Bayou My Love: A Novel (28 page)

“How
can you be so sure?”

“I
went to high school with her. Besides, if we’re going with what your voodoo
lady says, she focused all her energy on Jack—none of that stuff was directed
at you.”

“So
you believe Duchess?”

He
snorted. “I believe in the hard evidence that is human behavior. She’s
obviously focused on him and not you. She might be annoying, but I don’t think
she’s dangerous. And if she wants Jack that bad, she wouldn’t be setting fires
everywhere trying to burn him up in one.”

I
shuddered at his bluntness. I didn’t want to think about fires.

He
took the exit that led back to the house and said, “But Remy? He’s a different
story. A little gris-gris in your pocket won’t do a bit of good with him,
unless you got a nine millimeter in the other.”

I
shuddered, watching the swampland whiz by. He was right, of course, but I hated
the idea of never feeling safe alone until Remy was caught.

“Don’t
worry,” he said. “He’ll screw up sooner or later. And when he does, I’ll be
there waiting.”

~~~~

I
spent the afternoon painting banister rails on the porch, trying to focus on
anything but voodoo tokens. The rails were as spindly as bones, and there
seemed to be a hundred of them. The radio, tuned to a local zydeco station, was
the only thing keeping me sane. That and Andre, who had picked up a paintbrush
out of sheer pity once he walked out and heard me cursing. Painting was one of
those things that brought me a zen-like calm for about an hour, and then it
turned torturous. Andre was humming along with the radio, slapping the rails so
hard he splattered a fine spray of paint all over himself. He even had flecks
of white in his beard.

It
turned muggy after lunch, which only magnified the tedium of painting, and I’d
become far less precise than usual. About forty rails in, it became clear this
was going to be one of those less-than-perfect jobs that gave the house what
the real estate agent would call “character.”

It
didn’t help that I was fixated on what Miranda might be planning next. She
couldn’t actually win Jack over with voodoo, but what happened when she finally
came to understand that? Then what would she do to him?

What
would she do to me if she thought I was in her way?

I
dropped the brush in a container of water and said, “Andre, I need another
favor.”

Chapter
22

Andre
sat on his heels, forcing white paint into the crevices of the porch banister.
As soon as I said Miranda’s name, he went on high alert. “No way,” he said,
avoiding my stare.

“Come
on, Andre,” I said. “I just want to go talk to her and sort this out.”

He
snorted. “I’ve heard that one before. Right before I slapped the cuffs on.”

“I’m
not looking for trouble.”

He
glanced at me as he refilled his brush.

“What
could go wrong? You’ll be with me.”

He
laid the brush down on the rim of the paint can and stood up so we were almost
eye to eye. “You need to leave this alone, Enza. She’ll get over Jack, just
like she did all the others.”

“It’s
only getting worse. This is one of those times where after something terrible
happens, when the story comes out in the paper, everybody says, ‘All the signs
were there! Why didn’t they see the signs?’”

“I
know you’re rattled,” he said. “But you have to trust me on this. This is what
Miranda does. She gets all worked up over somebody until another guy comes
along. And that’s assuming this is even her.”

“You
expect me to believe there’s another woman out there obsessed with Jack and
dark magic?”

He
lowered one hand to his side. The other he planted firmly on the wet banister.
He quickly lifted his hand, cursing when he saw the paint on his palm.

“Hang
on,” he said. “I’m going to wash this off.”

When
I heard the water come on in the kitchen, I slipped inside and grabbed my car
keys from the table in the hall. I ran down the porch steps and climbed into
the Jeep.

By
the time I had it cranked, Andre was hurrying toward me. I thought briefly
about slamming the gas pedal and tearing past him down the drive anyway, but I
knew he’d catch up in a mile or two. And I’d be better off staying on Andre’s
good side.

He
stopped a few feet from the bumper and put his hands on his hips. “Really?” he
said.

I
leaned out the window. “I’ve got to do this. You want to come with me, or you
want to chase me?”

“Enza,
Jack will never speak to me again if I handcuff you.”

I
smiled. “Guess you better come with me, then.”

“This
is a terrible idea.”

“I
have to talk to her.”

Scowling,
he stared at me.

“You
can keep an eye on me, same as you would here. If you think about it that way,
there’s really no difference.”

“Your
logic is somewhat flawed, jolie.”

I
revved the engine, giving him my warmest smile. “Come on, Andre, help a gal in
need.”

He
looked at the ground, then kicked a rock in the dirt. Finally, he climbed into
the passenger seat and slipped his sunglasses on. “Jack can never know about
this,” he said.

I
pulled onto the driveway. “Where do we find Miranda this time of day?”

He
looked at his watch. “She’s probably at work. Take a left at the end of the
drive.”

