Chapter 2
Timothy Perrot dropped onto the grassy quad, outside the cultural center. He ran a hand through his long dark blond hair, as it draped to the right, covering closely shaved sides. He nibbled on his lip ring and flicked one of the strings on his guitar as he turned the tuning peg. This place was a haven for college chicks to strut their stuff, and they did, in front of him…all day long. Well, until they found out he sang for money and lived in the trailer park with his alcoholic father. That his part-time job at the oil factory barely kept him in guitar strings.
He shook his head. Stretching his fingers, he tucked the Ibanez acoustic under his arm, and into his lap. He stroked the glossy wood. It had taken him almost a year, to work and hide money from his father to get this. As the first vibration of the strings, he closed his eyes. With music, nothing else mattered. Not his father’s drinking. Not the beatings that even an adult he dealt with. But what could he do? He couldn’t leave the old man. They were the only family either had left.
He yawned, setting out the can for tourists and passerby to throw money into. Yawning away his fatigue, he wished he’d taken a few more hours for sleep, not that it came easily lately. Something haunted him, awake and asleep. Haunted? Hell, he lived in the swamps of New Orleans, one of the most haunted cities in the world, and never before had he considered haunting as even the most remote of possibilities. Bow, how could he deny it? Something disturbed his dreams. Grand ships, vast seas, and a blue-eyed vixen. Oh yeah. And that damned song. He could hear the words, hum the melody. But it wasn’t his. It didn’t come from a place inside of him, but it did, if that made sense. The words came from him mouth, but the feeling of it consumed him.
But he had a great new song to sing and it was nothing like his normal style. These words were more whisper than scream. He strummed a chord.
“My love, she said
We will meet once again.
Where the water rushes into,
And then falls away from the land.
The spray of surf
And whispering winds
Caress her cheek
She kisses him
The failing moonlight
Dims the face
He has her heart
And clings to fate
Where the Spanish Moss
Floats on the air
We will meet
Once again.”
As he began to play, her face, the one that filled his dreams, floated before his closed eyes. She had ebony hair that curled around her round face, beautiful blue eyes that reminded him of an early morning sky, when the sun had just come up.
As he crooned the lyric, a crowd gathered, swaying with his words, almost as mesmerized as he was. The melody brought them in every time.
Since this song began invading his every thought, it had certainly proved to be a money maker. In the last week, almost two hundred dollars. He knew, this was it. It was his way to a new, better life.
Tim opened his eyes, taking in the faces of those around him, the ones sticking money in his can, the ones holding hands and even the little blonde from the culture center. She smiled. He winked. She licked her lips. He grinned the panty-melting lopsided smile he always gave.
She’d just be another notch on his bedpost. Not the one to fill the hole in his heart. For him, sex was nothing more than a mean to an end, a release and a way to pass time. He wanted more, wanted a love to match the way this song had fueled the fire in his soul.
He’d just put the bottle of water to his lips when her voice—Timpany? Tammany?—tinkled with something that he was sure she meant to be sultry but missed. “Tim, how are you today?”
“Another day in paradise. You?” he asked, sipping on some water. The gulf breeze today did nothing to stave off the burning heat. He pulled the bandana from his pocket, the black and white design matching his black shirt. He wiped at his brow.
“Nice ink.” She ran a bright pink nail from his elbow to his wrist, over the sleeve tattoo on his arm.
“Thanks.” Blah. Blah. Blah. Tattoo. Blah. Blah.
“You know, I was thinking. I have a friend, I think she would be perfect for you. Like, I think you two would have a lot in common.” He shook his head. The last thing he needed was another rich girl using him to get back at her daddy. What exactly would they have in common? This was the type of girl to say, hey, you have a tattoo, my friend has a tattoo, it means you’re meant to be together.
