11-02-2015, 11:37 PM
When Elijah got back to town courtesy of a cab, the first person he called wasn’t Jenna Laurent, but rather, Megan Fontaine. He suspected that, of all the people who knew what he’d been doing the night before, it would be Megan. He’d started the evening with her, as a few evening often start. She was fun to party with, if only because she knew how to get to most parties and knew the kinds of places that he’d find interesting. She knew her clients, knew how to get people what they needed, or what they thought they needed, and she knew how to play within her social circles. Maybe she’d know the name of the brunette he’d gone home with. More importantly, she could probably hook him up with whatever he was going to be doing tonight.
After all, it was a Friday.
The young man dialed her number, eagerly awaiting the sound of his dealer’s voice. They briefly talked, exchanged information and she gave him a location that they could meet. Her place.
It wasn’t uncommon for Elijah and Megan to meet at her place; nobody bothered to wander that far out into the swamp without an invitation, and they were friends. He was one of her first clients, and the only one who seemed more than happy to show up whenever she needed something. He didn’t mind being the occasional booty call because, well, Elijah was a creature of sentiment. He was a creature of sentiment with a sex drive and Megan didn’t ever fail to deliver. It was always her call, though. Not his.
“I’m a drug dealer, dearest, not a whore. Get the two mixed up and you won’t see the perks of either profession,” she’d told him. Only once, never crossed his mind but the warning was clear enough.
He’d dragged himself to her doorstep. It was a trailer out in the bayou, fireflies lingered in the fog and the smell of a persistent rain that would never come hung in the air. The sides of the doublewide were starting to grow algae, but nothing a power washer wouldn’t fix. She had understated lawn furniture, and he only had to knock twice before she answered the door. Lips turned upward, canines seemed a little sharper than Elijah had remembered.
“Hey there, sugar,” she told him, opened her door wide and dragged him in. She was no spider, and he was no fly. Spiders had more guile than Megan had and flies had more sense to save themselves than Elijah ever possessed in his blessed little life.
He was pretty, Megan had decided. It was the best way to describe him. Tall, lean, almost willowy in a way, his limbs didn’t hold some hidden reserve of strength and his features weren’t soft nor was he a creature of jutting angles. No, he sat towards the masculine side of androgynous some days, and for that Megan was completely content. She remembered that he kissed like a freshman but had been all but eager to take instructions over the years. She’d always had a fascination with pet projects. Elijah was a little like a weekend painting class- fun, when you had the time to put the work in.
“So,” he starts, playful smile on his features, had yet to get into anything hard enough to ruin the fact that he was pretty, “I wake up this morning with a brunette in a house out in Jackson, and apparently at some point in the evening my ass got curious about blues legends.”
“Eh?” she said, expected him to follow along inside (he did) and settle off to sit somewhere (which he also did). She peered back from her liquor cabinet, “never pinned you as a blues man.”
“Apparently I decided Tchula Junction was worth writing down,” he said, procured the card from his pocket and held it out for Megan to see, as if she would doubt his hand writing. As if she cared about whatever it was he was saying. She poured two drinks- mostly bourbon with muddled mint leaves because what southern woman couldn’t’ make a mint julep? She settled in beside him on the couch, lets her hand linger in his for a second while he takes the drink.
She smiled, lips turned upward and her eyes stayed with his. Megan was never the first to look away when their eyes met.
“Do you want to sell your soul, Elijah?”
Elijah’s brows knit together, eyes meeting hers with a confused stare, “beg your pardon?”
She nudged his arm, looking down at his drink and then back at his eyes. Brows raise for a second before he gets the hint. They both take a drink, though his is decidedly longer than hers.
“The only reason a man goes to Tchula, Mississippi is because he wants to walk the crossroads. Robert Johnson did it,” she purred, leaned in and let herself get comfortable on the couch as she had numerous times before, “twenty seven, sold his soul for blues fame… man couldn’t read a note on the music but he could play anything anyone put in front of him. Damned uncanny.”
“DIdn’t know you were a history nut, Megs,” he replied, leaning into her presence before taking another drink of what she’d given him. Never one to turn it down, “were we talking about this last night?”
“First time you ever brought up Tchula to me,” she said.
He looked at her, tried to offer her the card with his handwriting, curious, “it smells like-“
“I didn’t say you could come here so I could smell a damn business card, Elijah,” Megan laughed, tossing the card to the side. She snuggled in closer, free hand trailing idly down the inside of his thigh.
He laughed along with her, “I’m a client, Megs, not a whore. Thought you knew the difference.”
“Aw, sugar, why can’t you be both?” she retorted. He seemed to hang in the air for a second, “but I guess you’re more here for business…”
“Never said business couldn’t be fun,” he backtracked, content to coax the curvaceous blonde woman find her way into his lap. It didn’t take much coaxing, just relenting on a point she was making earlier.
“Drink up,” she said, nudged the arm holding a drink, “we got business to take care of.”
Elijah was never one to argue with Megan Fontaine when she said they had business to take care of. Though, something nagged at the back of his mind, something that would no doubt be relegated back to haze and fog a few more drinks in (and with whatever Megs had to offer, if he was lucky and she was feeling generous.) The whole day would just be another Friday that faded into a Monday.