~~~~

Andre
hardly spoke as we drove, except to give me directions. His jaw was set in a
hard line. After a while, he said, “Slow down. It’s up here on the right.”

He
pointed to a clearing with a cinder-block building. Painted a deep shade of
red, it had a porch of rough-hewn beams. Railroad ties were laid end-to-end
along the ground in front to indicate parking spaces. At the corner of the
building was a life-size likeness of a mule, painted white with big X’s where
its eyes should be.

I
parked in a far corner of the lot, in the shade.

“Welcome
to the Dead Donkey,” he said. “My least favorite dive bar in the parish. And
yet somehow I end up here every other day.”

As
I gazed at the front of the building, I was suddenly horrified by the idea of
talking to Miranda.

Andre
turned to me and said, “You have five minutes, and then I’m coming in.”

“That’s
hardly long enough to sort this out. I need fifteen at least. This is a
delicate situation.”

“Six,”
Andre said.

“Ten.”

He
stared at me over his glasses. “Six,” he drawled. “And then I’m coming in to
start making arrests.”

I
wasn’t sure he could arrest me, but I thought it best not to cross him further.
“OK,” I said sweetly. “I’ll be right back.”

He
bit his lip, staring straight at the front door.

~~~~

The
gravel crunched under my feet as I walked up to the porch. Neon beer signs
flickered in a couple of small windows, but there was no other indication the
place was even open. I stepped over a smattering of broken glass and went
inside. Light poured in behind me, and the customers, mostly men, squinted like
they’d been in the dark for days. Dartboards lined the paneled walls. A lone
pool table sat in the corner. Around it, a cluster of men in dirty jeans and
T-shirts stood drinking beer from cans. An old jukebox sat against the far
wall. A guy pounded his fist against it as he fed it quarters.

Miranda
was in the far corner, balancing cans and glasses on a tray by her head. In
that instant, a tiny voice of reason told me to leave, that it wasn’t too late—I
could slip back out, and she’d never know I was there. But then she turned, and
her eyes narrowed, and the window passed.

Trying
to look more together than I was, I took a deep breath and walked toward the
bar. The bartender was a tall guy with shaggy blond hair and a fading bruise
around his eye. He nodded without smiling. “What can I get you?”

“A
shot of whiskey, please.”

He
poured a generous shot, and I laid a ten on the bar. “I need to talk to
Miranda.”

He
took the bill, then disappeared through the swinging kitchen door and yelled,
“Hey, Miranda! I need you up front.”

I
downed the shot and winced.

A
minute later, the kitchen door swung open and banged against the wall. Miranda
came out with the bartender right behind her. He stayed back, pouring a couple
of beers at the opposite end of the bar while she sauntered over, her high
heels clacking on the tile. Her hair was piled high on her head. Gold hoops as
big as bracelets bobbed in her ears.

Her
face tightened when she saw me. “What do you want?”

“I
needed to tell you something.”

She
crossed her arms, glaring.

I
glanced at the bartender. He pretended to ignore us.

“What
you’ve been doing,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It has to stop.”

She
cocked her head, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Coming
to my house. Leaving things in the yard. It’s not going to work. I’m not going
anywhere.”

She
scoffed, glancing behind her. The bartender started drying glasses, looking up
at us every now and then.

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and turned to walk away.

“I
think you do,” I said, raising my voice. “And I just came to tell you—”

“Tell
me what?” she snapped.

“Look,
I know about the restraining order. I don’t want to call the sheriff, but
you’re not leaving me any choice. You have to stop what you’re doing. You can’t
actually think it’s going to bring Jack back to you.”

“You
don’t know anything about us.”

“Men
who want to be with you don’t file restraining orders.”

She
glared at me, biting her lip. “How dare you come in here.”

“He’s
not the guy for you. Just leave him be.”

Her
lip trembled, though I wasn’t sure if it was from fury or sadness. I couldn’t
help but feel sorry for her.

“Don’t
you want to be with someone who wants to be with you?” I said. “You don’t want
to chase someone who doesn’t love you.”

“Get
out of here,” she said, flushed.

“This
is the only time I’m going to ask you. I was hoping we could resolve this like
adults.”

“I
said get out!” she yelled.

“Hey!”
the bartender said, walking toward us. “There a problem here?”

“Yeah,”
Miranda said. “But she’s leaving.”

He
crossed his arms over his chest, stepping to Miranda’s side.

“I’m
going,” I told her. “But think about what I said.”

She
sneered, then glanced at the bartender. “Thinks she can come in here and
threaten me.”

The
bartender stepped forward. “You’d best be on your way,” he said.

“No
more,” I said to Miranda. She was still muttering to the bartender as I walked
to the front door and bumped into Andre.

“Jesus,”
I said. “Nice lurking.”

“Your
six minutes were up,” he said, holding the door for me.

I
trudged outside, squinting in the light.

He
led me back out to the Jeep and said, “Was that the outcome you were hoping
for?”

I
frowned, starting the engine. “Not exactly. But at least she knows we know it’s
her.”

