance to see I was coming. If I wasn’t so hard up for cash, I would have walked back to my apartment just to show him who was boss, but I needed the money, so I tucked my tail between my legs and walked in behind the stranger.
We were seated at a table in the back against a wall, giving us an optimal amount of privacy. As I looked around, I actually noticed that we were the only people sitting in the area, which was odd because Café Pontalba was always packed, thanks to their famous Cajun cuisine.
A waiter came over to our table and gave us waters with lemon, then left. There were no menus or silverware on the table. There went my thoughts of scoring a free meal.
