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Lagniappe:
Pronounced: Lan-yaap
A creole phrase meaning 'a little something extra'
Triad:
1. A polyamorous relationship composed of three people.
2. The word triad is most often applied to a relationship in which each of the
three people is sexually and emotionally involved with all the other members of the triad.
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This is a total AU.
-The story is based pretty heavily in the POV of Aubrey and Beca. Not so much Mitchsen, this is a legit Triple Treble, but simply because it ended up working that way. I found myself saving Chloe chapters for specific moments.
-The girls are older in this story. I don't really name an age but just think older. Which means that Beca has mostly gotten past the bitchy, distant, push everyone away phase and it a little more chill.
-Just warning you now (so no one can say that I didn't) Bumper is a bully. The dude is a dick. He's a terrible person and I actively want to punch the dude in the face. He's going to treat Aubrey like shit pretty steadily. Think of him as an overgrown ten year old.
God, I had two amazing beta readers and editors for this story! Honey_Hill was amazing! Always there for a chat! She gives the best advice and opinions, guys. Like whoa. Dragone was just supposed to be my amazing artist but she ended up being a godsend! Just as much of a beta as anyone else! Thanks, chica! You were such an awesome help! Also, check out the amazing art she did for this story on Tumblr!
Rated: M for language, sexuality, sensuality, adult themes
Prologue:
Beca
"Aaaaaaaaaallright-y, you're listening to WWOZ, the number one Nawlins station for 'Who Dat nation'! We're going to start this sixty-minute listening block now with a little Craaaaawdadddyyy!"
However, despite the strange flashy cadence of the radio announcer's voice, Beca Mitchell wasn't listening - like, at all. At the moment, she was busy trying to get her brain to rev back into action, realizing that, oh shit, she had to do something other than drive in a straight line for the first time in a while.
"Right. Okay." She shook her head, trying to wake herself up. "Paying attention – uh, now," she nodded, her fingers motioning to the road as though that would somehow help her concentration levels.
She had gotten onto Interstate-10 somewhere in Arizona two days ago. Since then the only time she had been forced to actively pay attention to the road was when she had to make sure she didn't accidentally get off when she didn't need to. Which she had been able to do...for the most part. Four days and forty hours of driving had lulled her brain into a slightly mushy, trance-like stupor, so having to think again was a little jarring.
"...Momma's cookin' gumbo, gumbo, gumbo. Momma's cooking gumbo, the best gumbo…"
Four. Four freaking days. 'They,' whoever the 'they' was, say that everyone should drive across the country at least once in their life because it was an enriching experience that would help you 'find yourself' or something. Early on day two of the drive she had begun to think that maybe 'they' might have been taking Jack Kerouac a little too seriously. It hadn't been a journey of inner speculation and self-revelation. Mostly it had been droll and filled with disjointed, barely conscious thoughts like: 'what if life is like 'The Truman Show' and I just don't know it? Like, what if the guy in that car right there is really just the guy who used to beg outside of my bank and was recast as 'man driving minivan'?... How can I trust anyone when they might have just been hired to be my friend?'
The drive had been long; so long that her strange thoughts had eventually melted into a mindless loop of 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat' and Lady Gaga's 'Paparazzi' for twenty hours straight.
It had been boring.
And she was so ready to get there.
Beca still hadn't stopped kicking herself for making the choice to drive the freaking two thousand seven hundred and seventy-nine miles instead of flying. Yeah, she knew it was the only way she could get her equipment from San Francisco to the heart of Louisiana and, she had already been giving up so much, a whole life. She hadn't been able to bear the thought of losing the equipment she had once had filling her own personal office…in her loft…in her home…back in California.
God.
This wasn't one of those sad pathetic pre-mid-life crisis moves like the ones you see in movies. It wasn't. She wouldn't allow it to be. She hadn't done it to run away from her life. Her life had been awesome. She had been one of the most requested freelancers in 'The City.' She wasn't leaving behind a sad relationship; she had broken up with her last boyfriend over a year before and he was all happy with some new nerdy composer chick. They had even done the whole lets-be-friends lunch a few times which was awesome because he was an awesome guy and their relationship had been awesome, and all of that had been awesome. Her friends had been awesome. She had been the one who wanted the change of pace. She had been the one who had decided that she would find said change of pace in freaking New Orleans. She hadn't been miserable – or lonely – at all; really she hadn't been. Everything had been awesome.
So, nope.
No sad story there.
And if she had spent the first three hours of her drive gruffly wiping away tears then that had simply been because she had made herself leave so early and she had forgotten her favorite travel mug and therefore had been caffeine-less which hadn't been awesome.
Or at least that's what she told herself.
Her back gave a spasm, and she cringed, trying to change her position in the seat so that she could release the I've-been-driving-forever tension.
Maybe she should have listened to everyone who insisted that she was going to hate life one day into this not at all unwise or stupid drive. She had just figured that they were being grumpy San Franciscans – you know, people like her – and had ignored them. Turns out maybe they were on to something.
"In one mile take exit 232 toward Airline Drive, Tulane Avenue, Carrollton Avenue," her GPS said again over the sound of the radio.
Beca spent a moment glancing haphazardly between the sign and the GPS.
She was not at all in the correct lane here.
Nonplussed after years of San Francisco driving, she gave the barest of glances into her mirror and suddenly she cut across the lanes. Behind her there was a protesting screech of tires and a loud horn but, a little dazed from the trip, she just muttered, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, buddy. Okay. Carrollton, Carrollton...okay, Carrollton." She gave a start and shook her head, trying to clear it a bit more. "Almost there. Yup. Aaaaalmost there. Focus, Becs." She rolled down the window, hoping the slight sting of the June air would help. She regretted it immediately.
That's right. As weird as it was, she was in the freaking south now. She lived in the freaking south.
The window hadn't even been rolled halfway down before she let out a loud, "nope," and began rolling it back up. She was not about the heat at all. San Francisco didn't get hot, not like this anyway. The AccuWeather widget in the corner of her car's touch screen dash read 89° F and 100% humidity. That made her do a quick double take and then glance out of her driver's side window at the gray sky, utterly baffled. How was it possible to have one hundred percent humidity and not be raining? That made zero sense. Didn't one hundred percent humidity mean, you know...water?
"...Hey, I'm a worldly guy, I guess I've seen it all. I've traveled down the Amazon; I've done the Taj Mahal. But I grew up on the bayou and I guess it's plain to see, well, I might have left the bayou, but the bayou's still in me…"
Still slightly horrified by the idea, Beca turned the air conditioning up in protest, longingly thinking about the cool 65 ° that it probably was at home.
No, wait, not home, she caught herself yet again, not home, not anymore. She had to stop doing that. New Orleans was her home now. Which – yeah, that wasn't depressing at all. Maybe those grumpy San Franciscans were also right about changing careers at this point in life. Too much change wasn't healthy.
Or maybe she was just being a grumpy bitch, which was something she generally was pretty good at not doing anymore. She was past that phase in her life. Still, there was a ninety percent chance that she was being far more cantankerous than the situation needed.
Then again, she had been in the car for four days, soooo whatever.
