The Wedding: Dark Romance Read online

  Contents

  The Divas Pen LLC Publication

  Dedication

  The Wedding

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Two

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Part Three

  Epilogue

  Works by Sienna Mynx

  About the Author

  The Divas Pen LLC Publication

  http://thedivaspen.com

  The Wedding

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  The Wedding © Copyright 2017 Sienna Mynx

  Cover art by Reese Dante

  Electronic book publication February 2017

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, The Diva’s Pen LLC.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Dedication

  To my readers, fans, and disbelievers, I am stronger as a writer and storyteller because of you. I thank you. As I grow with each new tale, I learn so much about the art of love and what it takes to weave a believable story. I gift you this saucy tale, and it is my hope that the struggles and rewards of Coco and Brick remind you, too, of how sweet and imperfect love can be.

  Sienna Mynx

  The Wedding

  PART ONE

  Laissez les bons temps rouler (Lazay Lay Bon Tom Roulay)

  Let the good times roll…

  Bourbon Street, New Orleans

  April 13, 2012

  Chapter One

  “Whoa! Watch your step, Georgie!” My best friend laughs off the warning I give her and stumbles in the shoes I told her not to wear. The stench of sewer, garbage, and leftover settling rain water overcomes me when she and I miss a step and land feet-first in a small murky puddle. Yuck! It’s rancid.

  “Hey! What the hell? She almost knocked me ova!” a woman shouts from behind us. Georgie is swinging her arms and her purse on the crowded sidewalk. Several people shoot her menacing glares. A few of them, not drunk enough to find her cute, shout curse words at us. Lord, I hope this girl don’t get us into a fight we can’t win.

  “Sorry! She’s sorry, okay?” I call out to the person we offended. Instead of holding Georgie by the arm, I’ve got my arm around her waist. I’m making her walk upright with me. And Georgie is grinning. She’s not drunk. Not really. She just likes to get wild after a sip of alcohol to show others how daring and free she can be.

  “Come on, Georgie, cut it out.” After a bit of a struggle I pull Georgie out to the street. Forget the sidewalk. If we’re gonna do this and not have to step in piss and vomit, we should try walking in the middle of the street. My decision proves to be another not so bright idea. Between the laughing and fast-walking crowds, we bump shoulders with people from every walk of life. From drunk tourists to mean looking thugs standing still and observing people.

  “A horsey!” Georgie exclaims.

  “Whaa the fuc—?”

  It’s too late to stop her. Georgie breaks free from me and charges straight for the police officer on the horse. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. These cops don’t like you touching their mounts. I’m walking fast, almost twisting my ankle to catch up with her as my high-heel shoes get stuck in the cobblestone crevices of the road.

  “Hey, horsey! Heeeeeey, horsey-horsey-horsey!”

  “Georgie! No!” I catch her by the arm. But Georgie swings her purse and almost smacks the animal on the nose.

  “Cut it out!” I tell her and yank her close. The officer on the horse is wearing a helmet and deep scowl. He’s staring directly at Georgie.

  “Aaww, pooh! I just wanna say hi.”

  “Sorry, Officer,” I say and smile for him.

  “Keep it moving,” he replies.

  “C’mon, Georgie.” Georgie blows the horse a kiss and tries to blow one to the officer, but I’m dragging her away from them both. Now she’s killing my buzz. It’s time to get off Bourbon Street.

  “Where is the place?” I ask her.

  “Dauphine. We’ll find it. I promise.”

  Of course, if we’re going to sneak down into the Quarter to have fun we had to start with drinking. We hit two bars on Bourbon Street first. And Georgie and I were feeling no pain.

  “Show me your tits!” a bunch of men on the balcony of a bar shout down to us. I ignore them but Georgie never ignores anyone.

  “Fuck you!” Georgie shoots them the middle finger. “You show me your dick!”

  Someone throws beads, and another person tosses his beer into the street. I yank Georgie out of the way and it splashes on a group of young black teens. They immediately get riled up. Four of them run to the front of the bar and Georgie and I run in the opposite direction, laughing.

  “Wait! Wait, Coco, I need to catch my breath,” Georgie stops. She’s clutching her chest. Before long she’s smiling with me and we’re on the move.

  “I think we should call Marcel. Just to make sure we’re headed in the right direction.”

  “I know where we’re going, Coco. We’re on Dauphine… I've been here before. Plus, if Marcel finds out we’ve been drinking he’ll get all pissy. C’mon.”

  We lock arms and the rest of the walk sobers Georgie a bit. It also gives me a chance to really look around at the people and buildings I pass. It’s funny to me how I grew up between Houma and Shreveport but only started visiting dive bars in New Orleans when Georgie met Marcel. If my family found out I was strutting around the French Quarter in this dress that barely covered my ass, inebriated, they’d kill me—literally.

