Chapter 3

 

“Possessed? Like The Exorcist possessed?”

“More like Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost possessed. Sort of. Look, voodoo is my family’s religion, not mine. It’s hard to explain, which is why I gave you that book last night.”

Michelle had her feet propped on the desk by the window, blocking the morning view of Rousseau’s apartment. She was twirling a letter opener in her hand, an old habit that gave away her nerves. She definitely didn’t like having this conversation. Maybe that was why she’d found a way to delay it until after breakfast.

But Allegra hadn’t been able to sleep for thinking about it.

She sat on the fat, soft daybed in the living room, the book open in her lap while she tried to take it all in. If this was a joke, Michelle had pulled out all the stops to make it especially convincing.

“I’m just covering all the bases here. First you tell me he sleeps around too much because he’s a manwhore, and now he does it because he’s possessed. Be honest, do you two have a history I don’t know about?”

“No.”

Well that was adamant. Sincere. But adamant.

“Okay then, is this some kind of NOLA hazing for new residents I wasn’t aware of? I’m not saying you aren’t the right person for the job if it is. You’re the only one I know who could come up with something this twisted.”

“Thanks.”

Allegra’s lips quirked at her sarcasm. “You’re welcome. Were the paintings you’ve been filling the place up with lately a part of it? All those graveyards and grabby demons meant to get me in the right frame of mind?”

“Grabby demons?” Michelle made a face. “I’m glad you’re not the local art critic, but no. No joke. No hazing. No jealous secret plan to keep you away from the golden penis of happiness.”

Allegra snorted, but Michelle was no longer in the mood to laugh. “Mama knows about Rousseau’s case. He even came to her once, but she told him she couldn’t help him. She’s also the one who gave me that book, if that makes a difference.”

Oddly enough, it did. Allegra sat up straighter, her hopeful smile disappearing. Michelle’s mother was a genuine voodoo priestess who ran a small shop on Royal, selling charms and special oils as well as giving the occasional reading.

Mambo Toussaint was the genuine article. The oil she’d given Allegra to put in her bath worked better than all the expensive liniments and lotions her therapists had given her for the pain in her knee and hip. And she knew things. Not in the same way Ben seemed to, but she was still uncanny.

She knew about Rousseau?

Did Michelle and her mother really believe that the hot guy who owned the coffee shop was hosting a spirit called a—she looked down at the book—a Loa?

Call me by my other name.

“Rousseau believes this, doesn’t he? That he’s possessed? So the nickname people call him around town is actually...”

“The name of the Loa, yes.”

“A sex Loa named Bone Daddy. You realize how that sounds, right?”

“Of course I do.” Michelle shifted, getting up from the chair and nudging her workout bag with her foot. “I ran away from this once, ignored it, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I wish I didn’t know any of this existed. Believe me. But it does and I do. And now so do you.”

“Where are you going?”

She’d picked the bag up and taken a step toward the door. “I have a kickboxing lesson to get to.”

“I thought we were going to talk about this.”

There was a pain in Michelle’s expression Allegra didn’t understand. “I can’t right now. Just read the book and don’t leave the apartment until I get back, okay? And pay attention to the notes Mama put in the margins.”

“Michelle?” Allegra tilted her head to study her roommate. “Are you okay? I mean other than being stressed about my recent crush on Whoopi Goldberg and the golden penis of happiness.”

Her expression softened. “I’ll be fine. Read that book, especially chapter eleven.”

She walked out the door as if her ass were on fire, and Allegra fell back onto the pillows with a gusty sigh.

She didn’t say she was fine, just that she would be. This incident had Michelle more on edge than ever, and she’d already been walking the line.

When Allegra had first met her, Michelle admitted she’d only gone away to college to escape from a town full of interfering family and bead-craving tourists while she worked on creating the perfect masterpiece. Now she was a leader in the education community of the very town she’d run away from. Allegra couldn’t be prouder of all she’d accomplished. But it didn’t seem to satisfy or center her.

Nothing did.

All those defense classes. Kickboxing. Karate. She’d even been learning capoeira, a Brazilian form of martial arts that looked like dancing. She envied Michelle’s energy, but she barely saw her.