Resignedly, she reached across to the passenger seat which was littered with four days worth of fast food wrappers, old coffee cups, candy wrappers, gum wrappers, and empty water bottles. She had to feel around for a second before her hand found the small box of powdered donuts, the ones she had picked up that morning. She pulled the last one out and took a large bite as she merged into the far lane to finally take her exit.
"...Not long ago, man, I was on this trip-o, hanging out in Africa, hunting for a hippo..."
"Okay, what the fuck is this?" Her words came out garbled behind the donut as the strange song finally demanded her full attention.
"I knew right away I just had to go and get a big bowl of my momma's gumbo. Momma's cookin' gumbo, gumbo, gumbo. Momma's cooking gumbo, a big gumbo. Well, I climbed up the tree. The hippo came by. I said I'll shoot ya later, cuz I really gotta fly…"
What the hell was she hearing right now? Torn between amusement and utter bafflement she turned the volume up and listened incredulously.
"...Got to an airstrip, the pilot's name was Bungo…"
Suddenly the steering wheel was covered with a fine white powder as Beca choked on the bite of doughnut. She gasped and choked; sure she was about to die before she could drag in a deep breath.
"...I hopped in a plane and we flew out of the jungle. An hour over Kenya we were runnin' outta gas. Bungo said I'm sorry, champ, I think we're gonna crash! I grabbed me a parachute, I said see ya, Bo, can't die 'til I get a bowl of momma's gumbo…"
The. Fuck. Beca swore, shaking her head and merging over one more lane. People said that New Orleans was a place all to its own, and she knew that it would be really different from anything she was used to but what the hell was happening on her radio right now? "Yeah," she muttered. "That's not music."
Was this what these people were expecting because she wasn't sure she could give it to them. She pressed the seek button, and the radio automatically clicked to the next station. Her agitation only rose when she heard the same strange voice speak-singing as it began to fade:
"You could own Texaco, make your fortune from the pump. You may lead a charmed existence but no matter where you go, life don't get much better than your momma's gumbo…' alright, listeners, that was Crawdaddy's big hit and next -"
She clicked off the radio and turned off the interstate still chuckling a little nervously.
For what felt like the millionth time in four days she wondered if she really knew what she was doing when she accepted this job offer, or what awaited her in The Big Easy.
Chapter 1
Yes, Beca knew that she had a highly developed sweet tooth, this wasn't the first time that had been apparent. But. As it turned out the fuss over beignets was totally reasonable and she was surprised there weren't more people who were hopelessly devoted to them. Like a whole religion, maybe? Because they were freaking delicious. They were like little fluffy clouds of sugary goodness and while the French Quarter was kind of boring, she thought it might have been worth the trip just to try one of those awesome pillows of fried sugariness. She stood in the blazing sun of Royal Street for another few seconds, debating if maybe she should have gotten some of the light, doughnut-like pastries to go. No; she decided firmly against it. Her stomach felt like it might literally explode any minute now and frankly, she knew that she didn't have the self-control to save them for later.
Plus, there was no way that she was down to go back inside. Beignets were good, but she wasn't sure they were good enough to get her back in there so soon.
Going into Cafe Beignet had been like fighting through a zoo or trying to go anywhere in Disneyland. The place was super tiny and filled to the brim with people. Besides, she lived in New Orleans now, right? She could come down and get a beignet any time she wanted, assuming she could figure out the parking situation a little better.
She had actually driven into the Quarter this morning, assuming that maybe she would find parking somewhere in the heart of it or that there would be parking garages or something. There was barely any public transportation in New Orleans, so she had logically assumed that meant that there would be parking. That had been the kind of mistake that you don't make twice. She was from San Francisco, she thought she knew what treacherous driving areas looked like but the moment she had crossed into the Quarter she had been met with streets so narrow that they put everything she had ever known to shame. It had been a sea of mix matched one-way streets and so much foot traffic that she was sure she was going to accidentally mow down a tourist. She had driven back out feeling like a cat that had tripped and fallen into the pool.
A little terrified after that, she had parked not only outside of the Quarter but completely across the street from its entrance at the local visitor center, willing to pay the fee.
Beca shoved her hands into her jeans pockets, debating what to do next. She had been casually walking around the Quarter for the last two hours and, a shiver of guilt ran through her, she was so bored. She shouldn't be bored; this was the French Quarter for freaking sake but - she was.
She yelped as something hard bumped aggressively into her calves and turned to see a red-faced lady glaring. Beca ripped off one side of her huge headphones and finally heard the shout of: "'Eya, excuse me, lady!"
"Oh. Err, sorry." Ducking to the side, she let the huge triple stroller leave the cafe behind her; all three of the children inside covered with a fine dusting of powdered sugar and screaming their heads off. "Sorry!" She called again, "My – my bad." The words trailed off awkwardly when she realized that the woman wasn't listening to her at all.
Yeah, that right there was kind of her point. The Quarter was all moms and tourists in awkward too tight tank tops and far too short of shirts with a light smearing of sunscreen on their cheeks. She had never seen so many house dresses in public, nor seen so many kids on leashes.
Actually, if she were being honest she wasn't sure why she had come down to the Quarter at all. She wasn't looking to get drunk. She didn't want to have her fortune read by a phony psychic in the middle of the sidewalk, who would swipe her Visa with their iPhone reader and then proceed to charge her ten bucks a minute. The street performers were cool but those weren't new. As a matter of fact, she was sure that the men who painted themselves in gold had actually ripped off the guys in San Francisco. So…She didn't know but best she could think was this was supposed to be the city of music, right? Where were the street bands and the solo guys with their lonely trombones or any of the other things she had always assumed she would find in the streets of the New Orleans French Quarter?
Agitated, she checked the time.
It was still early. She hadn't gone to the French Market yet but she thought she might save that for another day. After all, she had only left the house to avoid being bored while unpacking and now, she sighed, now she decided that she would head back and start unpacking to avoid being bored and a little bit lonely in the Quarter.
Somehow this day didn't exactly feel like a total success.
She supposed she had come down because this was the French Quarter after all and that was what you did when you were a new transplant. Move to San Francisco? Go see The Golden Gate. Move to New York? Go see Lady Liberty.
This was one of the biggest tourist spots in the country, right?
If she was being honest then she would have to say that she had thought the cultural divide between San Francisco and New Orleans wouldn't have felt quite as wide as it did. Both areas were well known for being unique, right? But Beca was beginning to feel like she had not only moved a few thousand miles, but also was now on some strange festive alien planet where they sold King Cake flavored vodka, it was moist outside always and freaking everything citywide was in shades of green, purple and gold.
With a sigh, she started off down the road, not completely sure if she was going the right way to get back to her car but also not that concerned if she wasn't. She reached the corner and grimaced as she had to step over a splattering of trashed crawfish heads and tails, all clearly twisted, sucked, eaten, and discarded. She couldn't help but to feel like her point had just been made when, before she could step onto the opposite side of the curb and get out of the way of a freaking horse drawn carriage (what the actual fuck) she had to step over another foul-smelling pile of dead crawfish bodies.
Gross! There was literally a trash can right - she stopped herself before she could start a mental rant and moved on. Whatever. She got that it was a local delicacy but she was pretty sure she would never be touching those, even if they were sold freaking everywhere.
