story time: wolves in angels' clothing
It's never too early for a drink in New Orleans. This is the city that parties whether or not it's the Mardi Gras season. Bourbon Street maintains a permanent smell of sex, urine and alcohol that no amount of scrubbing can erase. It sticks in your nose and teases your memory like last night's drinking spree. You wish you could forget it but it lingers just out of reach.
My bar of choice this morning is not on Bourbon Street. It's on Royal across from an art gallery. Actually, it's not even morning anymore. I'd already had two drinks today before I reached here. I hate drinking alone. But the bartender's not much of a conversationist this early. He's busy getting the bar ready for primetime tonight. I feel more like a decoration than a customer, as he walks from here to there, dusting, cleaning, shuffling.
This early in the day the bar doors are still closed. The bartender looks up as they open, nods his head and goes back to his work. I don't look away from my drink. The air swirls from the movement of the doors and I catch a whiff of heat and earthy perfume. A white clad figure moves in my periphery, coming closer. Another customer then. I take a long drink. Nice to know there are other drunks in this city.
The white stops two chairs over but doesn't sit. The bartender goes to the kitchen to grab some other supplies. I steal a glance at the newcomer.
She is staring at me with a grin.
I stare at my drink with sudden interest. She doesn't look familiar. Maybe she thinks I'm someone else. Maybe she thinks I'm a sucker who'll buy a pretty woman a drink. Maybe she thinks I'm looking for something else besides booze.
"Hello Alex," she purrs. Her voice is sensual, rough, like the softest thunder before the rain. She sounds like she'd give good phone sex. Really good phone sex. It takes me a few seconds to realize she knows my name. I slide my eyes her way to get a better look at her.
She is wearing a knee length thin white coat, loosely tied at the waist. Her shirt and calf-length boots match the coat, darkening her jeans to almost black. Her hair is a gamut of browns and blondes and blends with the ring of animal fur around the coat's collar. She isn't wearing makeup, I notice as an afterthought, and then I get caught in her eyes.
The word amber doesn't quite describe the texture but still that's their color. In hindsight, I could say it looked like her irises had been replaced with actual amber chips but even that would fail to accurately capture the...something...that was in them. Contacts could never do that intensity but natural color seemed equally impossible. They didn't glow but they were warm like a low fire, like you could put your hands in them and feel the heat radiating softly.
"I was hoping to find you here." Her voice is like a clawed finger dragging down my spine. It breaks my gaze. I feel myself blink a few times and struggle to concentrate. She's good. Has to be a hooker. The lack of makeup bothers me but she's beautiful without it.
No. She's not beautiful. Not like a model. Not that kind of beauty. She has a feral, wild sort of beauty. The kind never captured on film. She's beautiful like a tiger springing for its prey, until you realize you are the prey.
And there she stands, smiling at me with perfect human teeth, immensely pleased with herself.
"Pardon the French but who the fuck are you?" Surprisingly, my voice works. But it doesn't sound nearly as steady as hers. To me, it sounds rough like the rocks that used to scrape my hands up when I fell off my bike.
Her smile deepens. I notice a dimple in her right cheek just before her eyes catch my gaze again. "No one," she says. "A glass of house red please?" she adds, to the bartender that I hadn't heard return. It snaps me out of her trance.
I return to my drink. I'm almost done. I was hoping to get another but I don't want to spend my time with stupid chatter. I don't mind flirting, hell I enjoy it, but she doesn't seem like she's here to flirt. "I don't have time to play games," I tell her.
"Of course not. You're on the run."
Choking on hard liquor never goes well.
"Excuse me?"
She cocks her head to one side. The smile never leaves her face. "You heard me."
"I don't have any warrants or tickets, if that's what you mean." It's partially true. I've been picked up for another DUI this week but that's no big deal. It's not my fault the great state of Louisiana keeps giving me my license back after a judicial slap on the wrists. What's the point of getting hit with a DUI if you're back on the streets driving the next day?
"That's not what I'm talking about." Her eyes seem to briefly catch a gold flare. Must be a trick of the light. I scowl, trying to ignore the allure. My mind thinks of other things - my car parked two blocks away, the kid I saw playing basketball this morning.
"Listen, I'm not sure what you're getting at. I'm just here, enjoying a drink. Do I look like I've been running?"