He knew who Tammany was and the kind of girls she hung out with. How many times had he been the Romeo to some rich chick’s Juliet? How many daddies had tried to buy him off in exchange for his “word” that he would stay away from some little princess? Nope. Not even for the fancy gifts these girls liked to buy him. Not even for a new guitar or a way out of this hell hole. Tim looked at Tammany, Great legs, nice ass, boobs were a little small, but he would have adapted had she not been a Benoit, the daughter of the man whose hedges Tim sometimes trimmed. Not that he hadn’t ogled her a few times when she’d put on that tiny little bikini and sunbathed by the pool. But no more. Hell no.
“I’m good, thanks.” He picked up the guitar again. Maybe if she thought he was busy, she’d move on. Even if she didn’t, he could ignore her and be all the better for it. When he started to play again, the crowd dispersed, and she moved into the center. He played through the afternoon, song after song, note after note until he’d finally had enough of the heat. He preferred to play in the morning or the evening to avoid heat stroke, but he played when he could. Today, it was afternoon and he’d suffer through for the money, but enough was enough.
Tammany had come and gone quickly, and he hoped not to run into her, but how could he avoid her when he was scheduled to work the rest of the afternoon in the Benoit yard?
He packed up the guitar and can of money, disappointed at the amount collected that day. With his guitar in one hand and sweat rolling down his back, he took off. One of these days, he would have enough for a car, and then, family or not, he was getting the hell out of there. He heard the rumble before he smelled the exhaust. Shit. He groaned. He could tell his father’s truck from anywhere. It was early enough in the day his father shouldn’t be drunk yet, but there was no telling. The urge to drink for his old man knew no clock.
“Boy, off playing with yourself again instead of making a real living, I see. You’re pathetic, just like your no-good mother.” One of his father’s favorite things was to tell Tim just how horrible his mother had been before she ran off. When he was younger, Tim had wished for her return. As he grew older, he realized, just why she had left. But he would never understand why she’d chosen not to take him, left him to suffer through his father’s rage, his addiction.
There’d been a time when they were happy. When his mother would cuddle him close and tell him bedtime stories, share her family history, long ago tales of her ancestors and how they came to be in Louisiana.
He ignored the taunts and continued walking towards the shop where he could pick up the work truck and mower. His boss left a vehicle for Tim to use when he needed to work. His old man quickly lost interest and drove away, after chucking an empty beer can at Tim.
When Tim finally pulled up to the Benoit home, he was grinding with anger about his father, his circumstances and every grievance he could think of the old man had ever been accused or been guilty of.
He couldn’t wait to be done with work. The only thing that would make this day better was a big bottle of rum. Yeah. He knew. Like father, like son, but what else did he have? The hope had been sucked out of him a long time ago. There wasn’t much chance he’d ever get out of New Orleans. Maybe if he played the lottery. Which he would do if he could scrape together a spare dollar. Nope. He was going to die here, stuck in that trailer with his useless father. He’d probably die at work, mowing someone grass or at the oil factory covered in grime. Destiny was a funny thing.
As he stuck headphones into his ears, he heard her—faint but sweet, the voice he dreamed of. This wasn’t coming from his phone. This was his song, but a woman’s voice.
Tim looked over his shoulder, towards the beach. But no one was there. He turned to the house, surveying each window waiting for a movement, something tell-tale that would lead him to that voice. When he finished with the first floor, he looked up and there she was. The woman who haunted his dreams, his thoughts, stood shimmering white above him. In the window, her long black hair, blew in the wind.
He could smell the salty sea air as a breeze swirled about him, could hear the ocean rumbling in the distance, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the woman. She stared down at him, eyes wide pools of emotion. But as if consumed by the wind, she disappeared. It wasn’t as if she walked away, she’d vanished. Simply stopped being in the place he’d seen her. But something tugged at him, made him want to barge into the house, climb the stairs, search until he found her Not a ghost, he prayed. He wanted her to be real. Needed her to be real. But this was Louisiana. Even a non-believer like him had to wonder, what were the chances?