She studied the wall lined with Michelle’s canvasses. The nearest and most recent was disturbing. Three men, their features distorted and grotesque, their faces covered in blood. All three had ghostly figures behind them, figures whose arms thrust inside the men’s bodies, as if guiding them toward the screaming woman curled up against the alley wall.

It was a dark piece. A scary piece. Especially since the woman with the dark silky curls, brown skin and stunningly fearful eyes looked an awful lot like Michelle.

Now that she thought about it, what was happening to the men looked a lot like possession to Allegra.

Rousseau.

Promising herself to have a serious conversation with Michelle about her concerns as soon as she got home, Allegra picked the book up and rolled onto her right side, propping a pillow beneath her arm so she could read. It was a well-loved book, the cover lined with ragged threads and so worn she could barely make out the title, but inside was everything she could ever want to know about voodoo.

An idea for a lifestyle article came to mind, and she pushed it aside. She couldn’t think about her old job now, her old life. She was too distracted by the people in her new one.

She flipped the yellowing pages until she found the right chapter and read. The researcher in her was fascinated with all the information. Some of it new, some eerily familiar.

Voodoo was a merging of Catholicism and tribal ancestor worship. Loas appeared to be similar to saints or angels, intermediaries with the divine, but unlike the winged cousins that lacked free will, these all had their own unique personalities and some less-than-angelic cravings and desires.

During rituals, the priests and priestesses of the religion—houngans and mambos—were “ridden” by a Loa. Possessed for a short time, giving body to the spirit and allowing them to revel in the joys of the flesh. Food. Drink. Sex. In return the Loa would heal, advise, and carry prayers with them when they returned to the other world.

Allegra sat up, wincing at the pain that ran like a current down her leg. How did any of this connect with Rousseau or what happened to her last night? She turned another page and saw writing in the margin beside a long list of Loa names and descriptions.

 

Bone Daddy.

First arrived at peristyle, the ritual space, in the eighteen hundreds.

Associated with sexual satisfaction and desire.

Origin: Unknown.

Family: Unknown

Mischievous and magnetic. But based on his questionable behavior and

uncertain loyalties, wariness is recommended.

 

Bone Daddy. There it was. Seeing it written in Mambo Toussaint’s hand gave it weight and the ring of truth. At the very least, Michelle’s mother believed this being existed. She wouldn’t have gone to this trouble if she didn’t.

Despite all she’d witnessed in her travels and what she’d experienced last night, Allegra couldn’t allow herself to fall down that rabbit hole. She believed in what she could see. What she could prove.

You saw his eyes change. You felt the difference in him.

What she’d seen and felt was Rousseau turning the tables on her after months of hesitation. He’d been the aggressor, and the new approach had thrown her.

That was all.

Her nipples scraped against her tank top as she remembered what she’d seen last night. Real or imagined, the erotic experience had revealed aspects of herself she hadn’t been aware of. Cravings she hadn’t known she had. Voyeurism, exhibitionism, even a small streak of masochism. It wasn’t like her, but she couldn’t deny she’d been tantalized by the visuals before her guilty conscience—in the form of Michelle—had ripped her away.

That look into the inner fantasies of others had been one fantasy she’d always been aware of. And some part of her must have known, subconsciously, that the tension between Michelle and Ben was sexual in nature. She’d seen enough romantic comedies to fill in those blanks. It wasn’t like Rousseau had read her mind and given her what she wanted.

Not Rousseau. Bone Daddy.

The air in the apartment grew warm and heavy, her skin tingling with sensitivity. Sexual frustration, she recognized. Thankfully it was something she could easily fix.

One glance at the locked door and then she was pulling off her shirt, rifling through the box under the bed that held her vibrator. She angled her pillow to face the window, knowing he couldn’t see her from here, but still perversely enjoying the idea that she was giving him a show.

She should be reading. She should be focusing on logic or worrying about the sanity of her friends, but instead she pushed her shorts and pink panties down to her knees, one hand cupping her small, aching breast, while the other switched on the vibrator and let it slide along her already swollen clit.

“Rousseau,” she moaned softly, closing her eyes, unsurprised when an image of the man in question immediately appeared. He was watching her with eyes that flickered between gold and hazel, and he was smiling. He knew she wanted him to see. She tugged hard on her nipples, biting her lip at the sharp sensation.