She headed in a straight line up the road, touching the side of her headphones so that Saul Williams reached a pleasurably deafening level.
The thing was, even though she was leaving now, she was just going to have to come back down here as soon as possible. Her first hired gig for the city was in just over a month; a firework show with a 'NOLA' twist, and then less than two weeks after that she had the Bastille Day celebration to figure out the music for.
Which was terrifying.
And it shouldn't be.
But it was, which was driving her crazy.
Beca understood jazz.
She shouldn't be worried.
She understood it well.
In her sophomore year of college, she had been forced to take a jazz appreciation class and she had found much to her surprise that she had loved it. She loved the way it broke every single rule and did whatever the hell it wanted to. She loved the way it seemed to rebel against every mold, cutting a place for itself in history whether history wanted to deal with it or not. It was her Freudian passion and she was a connoisseur. She also understood composing, producing and all of that. Basically, she understood music. It was in her blood, it was a part of her. The problem was that jazz and the music scene in New Orleans was different than anything she had known before. This jazz, no matter where it was being played, just did not look like jazz everywhere else and all of the music out here was jazz influenced. If she wanted to understand it then she pretty much needed to soak up as much as she could and as quickly as she could.
She was still thinking about that when she broke through the edge of the Quarter, blinking at the sudden openness, a big contrast to the wall-to-wall buildings she had been walking through. It took her a second to figure out where she was and then, mind still occupied she started toward the Basin Street parking lot.
The building she had parked in front of was huge; large enough that approaching it pulled her from her stress filled worry about the upcoming jobs. This was basically the city welcome center, right? She should go in. You know, in the effort of that whole soaking it up thing. For a second she wavered. Walking alone through crowded streets was far less awkward than wandering around in a museum type building. Walking through something like that alone was like walking with a huge sign over your head that read 'I have no friends!' But, she needed to be good at her job. She had to be good at her job, not only because anything less would be unacceptable to her but because she needed gigs. Officially she was contracted through Mardi Gras World so she would always have a job during that one time of the year. However, all the smaller gigs throughout the city, how many of those she got would depend entirely on how well she did her job. And if she didn't get any of those, then there would have been no reason to relocate. And she needed to be sure that choice had been valid.
So, she needed to research.
The place had the hushed silence of a library, which was odd because everything about the inside was soundlessly loud. She walked through the front lobby and into one of the side rooms, surprised by its silent chaos. It was strangely cluttered for a room so large, filled with scale models of trains, paintings, photos of jazz singers and musicians. A little taken aback she wandered through room after room, studying maps and designs explaining the levee, reading plaques on famous trumpet players, shuttering at photos post Katrina. She even took a second to look over the scale model of New Orleans, just large enough for a Polly Pocket to live in, that was modeled after the city in the days of yore.
Alright, this wasn't helping the boredom. Or the soaking up thing. So, where did you go to learn about music? She was getting frustrated. Had she just come on an off day or was all of that 'naw-lins' loves music crap an inaccurate portrayal of the city? This just wasn't what she wanted or needed.
It wasn't that this place wasn't cool because it totally was and everything, but it was kind of like seeing a drag queen out of makeup. Some things just weren't meant to be seen in broad daylight. She was simply going to have to get out and start stalking the Quarter at night, not that she really wanted to get puked on or flash her boobs. She sighed. That was how she was going to find all the underground jazz/brass clubs so she could ingest as much of the music that New Orleanians expected.
Resigned she turned, ready to head back to her apartment and its boxes.
So far, nothing was making her like this city any more than she had thought she would.
Across the huge ballroom-like lobby a large red sign caught her eye. 'New Orleans French Quarter and Cemetery Walking Tour', it read in bright festive lettering. She had seen signs like this all day, advertising various tours through the city and had passed a few earlier. She had noticed at the time that it seemed pretty cool, the guide had been taking them around and giving constant facts.
Was this what she needed? She might learn something, right? That was the whole point of being down here and if nothing else, she could get the guide alone for a second and see what they had to say about New Orleans music. That might even get her some insider information about where to go, something less touristy and more honest.
A crowd was already forming under the sign, mothers and children, bored looking teenagers, and a handful of professionals in their business casual clothes trying to pretend like the stiff materials they were wearing weren't making the hot day unbearable.
What else was she doing? Besides, you know, unpacking her whole fucking life and working and anything besides going on this tour. In the spirit of procrastination, she rolled her eyes and stepped up to the desk just to the left of the front entrance.
"Hey." She gave the brunette there a cursory smile. Jesus, that was a lot of cleavage for a family friendly visitor center. "How much for the tour?"
"Twenty-five for a two-hour tour," the woman recited, not looking up from the already pristine nail that she was filing into shape.
"Um, 'kay." She debated, amused by the absolute absorption the woman behind the desk was giving her nail care and the serious lack of attention she was giving Beca. "One...I guess."
"Great." The brunette's long fingers began to clack against her keyboard. It wasn't until she looked up to take Beca's debit card that she actually looked at her. The response was comical. Instantly the impassiveness in the woman's face cleared, a large flirty smile popping onto her lips and, after a moment of staring, she gave an appreciative little finger wave around her file. "Hi."
Beca wasn't sure but she thought somehow the woman had even pushed her obvious cleavage up a little higher. "Err, hi?" Beca chuckled as the woman did something on her computer and swiped Beca's card, eyes barely leaving Beca. She smirked right back, never one to shy away from a pretty girl, even if the look on the brunette's face made her feel a little bit like a mouse in the eye of a snake.
"Alright, here's your ticket. That's your group there." The woman gave her a wink. Her chin propped up on her fist, she continued to study Beca thoroughly, appraising her in a way that Beca knew well. She recognized the does-she-sleep-with-women-or-just-like-dark-eye-makeup-and-Converse stare down. She got it a lot. That was fine with her too since her own level of gay depended on the day and, more importantly, the company.
She thought about clearing the issue up for her. After all, she didn't exactly know anyone in this city and this chic seemed, well a little like she might be crazy but also like she might be fun - and might up Beca's level of gay to grand marshal in a Pride march with how hot she was. Then Beca's wariness of crazy sunk in and she shook her head at the woman, chuckling. She had already done the crazy chick thing. She had already earned that badge and had also learned to avoid them. Also, maybe finding a date was not exactly what she needed to be focusing on right now. There was also that.
In a force of networking habit, she grabbed a card for the tour and went to join the queue, leaving the brunette to decide whatever she liked about her romantic tastes.
The brunette just openly watched her.
This city was weird. The people were weird. This wasn't just her, right? The people she had met thus far were weird.
Her amusement over the woman's staring was just beginning to turn to discomfort when she heard a voice from the front of the crowd call out, "Is this my tour? Yes? Okay, awes! Well! Bienvenue au Vieux Carré! Or, for those of you who have no idea what I just said: welcome to the French Quarter!"
Beca craned her neck, trying to actually see the person who would be leading them but, seeing as how she was barely over five feet, crowds were her kryptonite. She tried to look this way and that and all she saw were the backs of the people in front of her.
Great.
She swore a little and with one last mildly curious and mildly uncomfortable look back at the busty woman behind the counter, she pushed through a crack in the crowd of people.