Something stuck with him, felt cold against the base of his spine and lingered in his imagination. It was the ease of the way Megan had asked him some over the top question- did he want to sell his soul? And in those moments leading up to acts that Elijah and Megan had engaged in numerous times, he couldn’t help but wonder if that faint smell of matches had always been there, or if it was his imagination acting up.
After all, it was a Friday.
The young man dialed her number, eagerly awaiting the sound of his dealer’s voice. They briefly talked, exchanged information and she gave him a location that they could meet. Her place.
It wasn’t uncommon for Elijah and Megan to meet at her place; nobody bothered to wander that far out into the swamp without an invitation, and they were friends. He was one of her first clients, and the only one who seemed more than happy to show up whenever she needed something. He didn’t mind being the occasional booty call because, well, Elijah was a creature of sentiment. He was a creature of sentiment with a sex drive and Megan didn’t ever fail to deliver. It was always her call, though. Not his.
“I’m a drug dealer, dearest, not a whore. Get the two mixed up and you won’t see the perks of either profession,” she’d told him. Only once, never crossed his mind but the warning was clear enough.
He’d dragged himself to her doorstep. It was a trailer out in the bayou, fireflies lingered in the fog and the smell of a persistent rain that would never come hung in the air. The sides of the doublewide were starting to grow algae, but nothing a power washer wouldn’t fix. She had understated lawn furniture, and he only had to knock twice before she answered the door. Lips turned upward, canines seemed a little sharper than Elijah had remembered.
“Hey there, sugar,” she told him, opened her door wide and dragged him in. She was no spider, and he was no fly. Spiders had more guile than Megan had and flies had more sense to save themselves than Elijah ever possessed in his blessed little life.
He was pretty, Megan had decided. It was the best way to describe him. Tall, lean, almost willowy in a way, his limbs didn’t hold some hidden reserve of strength and his features weren’t soft nor was he a creature of jutting angles. No, he sat towards the masculine side of androgynous some days, and for that Megan was completely content. She remembered that he kissed like a freshman but had been all but eager to take instructions over the years. She’d always had a fascination with pet projects. Elijah was a little like a weekend painting class- fun, when you had the time to put the work in.
“So,” he starts, playful smile on his features, had yet to get into anything hard enough to ruin the fact that he was pretty, “I wake up this morning with a brunette in a house out in Jackson, and apparently at some point in the evening my ass got curious about blues legends.”
“Eh?” she said, expected him to follow along inside (he did) and settle off to sit somewhere (which he also did). She peered back from her liquor cabinet, “never pinned you as a blues man.”
“Apparently I decided Tchula Junction was worth writing down,” he said, procured the card from his pocket and held it out for Megan to see, as if she would doubt his hand writing. As if she cared about whatever it was he was saying. She poured two drinks- mostly bourbon with muddled mint leaves because what southern woman couldn’t’ make a mint julep? She settled in beside him on the couch, lets her hand linger in his for a second while he takes the drink.
She smiled, lips turned upward and her eyes stayed with his. Megan was never the first to look away when their eyes met.
“Do you want to sell your soul, Elijah?”
Elijah’s brows knit together, eyes meeting hers with a confused stare, “beg your pardon?”
She nudged his arm, looking down at his drink and then back at his eyes. Brows raise for a second before he gets the hint. They both take a drink, though his is decidedly longer than hers.
“The only reason a man goes to Tchula, Mississippi is because he wants to walk the crossroads. Robert Johnson did it,” she purred, leaned in and let herself get comfortable on the couch as she had numerous times before, “twenty seven, sold his soul for blues fame… man couldn’t read a note on the music but he could play anything anyone put in front of him. Damned uncanny.”
“DIdn’t know you were a history nut, Megs,” he replied, leaning into her presence before taking another drink of what she’d given him. Never one to turn it down, “were we talking about this last night?”
“First time you ever brought up Tchula to me,” she said.
He looked at her, tried to offer her the card with his handwriting, curious, “it smells like-“
“I didn’t say you could come here so I could smell a damn business card, Elijah,” Megan laughed, tossing the card to the side. She snuggled in closer, free hand trailing idly down the inside of his thigh.
He laughed along with her, “I’m a client, Megs, not a whore. Thought you knew the difference.”
“Aw, sugar, why can’t you be both?” she retorted. He seemed to hang in the air for a second, “but I guess you’re more here for business…”
“Never said business couldn’t be fun,” he backtracked, content to coax the curvaceous blonde woman find her way into his lap. It didn’t take much coaxing, just relenting on a point she was making earlier.
“Drink up,” she said, nudged the arm holding a drink, “we got business to take care of.”
Elijah was never one to argue with Megan Fontaine when she said they had business to take care of. Though, something nagged at the back of his mind, something that would no doubt be relegated back to haze and fog a few more drinks in (and with whatever Megs had to offer, if he was lucky and she was feeling generous.) The whole day would just be another Friday that faded into a Monday.
Something stuck with him, felt cold against the base of his spine and lingered in his imagination. It was the ease of the way Megan had asked him some over the top question- did he want to sell his soul? And in those moments leading up to acts that Elijah and Megan had engaged in numerous times, he couldn’t help but wonder if that faint smell of matches had always been there, or if it was his imagination acting up.