Maybe she should get them pierced.

She’d put on the pink underwear he’d mentioned seeing her in when he’d admitted to watching her. Had he touched himself, imagining her taking them off for him?

Her fantasy nodded, desire sparking in his eyes. Yes, he’d been looking. Of course he’d stroked his thick, aching erection at the sight of her.

How could you doubt it, cher? Spread your legs and let me see how wet you are.

“Oh God.”

She hurriedly kicked off her shorts and bent her legs, spreading them obediently, her vibrator thrumming against her clit. It felt so good she knew he would be jealous of it. He wanted to be the one touching her. Wanted to taste her.

Her teeth scraped across her lower lip and her eyes flicked toward the window. She could almost see him. Almost hear him urging her on.

Inside. Fuck yourself and think of me. Give me that much.

She wasn’t this woman. Some over-sexed, crazy stalker. But she hadn’t acted normally since she’d met Rousseau. Maybe he had put her under some sort of a spell.

Her vibrator was big, but not as big as she knew he would be. She’d felt him against her. She’d have a hard time taking him. It would be so tight, so full. He’d stretch her wide, not stopping until every long, hard inch of him was buried inside. He’d torture her with shallow, dragging glides, refusing her pleas to hurry.

Faster. Harder. Please.

Her body would cling to his, muscles tightening around him until he lost his control. He’d take her nipples between his teeth, tugging as he groaned against her flesh, his hips pumping her across the bed with the power of his need.

Yes. Rousseau. Harder.

She rolled over, burying her face in her pillow, her ass in the air as she filled her sex again and again. She needed to come. Why couldn’t she come?

Your little toy isn’t enough now. Nothing will be. I’m the only one who can give you what you need, and I’ll only do that when you ask for me.

A sob escaped her lips. “Please.”

Allegra swore she heard a curse behind her, then felt a wave of heat and lust. There was a physical presence behind her, between her thighs that shouldn’t be there. Couldn’t be there.

“Rousseau?”

A phantom hand grasped her hair until her neck was arching, another gripped her hip so tightly she was sure there would be marks. “Oh my God.”

I told you to call me Bone Daddy.

Her vibrator buzzed where she’d dropped it on the blanket as she was taken over by her unseen lover.

Just a taste to hold me over. Just between us. Because you beg so sweetly.

She cried out, reaching for something to hold on to as her body was invaded. Her nipples, her clit, her ass…he was everywhere at once. Each forceful thrust shook the daybed and made her shudder. It was so hard it should be painful. It was inhumanly, impossibly fast.

It wasn’t Rousseau.

Her climax crashed into her and left her dangling from the edge of her bed, panting and covered in sweat. Her body was sore, her thighs quaking and her brain thoroughly scrambled.

Sex had never been that good.

I’m even better in his flesh. Come see us soon, Allegra. We’ll prove it to you.

And just like that he was gone.

“It’s real,” she whispered into the now-empty room. All of it. Rousseau was being haunted by an oversexed spirit who’d just given her the best orgasm of her life.

Not haunted. Possessed.

She sat up, pushing her hair back with trembling fingers. She’d been fantasizing about Rousseau, but it was Bone Daddy who’d come to join her private session. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that.

A vision of Rousseau standing alone at the club, his expression bleak as he watched her disappear came back to taunt her, stripping her post-coital glow and leaving her more frustrated and confused than ever.

What was she supposed to do now?

Her gaze fell on the book, now lying open on the floor.

She needed more information, and there was only one person who could give it to her. She would finish the book and tomorrow she would pay Michelle’s mother a social call.

Allegra got up and headed for the shower, her mind racing. A Loa. She’d just had—sort of—sex with a Loa.

She wouldn’t believe it if she hadn’t experienced it for herself.

“Mischievous? Hah.”

 

 

Allegra Jarod was hell on his schedule.

He’d closed his shop on a Sunday. He never did that.

Monday was the only day Café Bwe was closed. It had been that way since the coffee shop had first opened and nothing had ever gotten in the way of that schedule. Until today, when his need to put some space between himself and his tempting neighbor became more important than the one aspect of his life he could control.