"I'm Chloe, and I'll be your tour guide! Alright, this tour is roughly two hours so I hope everyone brought their walking shoes! What I'm going to do is stand here by the door, go ahead and hand me your ticket and I'll give your hand a stamp. Then we'll be on our way. Let's move fast, the day is a-wastin'!"
Beca had to elbow her way past a behemoth of a man in a freaking cowboy hat, but after that she finally had a clear view of their tour guide. And she was glad she did. Suddenly the boredom that had been plaguing her for the last few hours vanished and she was a little more interested in this tour.
Pretty.
Very pretty.
Hot.
Crazy hot.
It occurred to her, she was probably looking at the wrong person. Right? This woman didn't exactly look like a tour guide. Her outfit wasn't very official or anything; just a pair of boyfriend jeans, Keds, a white tank top, sunglasses and a wool sun hat over deep red hair. Beca glanced around, looking for someone with a clipboard or something. It would be her luck to follow one person because they were pretty, only to discover that she had been following someone random and was completely lost in this city that she had just moved to.
"This way, guys!" The apparent tour guide called. Beca shrugged and got into line, realizing that shit, she was going to have to approach this chick.
Crap.
Overall, she wasn't one of those people that was uncomfortable or bad at talking to beautiful people; at least not anymore. She had spent too many years working with San Francisco and Los Angeles elite and had built up an immunity. She was usually fairly indifferent to whether or not someone was interested in her, which face it – that is what the awkwardness was about - and when you didn't really care much then all social awkwardness usually went away. More fish in the sea or something like that.
However, she did have this one slightly weird problem. It only happened every now and then - but it was steady enough that she lived in fear of the response. Sometimes a very pretty someone would turn and smile at her and Beca would open her mouth, expecting her usual cool, calm, charmer self and instead would say something like, 'your face makes me happy' or 'have you ever tried cheese?' She always walked away from those moments wishing that she could be abducted by aliens right then. It was like her mind was comfortable with the fact that she was no longer worried about talking to people, but wanted to be sure that she knew that it could take that skill back at any moment and leave her as the awkward, strange, and snarky teenager again. It was an annoying reminder that no matter how old you got, no matter how much you matured, that awkward teenager that you hated all your teen years was always alive somewhere within you.
Which was great.
She hated that thing. Guys didn't really do it to her. She liked guys too; she really did, but that special kind of stupid was usually saved for women with the kind of beauty that would make ancient Greeks envious, not so much the dolled-up models or the hippie DJ but real women who could put those others to shame.
Kind of like this woman.
Just don't say anything. That always was the best solution. Don't say anything at all, Becs. Problem solved.
Lips pressed tightly together, Beca thrust her hands into her jeans pocket with difficulty, trying to grab her ticket as she watched the person before her get stamped. She stepped up, ready for her turn and - shit – fuck - she was stuck! She gave a yank, mentally swearing and screaming as, for those two seconds, she was unable to get her hand out of her pocket. Those dark lenses turned on her, waiting and, starting to blush, Beca yanked for a second time. So, she wasn't going to say anything stupid, but she was going to stand here like a creepy man on the BART with her hand in her pocket.
Shit, it was her ring. It was caught on a loose thread. "Err, sorry, I-"
"Go! Goooo! Move it! Gooo!"
Already a little embarrassed, Beca jumped, her hand ripping free, as the man behind her gave a loud huff, heckling her as though they were children and Beca was holding up the line for the slide. She was so startled that she barely noticed her hand getting stamped, or heard the insistence from the tour guide that no one was in a rush. Annoyed, she stumbled into the outside heat, scowling.
Dick! That hadn't been stupid or embarrassing enough? Assface! What the shit, dude?
Grumbling, she found a spot to wait under a tree where she could avoid some of the heat and stood there glaring at everyone in an embarrassed silence while they waited for the rest of the crowd to finish up.
"Everybody, right this way!" The tour guide strolled from the front doors. "Follow me, we're going to start by heading into the French Quarter and then we'll make our way into the cemetery after our break, alright?"
Maybe it was leftover annoyance from the heckler but she sighed. She had literally just freaking left the Quarter. A little surlier she fell to the back of the crowd, resigning herself to at least another hour of wondering why the hell she bought a ticket to do something she had already been doing.
At least it was mildly interesting, Beca had to give the guide that. The tour guide - whose name she had forgotten – kept stopping them and pointing to this building or that; telling them about famous architects, heists gone wrong, movies and shows that had filmed there, and general New Orleans superstitions. She told the stories with the flair of someone who knew their facts well and had an honest passion for the subject. Still, Beca found herself following without enthusiasm, her attention perking when she heard something about music, only to dull again quickly. It wasn't until they stopped in front of a large mansion that Beca started to really listen.
"Shit. My bad. Sorry," she awkwardly mumbled. She hadn't been paying attention and had just bounced off the man standing in front of her.
Her mind had been on steel drums. She knew a lot of the NOLA jazz didn't exactly use them, but she was pretty sure she was going to go out for a gig putting together a new fight song for a local drum line. Steel drums would be interesting.
The man she had run into gave a loud scoff and without looking behind him he flicked his shirt as though wanting to get the dust off of it. "Excuse you." He ran his hand over his fuzzy hair with the careful precision and arrogance of a one hundred percent douche bag.
Distaste filled her as Beca realized that it was the man who had told her to 'move it' before. With an open and dry glare, she stepped around the last few people so she was on the very edge of the group with a clear view of the mansion and of the tour guide.
The guide really was pretty, she couldn't help but to notice again. Her strong jaw, high cheekbones and full heart-shaped lips seemed to be accentuated by the huge sunglasses hiding her face. She moved with a determined grace, as though she knew exactly what she wanted to do and was going to do it, but you were going to have fun as you went. It was kind of sexy.
Beca cleared her throat and quickly looked back at the building before she could get caught being a total creeper.
The redhead gave the group a huge smile, waiting for them to settle before she said, "So. How many of you here saw 'American Horror Story: Coven'?"
Beca looked around blankly as a few hands rose.
"Amazing! That's great!" She cheered, beaming at them and high-fiving the closest person to her. "Well, while they didn't exactly portray an accurate version of this story, you guys will have heard of this house behind us." She gestured to the large and boxy gray mansion with pomp. Clearly this was a big stop on the tour and Beca could see why. The house, with its numerous darkened windows and clearly unoccupied rooms left you with the distinct impression that something bad had happened there. Beca rolled her eyes at herself, or maybe that was all in her head and it as just an empty house.
"We are standing at 1140 Royal which means that this very large house is the infamous LaLaurie Mansion." A few of the tour goers gasped, a few looked excited, some pulled out their phones and snapped photos while others like her just looked at it without recognition. "If you guys will scoot back so that everyone is on the sidewalk, I'll tell you one of New Orleans' darkest tales." The tour guide grinned like she absolutely couldn't wait, her eyebrows waggling. The attitude was infectious and though Beca didn't even know her, she found herself smiling as well. Looking back at the darkened building, the woman gave a dramatic sigh before she said, "Our story starts in the early 1830's when a Creole woman by the name of Delphine LaLaurie, and her four daughters from previous marriages, moved into this house with her new husband, Dr. Louis LaLaurie. I think it can be said that the reason why so many of us locals are so fascinated with this story is because of how much of it is shrouded in mystery. For example, as it was, Louis was Delphine's third husband and though the story starts in the 1830's with their move here, there is an untold one that began long before with the mysterious deaths of both her previous husbands." The guide gave a dramatic little shudder, "Louis must not have been too concerned though, because despite that fact, they moved in here together in 1830."