~~~~

Back
at the house, Andre insisted on cooking dinner again.

“It
relaxes me,” he said, tossing potatoes in olive oil. “You know, after an event
has put me on edge.”

I
poured two glasses of wine, but when I offered him one, he shook his head.

After
a while, he said, “You certainly have a way of setting your mind on something.”

“Stubborn,
you mean.”

He
shoved the tray of potatoes in the oven. “It’s not entirely unlikeable.”

When
he turned, I grabbed him and hugged him. “Thank you for helping me today.”

“Oh,”
he said, stiffening. “Um, you’re welcome.”

He
held his arms by his sides, oven mitts on both hands.

“I
just can’t have everything falling apart at the same time,” I said.

He
patted my shoulder, the mitt thumping against me. “I know, sugar. I know.”

~~~~

At
ten o’clock, Jack still wasn’t home. Andre assured me everything was fine, that
sometimes being late just meant the next guy hadn’t shown up for his shift on
time.

“Go
on to bed,” he told me. “I’ll stay until he gets home.”

Still
worried, I climbed into Jack’s bed. I lay in the dark for a long time, thinking
about what Duchess had said and the way Miranda had glared at me. I hoped Andre
was right, that she would find someone else to get hung up on and forget about
Jack, but it was hard to push aside the thought of her doing something
else—something worse—in the meantime. Jack seemed to think he could keep me
safe by having Andre around, but they couldn’t always be with me. I hated the
fact that I fell asleep each night wondering what Miranda was planning and what
Remy was planning. It made me furious that they had squeezed themselves into my
life, and it seemed the only way I could escape them was to leave Bayou Sabine.

And
Jack.

~~~~

It
was late in the night when Jack came home. I woke when he bumped into the
nightstand while stripping out of his clothes.

“Sorry,”
he said, nuzzling my ear. “I was trying not to wake you.”

I
kissed him, and he pulled me against his chest, winding his arms around me.

“How
was it?” I asked, barely awake.

“Quiet,”
he said. “No calls.”

“Is
that unusual?”

“It
didn’t used to be.”

I
slid my arm around his waist, and he sighed.

“I
could get used to coming home to this,” he said. He slid his fingers along my
hip as he spoke. “I’ve never met anybody like you, Enza Parker, and here you
are, in my bed. How’d I get so lucky?”

“That’s
a good question.”

“Smart
ass,” he said, swatting my behind. “With a lovely ass.” He pulled me closer and
kissed me as I laughed.

“Is
this your way of saying you missed me?” I asked.

“A
little bit.” When he kissed my neck and slid his teeth along my shoulder, I
felt an urgency in him that I hadn’t felt before. Yet he was holding something
back.

As
I gripped him tighter, I tugged at his hair, trying to coax the rougher side of
him out. He groaned and rolled on top of me so fast it startled me. The force
of his body pinning me down made me wild, and as he moved his hips against
mine, I knew he wouldn’t stop until I was completely unraveled. He knew exactly
how to touch me, exactly where to place his hands, his lips, his tongue.

I
wound my legs around him, feeling the hardness of him pressing against my hip,
aching to feel more of him.