  “There! We go through there.” Georgie pointed to a dark alley between two storefronts. It’s not what I expected. But dive bars are usually off in the dark recesses of the French Quarter. These places are where the real jazz and blues players go to whet their whistles without being hassled because of their celebrity. And most tourists either can’t find them or fear the alleys of the Quarter they have to breech to reach them. Not Georgie and me. We’re fearless, to a point.

  “I told you I’d find it!” Georgie rushes into the alley. There’s sparse lighting between the two buildings, but enough to entice Georgie to go further. Me? I’m lookin
g at the forgotten trash, broken bottles, discarded needles, wood planks and bags of garbage along the way, afraid of rats or bugs. Finally, we venture past the alley into an open space and Georgie cheers. In the Quarter, the buildings you see sometimes cover buildings behind them.

  Georgie throws her arms up in celebration “Touchdown!” she yells over finding her way. Her purse falls. We laugh and hug each other because it’s how giddy we both feel. Georgie picks up her purse. She bends over at the waist and I know her ass is on full display. I have to step to the back of her to give her some modesty.

  “Got it!” Georgie giggled.

  There’s a man seated on a stool to the front of a closed door. He’s got on all white, even white crocodile shoes with gold tips. His cane is white and his fedora is, too. Large gold rings are on each finger, chains around his neck. He leers at me for ruining the show of Georgie’s ass. And then gives us both a snake charmer’s smile when we walk over to him. We can see he has gold teeth, too.

  “Say, Red? You o-kay?” he asks Georgie and tries to see her from behind me.

  “She’s fine,” I answer for us both.

  “Yes, indeed, she fine alright,” he mumbles. And then his gaze locks on me. He smiles at what he sees. “Wa’sup babee? You lost or lookin’ for somethin’?” he asks.

  “My boyfriend, Marcel, is inside. We’re on the list.” Georgie pushes me over so she can be seen. She flashes her sweet smile at the man and I can tell he likes her flirting.

  “You a juvie?” he asks us.

  Georgie laughs. I can't help but smile, too. We both go into our purses to get our identifications. We’re both 22, and in these dresses we look at least 25. The joke isn’t our age. We could be sixteen and get inside. It’s his way of trying to delay us, talk to us, keep us with him. He barely glances at our IDs. Most times his gaze is switching from our breasts to our hips, and not our faces.

  “Uh, can we go in now, please?” I ask.

  “Sure thang, go on.” He sucks his gold teeth.

  “C’mon, Georgie.” I make her go first through the door. Hell, she knows the place; I don’t.

  “How you livin’?” The man in white asks me when I pass him. I’m not sure if he meant it as a question or a statement. Those snake eyes of his makes the question feel obscene. He touches my arm. I ignore the question and walk right in. I swear I need an oxygen mask the second-hand smoke is so dense. And the lighting in the bar is all red. So I’m squinting and following Georgie. On stage is an old man playing a guitar and singing the blues with a band of musicians behind him. I can’t help but bob my head in appreciation to the down-home sound. I feel like dancing. Finals are over. I’ve got no one to answer to. Soon I’ll be graduating. And I’ve had a few drinks in me to bring on the early celebrating.

  “There he is! Marcel! Marcel!” Georgie waves.

  There are a few men to the back left-hand side of the stage and they all look over at us. Georgie and I are holding hands but we have to bump shoulders with the crowd nursing their drinks between those seated at tables and those seated at the bar. Several men, I don't know who, but I know it’s several, all take a turn at touching my hip or backside. I try to give them warning…back-off looks, but it doesn’t work. Finally, we break free from the sexual harassment and Georgie is in the arms of her beau.

  “Wassup, Coco, yeah!” Marcel says.

  “Hi, Marcel.”

  “Ya’ll ladies get here okay?”

  “We made it,” Georgie giggles when he kisses her on the neck and squeezes her ass. She’s checked the drunk girl routine at the door. This is flirty Georgie now. I have to cut my eyes away from her performance to keep from giggling, too. That’s what those two drinks gave us both—the giggles.

  The band is really jamming and I like it. I'm swaying and rolling my hips to the music. I really hope we get to dance tonight. I rather get a drink and enjoy the show than watch Georgie and Marcel grope and lick all over one another. I can’t though. Our girl code won’t allow it. The number one rule is that Georgie and I never split up when we go out clubbing. So I follow them through an even narrower hall that smells like a mixture of mildew, bleach and pine. The walls were once blue or gray. I'm not sure. The paint is pealing and there are cracks and moldy chipping. The dive bar is definitely old. Marcel pauses. There’s a side stairwell and a man comes out of it. He's young, tall, dark and handsome. My type! He gives me a smile and I give him one too. I want to stop and have a little friendly conversation but Georgie ain’t having none of it. She grabs my hand and pulls me so I have no choice but to follow. Down we go. With these tiny steps I have to be careful in my stilettos.

  The below action is sweeter than what I experienced above— much sweeter. I can breathe. And next the room is less crowded so it feels more spacious. There’s a stage and a small dance floor. Looks to me like musicians are testing their instruments and harmonizing. Instead of the irritating red light glow upstairs the lights work just fine down here. There are a few tables, with some booth seats against the back wall. And the cool thing is we are the only women in the place.