Beca couldn't help but to chuckle at the flippant little head shake the tour guide gave as if to say she would never be caught doing something so foolish.
"Not long after the LaLaurie's moved in they began throwing these extravagant parties once or twice a week. Only the crème de la crème were invited and because of this, it was not long before they were the toast of New Orleans society. In fact, these parties became a staple in the local nightlife. Both Delphine and Louis were charming and well spoken, very easily liked, their house was furnished with the very best, and the food served could be called nothing but exquisite. If you were invited to a party here, then you were honored and you came without a second thought." She beamed, pausing to smile for a few people who were snapping her photo as she spoke. "However, suspicions about the couple, and more specifically Delphine, began to bloom only a few short years into their life here. Party-goers began noticing that the slaves in the mansion were beginning to look a bit pale and run down. They were reported to be malnourished, bruised and above all, they seemed to be afraid, specifically of Delphine. There were many reports of the slaves fleeing when Delphine showed any temper."
A woman two people away from Beca shifted and gave a small huff, tossing her hair unhappily. Beca glanced at her, like everyone else did, but despite herself Beca was a little too engrossed to pay attention.
"But, of course, people just laughed their worries off. I mean, why wouldn't they? Delphine was a young and beautiful woman, there was no way anyone needed to be concerned. As a formality, a small investigation was eventually held, in which a man of influence came by the house to talk to Delphine about the slaves. It is said that he left absolutely laughing, positive there was no way that someone so charming and beautiful could harm a fly, and with plans to bring his wife for dinner a few days later. Suspicion never really had time to settle however since within a year of the investigation something happened that made all eyes suddenly turn to the LaLaurie's."
Beca yelped as a crowd of people walked behind theirs, the push of the crowd shoving her suddenly off the curb. This area really was too small for large groups like this.
"You okay?"
Beca flushed under the tour guides attention and nodded. Had she really just made that noise? Great. Super great. Not embarrassing at all.
The redhead nodded back at her and with a smile, continued her story.
"It was a beautiful spring day when suddenly the neighbors were startled by a high pitch scream issuing from the LaLaurie courtyard." A few of the tour goers gasped, caught up in the story. "Of course the neighbors immediately ran over to see what was wrong and if they could help. What they stumbled on was absolutely chilling. Lying lifeless on the stone floor of the courtyard was a young teenage girl and there above her all the way up on the roof was Delphine, a whip in her hand. No one knew what had happened but Delphine just stood there, staring down at the girl and seemingly entirely unmoved by the gore in her courtyard. Legend has it that she looked for a while and then turned and walked back inside." The guide paused, her lips trembling as though she might cry. "As it later was discovered the teenage girl had accidentally hurt Delphine in some small way. Some reports say she was combing her hair and caught a tangle while others say that she was carrying a tea tray and tripped, spilling the hot liquid on Delphine. Who knows which, but what can't be denied is, enraged by whatever had prompted her, Delphine had then chased the young girl through the mansion until they ended up on the roof where the girl, desperate to get away, leapt to her death. As you can see," she turned and gestured to the side of the house, "that was quite a fall. It is known that Delphine was questioned, however any transcripts of that talk were either bought or perhaps just destroyed. After that, though, the eye of suspicion never really left the LaLaurie's again and needless to say the neighbors were a bit more wary." A smattering of chuckles floated up from the group but most stood, not reacting, mouths slightly agape as they listened. Seeing that, the redhead gave a small smile of satisfaction and moved on. "Well, it was only a year later that everything fell apart for Delphine and Louis and this is where our tale goes on its head. One evening during a routine party the guest began to smell smoke. Now, it had been less than fifty years since the great New Orleans fire, so needless to say the guests reacted very quickly, having grown up on horror stories of fires and the death they bring. See this little offshoot back here?" She asked pointing to what looked like an adjoining sun room in the back. "That little room originally was the kitchen. Often in grand houses like this the kitchen was off to the side or not connected to the house at all."
"Why?" A man behind Beca interrupted.
"Well, the idea was that if I fire were to break out, it would do less damage. I can't stay it was a fool proof plan, but it was what they believed at the time. Anyway, it was quickly discovered that the kitchen was aflame and, rather bravely I think, a handful of men burst in to help. What they found was horrible. In the kitchen a woman was chained to the stove, maniacally laughing. With a little prompting she told them that she had set the fire, saying over and over in this insanely happy way that 'they weren't going to get her up there now'."
Another audible sigh jarred Beca from the story, making her look around. A few people down her eyes fell on the profile of the honey blonde, the same one she had noticed a few minutes before. Slightly distracted for a moment Beca studied her obviously annoyed face, trying to decide if she was correct that this woman, like the guide, was classically beautiful. If she was, then it was marred at the moment by the sour-grape expression she was holding. Jesus, New Orleans was clearly the place to go for beautiful women. The woman was part of the business casual group, though she was more business and less casual. It was clear that something about the story was bothering her immensely. Which wasn't all of that surprising, even from the one glance Beca could see that this woman was dressed far too nicely, far too professionally for the Quarter and her hair was pulled back into a knot so tight that it looked like any more pressure would make it snap like an overly taut rubber band. Her lips were pursed, her arms crossed. She looked like the kind of person that Beca had always dreaded getting gigged out to because you knew no matter what she would always find a way to take issue with something, whether it was the music, how it was being presented or how it was being stored and labeled. The tense woman was staring daggers at the tour guide but the redhead didn't appear to notice or perhaps she just didn't care because she continued to smile and go on.
"Of course these men were shocked!" She said, "They couldn't imagine where 'up there' meant but if there were people somewhere in the house then, of course, they needed to help them! So a few of the burliest men started up the stairs to the attic. Half way up they were hit with a stench like they had never smelled before. Worried, they approached the attic door, only to find it padlocked, which was strange. One of the men went back downstairs to Delphine and Louis to get the key, but was told that they needed to forget about that because it wasn't important and to please save their belongings. They had gathered a team of people to help pull the most valuable things from the house and didn't seem all that worried about whatever was behind the door. The men couldn't just ignore what the woman had said however so, not having a choice they broke the door down and walked into a nightmare." She paused, cheekily looking around the crowd and gauging their reactions. Beca laughed, rolling her eyes a little with everyone else, anxious for her to continue. She was quite the storyteller.
"They say that when the door was opened the smell was so strong that one of the men fainted dead away. It was immediately clear that some type of illegal and torturous experimenting had been happening on the LaLaurie slaves in there. There were slaves chained to the walls, to the bed, to surgical tables, many of them looking like something from a horror movie. Along the walls were men and women bathed in honey and covered in bugs, as well as a women with her skin decoratively peeled back and maggot infested. A man and a woman were strapped to one of the surgical tables, mid an interrupted and crude sex change operation. And there is even said to have been a woman whose bones had been broken and reset at strange angles so she had to move in this grotesque way like a crab. The smell was coming from the slaves, yes, but also from the buckets of blood, discarded body parts and feces that were everywhere."