He was doing it for her. His other half had been unbearable since last night, when Michelle Toussaint had stopped him from bringing Allegra to climax, spoiling his fun and wasting the effort he’d extended to take over without a specific request.

Rousseau was genuinely worried about the Loa taking matters into his own hands again. It was an ability he’d never had to use when it came to women. Most already knew about him, approached Rousseau with the words already on their lips.

It hurt the sexed-up spirit’s pride that she wasn’t immediately compliant and calling his name.

Allegra was able to resist his pull. At least, to a certain extent.

He’d known she was special, but her strength of mind only made him want her more. So did her fantasies.

He walked down the dirty side streets that led to his mother’s apartment complex, thinking about the things Allegra Jarod’s deepest desires had shown him. He’d had no idea she was that passionate and open-minded.

I knew.

“No, you didn’t, liar. Not until you touched her mind.” If he had, Rousseau wouldn’t have been able to keep the Loa at bay for so long.

True. So true. But we know now, so we should go back. She’s thinking about fucking us at this very moment. I can smell it.

“Back off. I’m visiting my mother.” Bone Daddy grew instantly quiet and docile in his mind, respecting, as he always had, Rousseau’s family obligations.

He’d been neglecting those obligations for weeks. His mother had been asking him to stop by, but he’d always managed to avoid her, telling her he was busy when it wasn’t true. It wasn’t because he didn’t love his family, but there were times when the shame of what he’d become kept him away.

Allegra’s arrival had reminded him of the future he couldn’t have. The one where he fell for a vibrant, beautiful woman and took her home to meet his mother. The one where none of the women in his life had to pretend they weren’t embarrassed by rumors about his sexual exploits on a weekly basis.

New Orleans, for all the tourists that passed through for business and pleasure, was a tight-knit community. And every member of it still remembered his father. His reputation, if possible, had been even worse than Rousseau’s.

His mother deserved better than being put on the defensive about another no-account man in her life, but to her credit, she never mentioned it. Never acted as though she were anything but proud of her son, the business owner.

He kept waiting for the day she would open the door and look at him with contempt, telling him to leave and never come back. Thankfully, it would not be today. He’d barely knocked before the beautifully aging redhead who still spoke Portuguese when she was excited pulled him inside her small apartment.

Speaking a mile a minute about his sister’s latest grades and her neighbor’s horrible taste in music, she shoved a giant plate of food in front of him. “Eat. You’re a growing boy.”

He smiled, obediently wolfing down his meal before asking what needed fixing. It was the window unit. Again. This was what they did every time he came. The script was comforting, but he really wished she would let him change the scenery. “Have you thought about that place I was telling you about, Mama? The house? It’s still on the market and it’s got central air conditioning and ceilings that don’t leak like a sieve.”

She crossed her arms, the stubborn gesture all too familiar. “I raised my babies here. I know all my neighbors. What do I need with a big, drafty house?”

“Please Ma—”

A loud thumping, followed by an ear rattling drum solo interrupted him, and his mother sighed. “Maybe, okay? Maybe. We’ll talk about it later.”

Her maybe was the best news he’d heard all day. “Whenever you want.”

She muttered something about bossy children, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “So, who is she?”

The sudden change in topic startled him. “What? Who?”

She rolled her eyes. “You think I don’t recognize that expression you’ve been wearing for the last hour? I’m too old to know when my son is falling in love?”

Love? “My expression is heartburn. I ate too much too fast. I always do when I come here.”

“Okay, fine, don’t tell me. I only hope she’s good enough for you.”

Rousseau’s stunned silence made her smile fade. “You are a good man, Celestin.”

He chuckled, unable to hide the bitterness. “I’m glad you think so, Mama. But you don’t know—”

“I do know.” She crossed herself, mumbling a prayer under her breath. “I know all I need to. That my son does what he has always done. He protects the people he loves without thinking of the cost to himself. Am I sorry he carries such weight on his shoulders? Yes. Should I be ashamed of him for that? Never.”

Rousseau blinked rapidly. Was she saying she knew what he carried? But there was no way she could.

She reached up to fiddle with one of his dreadlocks. “You can’t hide underneath all this forever. There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of. You deserve to be seen and loved as much as anyone I know.”