  “Fellas! This here is my baebee! Say hello!”

  So many spoke at first. The one that I can't help but notice sits in the corner to the left. He's in a card game. His heavy lidded rheumy gaze never leaves me even as he plays his hand. Marcel is handling the one on one personal introductions. I'm waiting and waiting for Marcel to get too this dude. Finally he says his name. “This here is my man Brick, ladies.”

  “Hi,” I say and smile. Brick? How corny of a name. Shouldn't it be a bit smoother, I wonder.

  Brick leans in and smiles. “Bonjou’.”

  Oh? He Cajun? Nice.

  I know for a fact that not just anyone can play the saxophone. What goes into it is more than talent. It’s a soul-yearning that a musician has to draw from. So when a Cajun boy like me does it in the belly of N'awlins he better have the pipes to collect his bones in Dauphines' Bone Room. It also helps that my people own this joint. The Bone Room used to be a hidden kitchen and storage area of a pastry and praline shop during prohibition. The way I heard the tale it was owned by the Sicilian Mafia.

  After prohibition the Bondurants, Cajuns, my people, we took over. We’re from Acadiana where Cajuns are plentiful. It’s on the outskirts of the city in swamp country. My name is Brick. Many people call me many things, and I don’t mind any of it. Just don’t call me white. I know society likes to give labels. And because of my skin color it’s hard to understand what I’m about to tell you. I’m not white. I’m Cajun. And there’s a difference. Blacks, Spanish, Asians, they all can identify culturally as to who they are. But we Cajuns are considered white trash by society. Swamp-billies by default. We have a culture and identity that we proud of not the Eurocentric one that this country who only sees a man or woman by the color of their skin accepts. We Cajun’s ain’t never owned slaves. We Cajun’s aint’ neva been part of no special ‘white privilege’ in life. We had to hunt, fight, and scrape like any other person in the bayou.

  This is my place. The front business on Dauphine street is Cajun Jack’s Crawfish house, run now by my step-mother and my sisters. The back here, is jazz land. And it's been passed down from generation to generation with us ever since. Pops handed me the deed on my sixteenth birthday. I run it with Smoke, my Pops best friend since they were farm boys. Smoke is a black man who can play any instrument you put before him after listening to a few bars. A musical virtuoso that has never stepped foot outside of Louisiana.

  Smoke gave me my name. Brick. It’s a weird story that I don’t tell often. I'm the only one out of the Bondurant boys who wants to preserve what this place represents. My brothers and uncles want to bring in Country musicians and local R&B artists to draw more money at the door. My uncle Beau tried to talk me and Smoke into putting this place on the historical registry and becoming part of the tours they offer in the Quarters. To hell with that. Not as long as I can take a breath and blow on my sax. Hell, some of the greats have played
here. From Howling Wolfe, Charlie Parker to Duke Ellington and the Bird man. It's blasphemous to make the Bone Room some tourist dump like the rest of the spots on Bourbon Street.

  I'm the keeper of Jazz on Dauphine street and this place stays as it is.

  Tonight I'm a little anxious. I got a set with Smoke, my mentor since I was three. And Smoke is one of his moods. He trained with Prince of Darkness, Miles Davis and was there when the Coltrane and Miles collaboration went down. Smoke took a liking to me as a kid because he saw how much I hung around the musicians instead of getting into sports and hell raising like my brothers. He is credited with my freshness, my blow, my everything. And every time I play with him I got to bring my A-game.

  Smoke is not the only reason I'm anxious. It's the card game I'm in with this cat named Domino. He's a mean fucker, reminds me of Shaquille O'Neal. Tall, black, muscular and can slam an opponent with the swipe of his hand. He's a double bassist with a style that is hot plus soulful. And Domino doesn't like me. We got history. I fucked his woman twice. Almost got my jaw broke when I went back for a third time. Could have happened if Marcel hadn't tipped me off. Even though that deed was over a year ago Domino hasn’t forgotten. He holds a grudge and so do I. Marcel thinks we should get along because he wants to put us with an artist that can take us to the next level. Screw it. I'm stuck in the card game with this alligator eyes motherfucker trying not to lose all my coins.

  And then she comes down the stairs I’m distracted. I see her first. The boys are too busy with their poker hands and keeping their eyes on Domino. Marcel walks toward our table with his girl Georgie under his arm. Georgie is a sweet pampered black-creole girl that lives in one of those million dollar homes out in English Turn. Her family wouldn't let the likes of Marcel and me on the grass of their front lawn. I still don't know how Marcel hooked up with her. But whatever he’s done Georgie’s his. She calls his phone almost every hour on the hour. And raises hell if he don’t at least pause for five minutes to speak. Georgie’s cool, but she isn’t my focus. Behind them is a sexy mocha dream I've never seen here before.