"Oh my god," a girl next to Beca muttered.
The blonde's head whipped around, nostrils flared, eyes wide and furious. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her back straight and stiff.
The girl shrank back as far as she could to get away from the glare, eating into Beca's personal space and she couldn't even blame her. She would have been intimidating no matter what, her gray eyes piercingly bright, her face pretty enough to make you wonder about your own; but with that scowl there, she was a human representation of Cujo.
"I won't go into the more graphic details but the scene was unlike anything they had seen before. Of course the slaves were removed, many of them so afraid that they fought and a few of them so close to death that they didn't even make it to the ground floor before passing away. The men who discovered the room of horror were naturally in an uproar and once word spread about what they had found, the LaLaurie's guests began to turn on their hosts, turning into an angry mob. Now. It was said every evening at six o'clock Delphine got into her carriage and went for a drive. Where she went, I can only imagine, but at that point the crowd noticed the LaLaurie carriage was approaching the front of the house. The crowd rushed for it, of course, needing to stop Delphine and make her pay for these terrible crimes. Before they could reach her, however, she and her husband are reported to have stepped into her carriage, given the crowd a jaunty little wave and then simply rode away. Though the crowd tried to catch them, the LaLaurie's were never seen in New Orleans again."
Beca blinked, feeling like she had just stepped from a dark movie theater and into the hot afternoon sun.
"The house, however," the guide continued, "immediately began to gather suspicion. Horrible things had happened there and though the house was now empty, people began to grow uncomfortable. Walking up and down this very sidewalk day or night it was reported that you would hear loud shrieks, screaming, crying, and many voices speaking ungodly gibberish. It wasn't until decades later that, while undergoing renovations, the house floorboards were ripped up to expose many fully formed skeletons. It turned out that Delphine had been burying her slaves alive under the house and those cries that people were hearing were actually cries for help, probably often spoken in their own native tongues. To this day the house is considered haunted, however. It has gone through many hands and had many remodels done and yet people have reported seeing a teenage girl in the courtyard, a man in the lower floors and an angry woman roaming the house. There was even a time when this house was apartments and a woman called the police hysterical because she had just seen a woman dressed in old-fashioned clothing standing over her baby's cradle. It was reported that the woman was choking the infant and when she rushed forward the woman disappeared."
The angry blonde made another slightly impatient noise, and, as though she couldn't stand it any longer, her hand finally shot into the air. "Hi, I'm sorry, hi," she spoke before the guide could acknowledge her, making Beca look away to avoid laughing, "but hasn't a lot of that story been debunked?"
Though Beca thought maybe she was trying to be polite, somehow she wasn't quite hitting the mark. The man standing beside her, the rude one Beca had already met, gave a huge eye roll and a huff, his head lolling like he just couldn't stand the sound of her voice.
The tour guide just let out a little laugh of her own however, once again entirely unaffected by the woman's hostility. "Oh you know this city; there is so much here left up to mystery! Who's to say what's real? Of course there is much more to the tale, but it looks like we are running short on time! Alright y'all, we'll stay here for a moment more so you can get some pictures and then we had better get or we'll be late!"
Immediately a few people swarmed the guide, requesting photos with her and Beca frowned around herself, feeling distinctly awkward. She glanced around at everyone paired off with friends or dates and wasn't sure what to do or where to stand. She hated that feeling, it was like not having pockets in your pants; you then spent the entire night awkwardly trying to find somewhere to put your hands.
She checked her watch, maybe it was time to abandon the tour and head home. Yeah, the cemetery was still coming but she looked up and found that the tour guide was looking at her, or at least she thought she was behind her glasses. Beca's heart did a little stomach flop as the woman smiled and though Beca had decided to leave, she instead found herself leaning against the wall and waiting, her phone out so she at least wasn't standing there like an idiot.
There were a few more stops on their tour, a pharmacy that was known for being haunted, a building famous for its architecture and a shop where a movie Beca had never heard of had been filmed. Finally they approached a stylishly dingy bar and the guide waved her hands to get everyone's attention, "Alright guys, this is where we are going to take our break. This is the infamous Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, considered to be one of the most famously haunted bars in the city. That, however, is a story for a different tour and if you want to hear it then you will have to come track me and my 'Haunted History' tour down." Beca could swear the woman had just winked at all of them from behind her lenses. "So, let's all meet right back here in front of this sign in fifteen minutes! Awesome! Have fun! Try the hurricanes! Ronnie's are the best in the whole city!"
Beca watched everyone split off, some moving away to light cigarettes, some disappearing inside. She stood for a moment, torn and then decided that it would be less weird for her to go inside. So she followed the masses and took a seat at the bar. "Hey, um, give me whatever is your favorite from the tap." The bartender nodded and moved across the bar.
"Hey!" Beca turned to watch as, with a smile, the tour guide took a seat beside her, pulling off her hat and sunglasses. "Are you part of my tour? Oh!" The redhead reached over and took her hand so she could examine the stamp, "I guess you are! Are you liking it?"
Beca wasn't exactly anti-touching. It was more that strangers didn't often touch one another for absolutely no reason, like this, and she was perfectly satisfied with that. This casual touch threw her because as innocuous as it was, she hadn't expected it at all. It took her a second to screw her head back on correctly enough to laugh, roll her eyes internally at herself, and say she was indeed having fun.
"Really?" The guide tilted her head in question, "Because you seemed bored most of the time." Giggling a little she passed her hand in front of her face, "Like, totally blank, zombie kind of boredo-"
"Okay, okay, I get your point there, lady." Beca scoffed, pulling the woman's hand down but secretly pleased that the very pretty woman had noticed her - until she reminded herself that she had noticed her because she seemed bored. That brought on a scowl. She wasn't noticing her; she was noticing that someone on her tour looked like she had been debating going home for ninety percent of it...which was true. "That's kinda just my face."
"Aww," the redhead frowned. "Don't say that! You have a very cute face."
Beca gaped. "Um, thanks? I think?"
The guide beamed at her. "Ronnie, can I have a glass of water please?" She asked, checking that the alarm on her phone was properly set. "What's your name?"
"Beca."
"Hey Beca, I'm Chloe. You in town for vaccay?"
Before Beca could respond the bartender came back with her beer and a glass of water for Chloe. She took it and paid, a little disappointed to see that once she had done that the bartender had pulled Chloe into a conversation about something that had happened the night before on a tour, some sighting of some man named Jean.
Beca watched them talk out of the corner of her eye, debating with herself. She liked the energy of this woman. Sitting next to her was like sitting next to a space heater for the soul. She was one of those people that was so bright that she warmed everything around her. God damn it, why did she always go for that? Why was sweetness like her freaking kryptonite? Her stupid freaking ex-boyfriend had been like that too. He just gave someone that stupid dorky grin of his and suddenly they were dating him and caring about him. Sweetness was a thing for her and sweetness was radiating off of this woman like a gentle perfume.
Plus, she snuck a glance sideways at the animated guide, her eyes sliding from her face down to her hands that were casually cupping the glass. Maybe it was just a San Francisco thing but Beca was a firm believer in the thumb ring rule. She had seen it play out time and time again and this woman, much to Beca's delight, had a small silver hoop around her right thumb.