His throat closed. Allegra had said something similar.

“Why do you hide yourself? What are you running from?”

The answer to both women was the same. He hadn’t cut his hair since his father died. He wore it the way he did because it put some people off. Made one or two look away, and that’s what he wanted. The less he was noticed, the better. He had control when no one noticed him.

It was a hell of a way to live.

“Mama, do you still have my clippers in the bathroom?”

She studied him thoughtfully. “Of course I do. Why?”

He forced a smile. “Thought it might be time for a change.”

By the time he’d cut off his locks and done a close trim of his hair, he’d felt like a new man. He couldn’t stop touching his head. Neither could his mother.

“She must be special.”

“She is.”

Her eyes sparkled with what he hoped weren’t tears. “Remember what I said, my angel. You are a good man. You deserve a life that truly belongs to you. If I could spare you—”

“Don’t say it please,” he begged, suddenly terrified. “I have to go. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

He walked away in a daze. His mother knew more than he ever imagined. At least, she knew some of it. Did she know how it happened? That it was his father who had given him this curse?

It had been seven years since the bastard died. Seven years since he’d discovered that, along with a few gambling debts and a paternity suit or two to pay off, his father had left him one more token of his affection.

A blood debt to a Loa who showed no signs of moving on once he’d gotten what he wanted from the ride.

But I’m not done riding you yet, because I haven’t gotten what I wanted. Not really. And where would you have me go, anyway? Back through the Gate? When there is still so much pleasure to give and feel?

Mambo Toussaint, the voodoo priestess he’d gone to when he’d first accepted Bone Daddy’s bargain in order to save his sisters from the same fate, had apologetically but firmly told him she couldn’t help him. “There’s a way, but I’m not the one to discover it for you.”

He’d read what he could on the subject, which wasn’t much. What he was experiencing wasn’t even supposed to happen. A Loa wasn’t supposed to stay. But because he had, Rousseau had been forced to live with the knowledge that any man or woman at any time could walk right up to him and, if they knew what to say, he would be bound to give them pleasure, without having any of his own.

You’re lying to yourself again. We’ve known satisfaction beyond anything that’s come before. It feeds us, fuels us. I’ve seen your fantasies, too. Seen and delivered. Made you face your passions head on instead of avoiding them.

His piercings brushed against his shirt, a constant reminder, along with most of his tattoos, of just how his Loa had indulged him. Rousseau enjoyed the pain. It was solid and real. And since it had been years since he’d been allowed to climax, it was also necessary for his sanity.

And wasn’t that just the biggest fucking joke of all. Tied to a sexual demon who gave everyone and their brother an orgasm, and he never got one of his own.

That hurts. I’m no demon.

What would Allegra think if she knew about all the things he’d done? Her secret desires led him to believe she might understand, possibly even be aroused if he approached it correctly. But he knew better than most that fantasies were kept private for a reason. What aroused some people in private could in fact be the antithesis of who they were, or who they presented themselves to be. The strong often longed to be forced into submission. Those who seemed gentle secretly liked it rough.

Most people found titillation in the forbidden. The mystery and danger inherent in the unknown.

There were people who had come to Rousseau requesting Bone Daddy’s services that had left him physically satiated but emotionally troubled. For them, the reality of finally giving in to their darkest desires had left them questioning their true natures.

Bah. It’s more than physical satisfaction. You know as well as I that no one leaves empty handed. And most of our lovers are more than happy with our arrangement.

He wasn’t wrong. The strange side effects of this particular Loa’s attentions were what made him so sought after. The voodoo equivalent of a genie, as one woman so aptly pointed out. Though he was stingy with his wishes, only doling them out to those he deemed deserving.

He wondered what Allegra would wish for.

We can find out, you know. She can be ours. Yours. Any way you want her.

That was the problem. Ours.

Rousseau wanted her to be his. He’d known from the moment she’d looked up at him with pain and determination behind her beautiful smile that she was his match. That she was the one he would choose, if he were free.

He didn’t want to share her with anyone. Not with Ben Adair, a man he considered to be his closest friend, and not with Bone Daddy, the spirit inside him that would never let him go.

He hoped his mother was wrong, because falling in love was the very last thing a man should do with a Loa along for the ride.