She casts a quick, thorough look at my tennis shoes. I suddenly feel like I'm underdressed for the shithole place with my torn jeans, t-shirt, and track jacket. Her eyes meet mine and I know she's not talking about any physical exertion.
I take another look at her attire. No cross. Can't be some PETA freak, not with that fur. Is this her idea of picking someone up? My glass is empty. I order another. Maybe she'll get the hint. I swirl the new whiskey in the glass when the bartender brings it. Fuck it. I shoot it. It feels like I've swallowed a drop of the sun.
"Another," I say to the bartender and he obliges. I stare at it for as long as I can. I know she is staring at me.
"You won't get far," she whispers. For the first time, she looks at her glass of wine, caressing the stem with one manicured nail. "You can't outrun it."
I don't remember standing, or yelling, but suddenly, I'm inches from her face, her golden eyes piercing me. She doesn't flinch. The smile doesn't budge. Her resolve snaps me back into the present. "If you're here to preach to me about the sins of drinking, take your shit elsewhere," I growl.
If mirth had a color, it would be sunlit brown. "How sanctimonious of me. If I were here for that." And she takes a sip of her wine. I am fleetingly reminded of the tiger again. No. Not with the white. A wolf.
She licks her wine-stained lips with a delicate pink tongue.
"Say it and get the fuck out," I say. She takes another, sensuous drink.
"You alone know why you're running. But we both know how it ends. If you keep running, that is." She tilts her head and grins. Her eyes slide to the bottles upon bottles lined up behind the bar. "Eventually, you'll drink yourself dead. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not literally. But it will happen."
"So? What's it to you?"
She chuckles, a sound like a creek flowing over smooth stones. "Nothing!" She says it so gleefully that it's almost insulting. Now I want to hit her. Wipe that pretty smile off her face.
With another caress of the wineglass, she adds, "I don't say it to be cruel. It's obvious you don't know me. And why would a stranger care about the troubles of another stranger? Regardless, I'm here to help." Her smile becomes friendly, as if she truly cares for me. She turns her gaze towards the glass again. "You won't find what you're looking for here." She drinks long, deep, savors it, makes love to it.
I look away. "Why does it matter to you? Why the hell are you talking to me? I don't want your help." I try to enjoy my whiskey with a slow sip but it doesn't taste the same.
"There is no answer to why. Who cares why I care. It matters nothing to me, like I've already said. But you matter to someone else. That's why I'm here."
"My parents made you do this, huh? Try to drag me off to some halfway house or something? I'm not going. Get out!"
Of course, she doesn't move.
Silence stretches as she patiently waits, lightly trailing her clawed fingers across the wineglass as she would a lover. She is a good hunter. Annoyance flickers within my chest, but it is squelched by a nagging acknowledgement that she speaks the truth.
Who cares if I die? They don't. They've always been somewhere else, looking another way, not there. So what does it matter if they never see me again? I can't stand family meetings, or the holidays. All the fighting. I'm not broken, I don't need fixing, I need them to leave me alone to live my life as I want. I'm the only one I'm hurting with these drinks. Who cares if it's just me?
"You matter."
Her face is inches from mine again but everything in her expression cries love. Her amber eyes are warm, welcoming. I can hear my heart pounding in fear as her lips meet mine, and she drinks me down like the wine on the bar. She tastes like the night over the forest, and I think I hear whisper of a howl as the bar's door swings open again.
She steps back. Over her shoulder, I see another man entering the bar, dressed in the same style as her. He leans against the door, meets my gaze and smiles, though it doesn't reach his crystal blue eyes.
"I'm not here to judge you. Or force you," she whispers, returning my focus to her. "I'm here to guide you. Should you choose to stop running."
At this proximity, the fur on her jacket tickles my chin. It smells goods. It smells like her and hope. For the most fragile of moments, I feel like everything's going to be alright.
"It's not that easy," she says, "It won't be easy. But it'll be worth it." She steps back and the distance lengthens. She drains her wineglass, flips open a small wallet, leaves a ten on the bar, and turns back to me. Her manicured fingers brush against my cheek fondly. I want her to kiss me again but she doesn't.
"The decision is yours," she says, taking another step back. A million questions suddenly spring to mind. What's her name? How did she know mine? How do I find her again? Can I see her again? What's her phone number? Where is she going?
My voice doesn't work this time. She walks out the door held open by the other man. I watch them disappear through the windows. A third figure joins them just before they turn the corner.
I look back at my waiting drink.