She was sweet.
And she had a thumb ring.
Beca was going in.
"So, Chloe -"
But fate was apparently not on her side. Chagrined she frowned as, before she had Chloe's full attention, the agitated blonde and Mr. Asshole stepped up.
"Hi." The newcomer's voice was high and honeyed, but just like her large smile, it was a little too tight as though perhaps the sweetness was a little forced.
"Hello!" Chloe grinned up at her, sipping from her drink.
"I just wanted to come over and thank you." Beca scowled, realizing that the douchy guy with her was smirking at Beca, smirking in a way that everyone knew. Ew. Beca turned on her seat, facing the bar again as the blonde continued, "The tour has been...very interesting."
Amused and a little surprised she glanced back at the blonde, amazed at the way she had said interesting and yet was able to make it sound like the tour had been a total waste of time or even offensive.
Chloe let out a laugh though. "Thank you! That's so sweet! But it's my pleasure, you don't have to thank me."
"No, no," the man said, a bit too loudly, bordering on obnoxious, "she does. She has to thank you, otherwise she might," he shook his head, "explode into a ball of high strung type A tension and become a black hole or something."
Beca let out a dry scoff of surprise, staring open mouthed at the blonde, whose lips had pressed into a thin line.
It took Chloe a second to pull her eyebrows down out of her hairline and when she did she just let out a small, "Uh, o-okay." She glanced at Beca, the look on Chloe's face reading quiet confusion.
Beca couldn't blame her. She had no idea how to respond either.
"No," the blonde's back straightened all the tighter, shooting a death glare at the man beside her, "I was just raised right." She plastered a smile on her face again so quickly that Beca saw Chloe blink a few times, squinting like she had a bright light in her eyes. "And I was taught that you always thank the host." She held out a long, politely manicured hand, "I'm Aubrey."
"Chloe. Oh, and this is Beca! She's on the tour too."
Beca looked up surprised and nodded to both of them before hiding again in her drink. She didn't like the way the guy was watching her.
"So anyway, thank you. The tour has been very nice." The blonde gave a nod, went to turn away and paused, "I did," and now she cringed, already politely apologizing for her words, "however have one thing I wanted to say."
"Okay," Chloe nodded with a soft smile.
"I don't want to be - controversial but -"
Suddenly the man let out a rude noise, his head falling back on his shoulders. "Oh great, heeere we go."
Aubrey continued as though he had never spoken, "I took issue with a few of the things you said in your story about the LaLaurie mansion. Actually, if I'm telling you the truth, which I feel I need to do, I took issue with the whole story, really." Chloe's mouth fell open a bit in bemused silence. "The house is such an important and beautiful piece of history. I hate seeing it get slung through the mud that way."
"What do you mean?" Chloe asked, her head tilting to the side just a bit.
"Well," Aubrey clicked her tongue and gave a nervous laugh, "the stunning lack of facts in your story makes it so that it is not a history but a smear campaign."
"Uh, wow." Beca mumbled, glad she had turned back around and was no longer facing them. She had to admit, she was a little impressed at the woman's gall. This was like confronting the teacher and insisting that the answer given for number twenty was wrong. It was ballsy and she couldn't help but to smirk a little into her drink. She looked up into the glass behind the bar, trying to catch a little of whatever was happening beside her. Instead she accidentally looked right into the face of the idiot guy. He winked and Beca looked away fast.
Chloe pursed her lips tightly, her eyes narrowing a bit for just a moment before she said, "Well, I'm very sorry that you did not enjoy the story."
The blonde shifted, obviously uncomfortable and yet she continued, "It just seems like a shame to spread a story that is so completely inaccurate," and she sighed as though the thought made her want to cry.
A smile snapped onto Chloe's face so fast that it was mildly alarming. "But how do you know what I said is not at the very least partially true? You said twice now that there was no truth or fact to the story I told, but I can't help but to wonder why you feel that is true." Her voice was as kind as ever, but Beca was willing to bet she was working for that effect now.
Aubrey gave a small titter of laughter that was all at once kind and yet entirely demeaning. "I have two degrees in southern architecture." She said it with obvious superiority, her mouth open ever so slightly as she gestured to herself with an unconscious twitch.
"I see," Chloe gave a thoughtful nod, her bottom lip jutting as she thought. "And what does that have to do with the history of Delphine?"
Beca hadn't thought that the question was unfair but in the glass she could see Aubrey took clear offense. "The house and its occupants were discussed at great le-"
The man beside her had clearly had enough. His head began to suddenly and aggressively shake and with a bored moan he reached over, cupped the blonde's face and shoved her back a foot or two so he could step in front of her. "Ignore egghead here,"
"Chad!" The blonde yelled, startled to the point she nearly toppled.
"Are you kidding me?" Chloe bellowed, moving to help but Beca had spun, grabbing the blonde's arm before she could fall. It turned out that the shove hadn't been hard enough that she needed the assistance. Still she gave Beca a small nod of thanks, her cheeks bright red.
"Chad?" The man looked around confused; no more than a moment had passed since he had shoved his companion away. "Chad? Who's Chad? I don't know a Chad." He settled beside Chloe, his fingers steepled, "Hhhhhiiiii, I'm Bumper." Sucking air in slowly he gave Chloe a long once over, "Yooouuu ...are really trying for this whole New Orleans hipster hot thing a little hard, aren't you?"
Chloe, whose focus had still been on the blonde and whether or not she was alright, looked down at her casual jeans and tank with mild alarm, "Um."
Beca let out a snort. She wasn't really a violent person but after every single interaction she had with him that day, she was considering decking him. Bright blue eyes turned on her, a little confused at the sound and Beca made a face, turning back to her cup as she muttered a small, "Sorry." The tour guide just continued to look at her like she wasn't sure how to respond to the two people in front of her.
"And you," Beca's eyebrow popped up when, what was his name - Bumper - turned to her, "might be the smallest person alive. It's cute, in a terrifying gremlin kind of way. Was that a personal choice or -"
"Dude, what is your damage? Like, are you kidding me right now? Is that what's happening?" That had been bitchy, like super not nice and everything, yeah, but any guilt she would have felt at being so rude melted when the woman behind him - Aubrey - gave her a small and surprisingly pretty smile.
It made her cheeks warm all over again.
Bumper, however, seemed entirely unfazed by her rudeness. He gave a thoughtful nod, scratching at his hairless chin. "You know, I actually think I will. Being around you three, yeah, it's making my stomach feel a little weird. Too much estrogen or something so um, later losers," and he turned and walked away.
"Yeah, I can see how being around women might be unusual for you!" Beca called back, receiving two middle fingers before he disappeared out the door.
The three watched him go, equally sour looks on their faces. Finally, Beca and Chloe turned back to his companion, waiting to see if she was coming or going.
"I'm sorry about that, he's -" but then Aubrey's words just faded away, replaced by a mournful look. "Anyway, what I was saying was, the LaLaurie Mansion,"
"Wow, you don't give up, do you?"
Aubrey glanced at Beca but just continued without interruption. "The mansion is known for its architecture so I've been happily forced to study it over the years. It's beautiful and yet it's only known for this story. This false story."
