Page 22 of Devil's Haunting
“Damn right,” I growl.
She might know but I’m still going to show her.
CHAPTER 9
LAIKEN
As I step into what was originally the ballroom, I stay close to the doorway because I know if I go too far into the construction zone then I’ll be yelled at. Tripp takes my safety very seriously. It’s kind of adorable.
But it’s also endearing as hell. I can’t help but fall deeper in love with the man every day because of the way he puts me first. My feelings. My wants. My safety.
Everything he does is with me in mind.
Yes, it’s true. Now, six weeks after the man came barreling into my life, I can admit I’m in love with him. I probably fell the moment I met him, but I certainly wasn’t willing to admit it then. He has no such qualms and he’s more than happy to tell me all the time about how he knew I was it for him the moment he met me.
Who does that?
A man with a few crayons short of a box, that’s who. But Tripp doesn’t hesitate. He’s been all in since the moment I found him falling through my front porch.
And what a story it is.
In the past two weeks since Cherie told me about the story she heard about my house while growing up, which was also the first time I visited the clubhouse, I finished Blanche’s journal. What I found was a story of heartbreak and, yes, there was death.
Phillip didn’t survive long enough to see his son who Blanche gave birth to. He did, however, get to meet the daughter Desiree birthed. To everyone who mattered it looked like he never paid his daughter any attention, but that wasn’t the truth. She also wasn’t claimed like Desiree wanted.
To be murdered by your mistress, poisoned if I had to guess, must have been a kick to the ass. At least, it’s what Blanche suspected. Since the man collapsed at work and the abilities of the authorities weren’t all that extensive, it ended up being ruled an accident.
Unfortunately, his death didn’t give Blanche any peace. As much as she wanted to fire Desiree, Phillip’s parents wouldn’t hear of it. They never recognized Desiree’s daughter as kin in public, but the same wasn’t true privately. The remainder of Blanche’s life was devoted to her son.
The same son who ended up taking over the family when he married. She never mentions any details about that marriage and was more than happy to move to the country house when it was her time. That’s the last entry in the journal. I can only hope she found some solace there because she certainly never found it here.
Her story does make me wonder how other generations fared in this mansion. Were they visited by Desiree the same way I was? As much as I would love to say I don’t believe in ghosts or hauntings, I know what I saw that day in my studio. I know what I felt.
Desiree was there with me. Maybe it’s because of her Voodoo practices and the curse she left behind. Maybe it’s because she’s still mad about how her daughter was treated by a family which should have embraced her if it were a different time.
It still feels like I have so many unanswered questions when it comes to Blanche’s story and the legacy of the Landry name. It makes me wonder what Marilyn had to endure. If my Didi knew what her sister was going up against, she would have fought harder to keep her out of it. Still, it might not have made a difference in the end and now we’ll never know.
The manly grunt coming from Tripp pulls my attention back toward him. He’s ripped a huge piece of plaster from the wall, adding to the mess around him and the sweat dripping down the middle of his back. Even though he would insist I put on a hard hat being this close to the construction work, he’s taken his shirt off without a second thought.
The way his muscles bunch and stretch is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. His torso is almost completely covered in tattoos. There is one open spot, right above his heart. Thinking about the blank space makes me remember a few nights ago as I laid in his arms.
My fingers ran over that blank space as I rested my head on his chest, his arms wrapped around me. Unable to keep myself from asking, I blurted, “Why don’t you have a tattoo here?”
He tilted his head slightly to peer down at me, his dark eyes studying me closely. His voice was husky, “Why do you think it’s blank?”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Fine,” I sassed, “if you don’t want to tell me, then don’t.”
When I tried to pull away from him and roll in the other direction, he wouldn’t let me. His arms were like steel bands wrapped around me. I looked up at him, pissed because he wouldn’t answer my question plainly and tried to turn it back on me. There’s no reason for that shit.
“Laiken,” he growled with a scowl on his face, “don’t pull away from me.”
“Then don’t answer my question with a question,” I bit back at him.
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “That spot on my body is reserved for something incredibly special. The only thing I ever intended to put there was my Old Ladie’s name or something to represent her.”
My body went rigid in his arms, but before I could freak out, knowing full well that he thought of me as his and his intention was to claim me fully, he rolled me underneath him. Then he fucked me slowly and so thoroughly that the last thing I was thinking about was that spot on his chest.
The way the ink on his skin plays across his muscles has my fingers twitching to reach for a paint brush and a pallet. Every inch of him should be commemorated in paint on canvas.
