Oleander Dreams
Copyright© 2019 by Raisa Greywood
Chapter 9
Suspense Sex Story: Chapter 9 - New Orleans used to be a city of elegance and beauty. It's all gone now, and instead of laissez les bons temps rouler, I get the leftovers from a Cold War era gulag. Except sometimes, I see things. Hear things too. A brass band leading a funeral procession. A whiff of magnolia. The whisper of live oaks draped in Spanish moss. I don't know what's real anymore. And I can't get out.
Caution: This Suspense Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Horror Mystery
The passenger door opens, cutting off my laughter. I hiss, crouching on the seat like an animal preparing to defend itself.
A browned hand partially covered with a black leather glove reaches for me. “This is not a good place for you to be, cher.”
L. Martinus helps me out, steadying me when I wobble on bare feet. I ache all over, both from D. Webster’s abuse and the crash. I’ve lost the flip-flops somewhere, but I don’t have any interest in retrieving them. I wonder if I should be sad about D. Webster. He ruined my health, and probably my life.
He’s somehow dry, though the storm rages around us. I’m soaked to the skin in seconds. Taking a drag from his cigarette, he exhales and passes it to me. I take it, staring at the glowing tip like I’ve never seen it before.
The smoke is bitter and harsh, barely remembered. But my hands have the proper muscle memory for the act and I put the butt to my lips.
The first drag makes me cough, just like it did when I was fifteen and bummed a smoke from my very first crush. He’d been the boy from the wrong side of the tracks my daddy would have had heart failure over. His name was...
“I remember you now.” I say.
“Do you?” He smiles and wraps his coat around my shoulders.
“Lucian Martinez.” I take another drag from the nearly spent cigarette and stub it out on the concrete wall. “You changed your name.”
“Oui. Ain’t no good being Cajun here,” he says, his soft patois giving me a shivery thrill just like it did when I was in high school.
“And you lost the Creole,” I accuse.
“That too,” he agrees.
I sigh and lean against the wall, sliding down until my butt hits concrete. “You better go,” I say. “Someone is going to catch up with me sooner or later. You don’t want to be around when they find me.”
“Oh, I think I’ll manage.” He reaches out a hand and pulls me to my feet. “But you have a choice to make, and I want you to ask yourself a very important question.”
He cups my cheeks, his large hands warm and comforting. I lean into him, enjoying his subtle musk. Somehow it smells a little like both of us. The storm eases, and I look up into his fathomless brown eyes. “What question? And what choice?”
A choice is a novel thing these days. I’m realizing that I haven’t had one in a very long time. Not about my activities, my work, my partner. It’s all been arranged and planned, right down to my food. And my mental stability, taken away at the whim of someone I knew and had no reason not to trust.