Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.
-Oscar Wilde
Victorian guy stares at me expectantly, ignoring the dead body lying between us.
"I'm not drunk, and I wasn't thinking." I say defensively, scooting backward from this guy with the gun. Guys with guns in New Orleans are hardly the type of person you want to be around.
"I can tell." He scoffs, gesturing at my still dusty dress. "Get back from a ritual?"
"No. I got back from my office party. I'm a psychologist; I work down by Royal Street." I say, feeling that familiar pang as I mention my old job. I loved being a psychologist, it took my mind off my own problems. But throw a misogynist boss who thinks psychology and psychiatric jobs are for people who can 'handle their emotions' AKA men, into the mix, and next thing you know, you're out of a job.
"What's with the mud?"
"I fell!" I snap, crossing my arms. 'Mon dieu, We done playing 20 questions yet? I'd like to get home now."
He shakes his head, the silky looking strands of coffee colored hair practically dancing with his movements. "I'd feel better if you called a cab."
"You're not my mom."
"No but I am a gentleman." He snaps, almost in my exact tone. "My name is Dorian. Gray. Dorian Gray. What's yours?" at my stubborn silence he rolls his eyes. "I just saved you from getting raped. The least you could do is tell me your name."
"It's Naomi. Delacroix. Naomi Delacroix." I mimic his wording, glaring at him. "And I didn't ask you to kill him."
"I'm amazed you care so much, since clearly you are in hysterics over his body." Dorian points at blondie. "Come on, there's a café just down this way. You can call a cab."
I almost move, but pause. "Who's to say you're not going to try and hurt me?" crossing my arms, I stare him down, the adrenaline rush starting to fade just a bit, making me wary of Gray.
"Yes, I just shot a man who was trying to rape you so I could rape you. I assure you, you are quite safe with me. Where's that Southern politeness I keep hearing about? You all are so angry here." He shrugs, placing the gun in a holster on his belt, then clasping his hands before him, the very image of a saint. Sighting loudly, I step forward.
"Let's go. And stay on the banquette, Mr. Gray." I point to where he's standing in the gutter. "This ain't Colorado. If you get run over for standing in the street, here it's your own damn fault." As I squeeze by him and cross to a balcony with Romeo catcher pillars a few feet away, he stares quizzically at me.
"What's a banquette?"
"First of all, it's pronounced bank-et, not ban-quet. Second of all, it's the sidewalk. Next thing you know, you won't know what an po-boy is." I grumble, waiting for him, knowing how much of an ungrateful bitch I must sound like.
As we fall into step, he keeps looking at me.
'Mon dieu, what is it, Mr. Gray?"
"I'm not French nor am I a…creole. Creole's the French or Spanish one, right?-"
"Oh my dear sweet Semedi…"
"So I have no idea what you're talking about. Po-boy…what does that one mean?"
I stop and face him. "I'm Creole, you at least got that one right. Po-boys are big sandwiches that are so big, it's said they could feed an entire family. It's poor boy, without the –or." I almost throttle him. How can you not know what a po-boy is! They're world famous! "Do you know what andouille sausage is? How bout café au lait?"
"I do know the last one. I'm not a 5 year old, Ms. Delacroix. I'm just non-native." He sighs, walking ahead, practically speed walking in his haste.
Scoffing inwardly, I jog to catch up. "So, you stalking me or something? Cuz most people avoid this area."
"So should you."
"Thanks mom. Seriously, do you just enjoy being a hero or something?" I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Does it get you off?"
"You sound so much like Oscar…" he mutters, shaking his head. "And after being such a dastardly villain for so long, being the hero isn't a bad idea."
Did he just say dastardly? Out loud and seriously? Oh wow, I think, secretly impressed. Hard not to be impressed by Dorian. He's…hot. Very hot. And he's really charming. Hasn't smacked me across the face for being rude to him, though I can tell he's contemplating it.
Dorian startles me out of my reverie by pointing to a tiny French style café. "There you go. Go inside and call a cab. I'll wait here, make sure you don't prance off and tempt fate again."
"Ok, that's it, I'm 33 freaking years old, Gray. I know I don't act like it, maybe that's just a failing of mine, like the makeup and Café au lait addictions weren't enough. And the cynicism and sarcasm and utter hatred of my job, which is doing fake voudou rituals, thank you verymuch, but I am 33 and dammit I'm not going to skip off after almost being raped. Thanks for saving me and all but you and your fucking condescending gentleman's attitude can go now!" At the end my voice has risen to practically a screech, and I know I'm over exaggerating, Dorian's been nothing but patient over my tantrums. And he did actually lead me to the café and didn't hurt me. I should be on my knees kissing his-
I look at his shoes, and do a double take. Ok, Dorian here is not tour guide. Call me odd, but I have a large knowledge of shoes, and Dorian is wearing Salvatore Ferragamo, vintage style, which go very nicely with the Victorian suit. No way am I kissing these thousand dollar babies.
"My face is up here." He says mildly, bending down a bit to look me in the face, tiny smile on his face.
Well. He's smiling. That's new. And I kind of…like it…
AN: I don't really like this chapter, but the next one will be better. More French-Cajun slang, and from Dorian's point of view. Also I got some faulty info. Naomi is indeed creole. I was told it was the people from the Carribean.