"Well," Chloe gave her a small tight smile, "horrible things did happen there."
"Of course, yes. That is true, the LaLaurie's were monsters who did terrible things but there is little evidence to support the story you are telling." The blonde's hands clasped together tightly and she gave another little laugh that sounded more like a polite tick. "As a matter of fact there's almost no documentation for it."
"Perhaps that is true, at least partially true, but that's hardly a reason to assume it's false since most documentation does not go back that far, at least not police records, which is what we would need to confirm the story, right? So, my question for you, Aubrey, is -"
"No, the records don't go back that far but there were eyewitness accounts and newspapers. None of those support the story that a girl jumped from the roof, nor that the horrible abnormalities you described were found. There is no proof anywhere that Delphine did anything other than starve and beat her slaves."
"And try to leave them for dead." Chloe pointed out.
"Yes, and try to leave them for dead."
"And perform experiments on them."
"No! Other than what we already said the whole story has been embellished!" Beca could feel the sheer force of will that Aubrey was pressing on Chloe, trying to get her to admit that she was right. The fact that Chloe wasn't backing down was making the blonde agitated, and she was growing more so by the minute.
"How can you say that? There are hundreds of stories supporting these ideas. Books, papers, websites; where did those come from if-"
The pushy blonde cut her off again, "All things that didn't bother to be fact checked but if you follow the story of her life through documentation then it paints a picture that is very different. For example, no bones were ever found when the house was remodeled and it was remodeled in the seventies! It would have been reported! Delphine's two previous husbands did not die mysteriously. One had a heart attack while on a ship to France while the other had known pirate connections that could explain his disappearance!" She checked them off on her fingers. "There is no proof of anything else. She was a monster yes, but not in the way that you painted!"
"How can you say that there is no proof of any of it? This is New Orleans, we are very passionate about our history and we know it well. Of course some things were left up to speculation but," she gave a small groan as Aubrey cut her off again.
"It's not history if it's made up stories! That is not history that is - art."
The redhead's mouth dropped open as if she had been slapped. "I'm not sure which I find more offensive, your distaste for 'art' as you say or essentially being called a liar!"
"No, no, I'm not saying that you're lying exactly," she said in a slow and openly patronizing voice. "I'm just saying that the story has been -"
"Embellished." The guide had been trying to keep her polite tone, it was clear. She had been trying hard but it was beginning to wear away at the edges as the blonde's words got sharper.
"Right. Embellished. Most of the things that you said could not have even happened! There was a law-"
"Right," Chloe jumped in this time, her arms crossing, her eyes narrowing, "the Code Noir. I know. It stated that while you could own slaves, you could not mistreat them in any way that was outside of the norm. And before you try and explain it to me," Chloe said, a bit louder than was needed in an effort to stop Aubrey's near interruption, "allow me to explain what that means. That means any unnecessary damage was considered illegal so while whipping, caning, and secluding your slaves was completely legal; anything beyond such as experiments, starving them, sexually abusing them was not. It was punishable by law. Though often enough The Code Noir was ignored completely, here in New Orleans it was followed rigorously thanks to stanch city leaders and a want to pass on the attitude to smaller townships." The blonde blinked, her mouth open again. "I never said that anything Delphine was known to have done was legal or acceptable. And I resent being accused of doing so!"
"Excuse me, but that is not what I am doing!" The sweetness had left the voices of both women now, turning instead to outrage. "The fact that you know all of this is almost worse! Telling a story when you know it is not correct is how history gets lost. That is unacceptable!"
Beca was starting to wonder if perhaps she should step in here soon. She had no idea what to say to quell the fight between these two strangers but people were beginning to turn and look at them now, drawn to the hostility. She glanced at the bartender and saw that he looked like any moment he was going to come for the blonde's blood which, this chic was being totally crazy and maybe it was the shove she had received, but Beca didn't want her to hang by noose that she was creating for herself. She also was not really down for her to keep coming after Chloe so, "Um, guys,"
"Well, as a historian,"
"Historian!" Aubrey scoffed with a showy eye roll.
"and a historian in a city like this one," Chloe continued, "I would have to say you're wrong. It's our folktales that keep us alive as a culture and denying that is spitting in the face of all that we know! Our folktales are how we pass our history down generation to generation. Art, it may be, but history it also is. It's people like you who will never understand that. It's sad."
The blonde hissed, her neck lengthening, "For serious?"
"Yes. I truly believe,"
The blonde scoffed over her, "Why are you being such a bitch about this? I know for a fact -"
The tour guide's eyelashes fluttered for a second, her mouth falling open, clearly as surprised as Beca was and then she exploded. "Oh I see. So, there is a reason that y'all are together here." A sudden southern twang flowed from the redhead's mouth in her agitation as she pointed between the blonde and the door where Bumper had disappeared.
The blonde's eyes had widened a bit after she had said that, her apology obvious. Now, venom dripped as she started to snarl, eyes flashing. "I-"
"Ooookay!" Beca jumped from her stool, putting up her hands between them, absolutely positive that things had just gone from very bad to ugly. "That's kind of enough now. Guys look, you both have legit points, but maybe this isn't exactly the best place to duke it out. Come on, the tour is going to start again soon, right?"
Neither of the women were listening to her though. "If you're this unhappy with the tour, lady," Chloe bit, her chin protruding with open attitude, "then I can say with reasonable confidence that if you head back to Basin Street Station they will happily refund you! Just tell them Chloe told them to." Chloe's face wasn't sweet anymore. As a matter of fact, Chloe looked like she was going to deck Aubrey soon.
"I will and I will have to leave a performance review while I am there too! Your attitude is appalling!"
"Be my guest!" Chloe was off of her seat in a second, the alarm on her phone finally signaling the end of the break. "Excuse me. I have a tour to finish." The redhead pushed by Beca with surprising softness for someone who seemed as though she wanted to hurt something, her hands falling to Beca's arms, giving her wrists a quick squeeze. It made Beca blink, a little dizzy and disoriented by the kindness.
She and Aubrey both watched her until she was out the door in a swirl of titian hair. Beca's heart was beating a little hard, her mouth dry. Jumping in between the two of them had felt a little like pushing herself between two hissing cats. They both stared for another second or two, reorienting themselves before Beca turned stiffly back to Aubrey, completely wary. Beca's hands shoved deeply into her pockets and gave the blonde a thoughtful once over. It was clear already that Aubrey was mortified about what had just happened. Her eyes were still flashing and her lip was still curled back just as sharply and yet there was also something else there, a deep seeded humiliation. Something in Beca's gut said that perhaps this wasn't the first time that this had happened and that, as angry as she had been, Aubrey hadn't meant for it to go this way. That was interesting, for sure, still, anger won out and Beca found herself clicking her tongue, "Really? Like, really? Was all of that really necessary?"
Aubrey's mouth opened, trying to find words but none seemed to come, her look slightly panic stricken. It seemed that the woman had nothing to say so with a small head shake Beca just started outside.
A quick thought. I have found a few mistakes (liked dropped words or so on. Things that happen when editing) and I have fixed them. But I only did so on AO3. So head over there if you want a slightly cleaner story!