Chapter 9
Lyrix
“I Signed Up for What Now?”
I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but it was probably some little drunk demon whispering “YOLO” in my ear. But I woke up and googled “fun things to do in New Orleans,” and before I knew it, I was booked and confirmed for a damn BYOB cemetery tour.
Yes. A bring-your-own-bottle graveyard tour.
It sounded like a good time at the time… until I actually sobered up and realized I was about to drink and flirt with ghosts. But I already paid, so it is what it is.
The tour bus pulled up bumping Juvenile like it was a block party on wheels, and honestly, the vibes were too good to back out.
I stepped on with my mini bottle of tequila like it was holy water, and immediately made eye contact with a loud group of women in matching neon shirts that said “Cousin Trip: NOLA.”
One of them spotted me and said, “Girl, come sit over here with us, you look too fine to be ghost hunting alone!”
And just like that, I was adopted.
We laughed the whole ride there, doing shots every time the bus hit a pothole, hyping each other up like we had known each other since kindergarten.
When we finally made it to cemetery, the tour guide was this slim man in an all-black outfit standing in front of the big iron gates and said in his most serious tone:
“Before we start, I need y’all to walk in and out backwards. You don’t want a spirit latching on and following you home.”
One of the cousins screamed, “Oh hell nah! Take me back to my car, I don’t do that ghost mess!”
We all hollered laughing, but not a soul walked in forward. Nope. We all did a little awkward moonwalk into the cemetery like we were about to open for Micheal Jackson.
As we walked, the guide started telling us about Marie Laveau, the legendary Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.
“Marie was a healer, a priestess, a midwife, and the most respected spiritual force in the city. Even after death, people still leave her offerings. She didn’t just dabble in voodoo, she lived it.”
He pointed to a tomb covered in triple Xs, beads, coins, and little handwritten notes.
“This is where folks come to ask for favors. Knock three times, leave a gift, and say what you want. Just don’t take nothing. You take something from Marie’s tomb, and it won’t be us you gotta deal with.”
I looked around, holding my bottle like a cross.
“Chile, I ain’t touching nothing but the air.”
Then, I kid you not, a glowing green orb zipped across the path in front of us. The entire group gasped like it was a Tyler Perry plot twist.
“Did y’all see that?” one cousin yelled. “Uh uh, I know I ain’t drunk enough for that to be my imagination.”
The guide calmly turned around, sipping from his own flask and said:
“That’s a spirit. Green means good. They just watching. They vibing.”
“And what color we don’t want to see?” I asked, slowly inching toward the exit.
“Purple. That’s chaos. That’s don’t-look-back-and-just-run energy.”
“Yeah, I’m out,” one girl said. “If I see anything purple, I’m throwing my flask and calling Jesus.”
By the time we walked back out, we were half-drunk, halfway spooked, and fully in love with New Orleans all over again.
Before we left, the guide stopped us one last time.
“Before you go, turn around, thank the spirits for letting you visit. Be respectful.”
We all turned toward the tombs like we were at a Sunday altar call.
“Thanks y’all,” I whispered. “And please don’t follow me back to the hotel. I ain’t got enough sage for all that.”
Maison was kicked back on the bed wearing a fitted black shirt and gold chain. His legs were crossed at the ankles, eyes locked on me as I finished putting on my lashes in the mirror.
“You always take this long?” he teased.
“Don’t rush perfection,” I said, sticking my tongue out as I checked my lip liner. “Besides, I had a long day. I earned this beat.”
“Oh yeah?” He sat up a little. “What were you doing out there in my streets?”
I turned, lips curled in a grin. “Did I tell you I signed up for a BYOB cemetery tour this morning?”
His brow lifted. “Wait… bring your own bottle? To the cemetery?”
“Exactly,” I said, grabbing my perfume. “I don’t know who the fuck I thought I was, but I paid for it and showed up like I wasn’t scared of ghosts.”
He laughed and leaned back on his elbows. “That’s some real tourist shit. What happened?”
“So boom,” I said, walking toward him while misting perfume on my neck. “I get on the bus and it’s already lit. Then we get there, and the tour guide is like ‘walk in backwards so the spirits don’t follow you home.’”
I nodded. “You ever seen twenty drunk women moonwalk into a cemetery like it’s Thriller?”
Maison was cracking up. “Please tell me someone fell.”
“Girl named Tasha tripped. Talking ‘bout ‘it was a spirit.’”
He fell back, laughing.
“And then, as if that wasn’t enough, a damn orb flies in front of us. I was about to call Uber Eats and ask if they deliver holy water.”
He covered his face, still laughing. “Why you ain’t call me?”
“Because I knew you was gonna clown me. Plus, I needed some solo chaos. My spirit been too still lately.” I walked over and sat on the bed next to him. “But I promise you, I’ll ask you before I sign up for anything else.”
He smiled. “You got haunted on your own time, huh?”
“Yep.” I grinned. “But I survived. Now take me to eat.”
He sat up, pulled me close by the waist, and looked at me.
“You look so damn good right now, I might just skip dinner.”
“Boy, if you don’t…” I laughed, swatting him. “Let’s go before I end up needing another exorcism.”
He grabbed my hand and kissed it.
We pulled into a quiet neighborhood. As the car came to a stop in front of a modern home with soft porch lights glowing, I looked at Maison sideways.
“Um… whose house is this?” I asked, my lip curled in playful suspicion.
He looked at me and grinned like a man with too many secrets. “Mine.”
I blinked. “This is your house?”
“Yup.”
“Wait, so this is where we’re having dinner?”
He nodded.
I looked at him like he’d just told me Beyoncé was in the back making potato salad. “Why you ain’t say that?! I would’ve saved my edges and used a cheaper foundation. I came beat like we was going to a palace or something.”
He laughed. “Nah, I needed you at your best for this.”
My eyebrow arched. “This better not be no fast-food candlelight dinner situation, Maison.”
But when we walked in, the house greeted me with masculine charm and a hint of citrus. It was giving “single man who keeps a clean kitchen but don’t own no throw pillows.” Cozy, open floor plan, big TV, dim lighting.
But something was missing. Like… food.
I sniffed the air. Nothing.
Nothing bubbling on the stove. No fried aroma.
I side-eyed him hard. “Ain’t no food cooking.”
I walked into the kitchen and saw grocery bags on the counter like dinner was still a theory.
“Maison…” I said slowly. “We’re… cooking?”
He smiled and reached for something hanging by the fridge. He handed me an apron. I took it, confused but playing along. “Okay… I guess I’ll throw this on.”
As I started to put it over my head, he held up a finger. “Nah… that’s not the rule.”
I froze. “What rule?”
He nodded toward the kitchen whiteboard and in all caps were the words:
‘PRIVATE NAKED CREOLE COOKING LESSON’
I blinked… then laughed… then blinked again as it clicked.
Oh.
OH.
It was something on my vision board .
“You sneaky, thoughtful ass man,” I said, my heart fluttering.
He just shrugged. “Didn’t you say you wanted to check off everything on your list?”
I looked down at the apron in my hand.
“And it said private cooking lesson… naked.”
He leaned against the counter, watching me. I should’ve been embarrassed. But there was something about the way he looked at me that made me feel sexy. So I did what needed to be done. I stripped. Slowly. Dramatically. Like I was auditioning for a food network special that came on after midnight.
Maison grinned. “You might make me burn the roux.”
I tied the apron around my bare waist. “Let’s make this damn gumbo.”
He turned to the stove, pulling out ingredients. “Alright, so I’m gonna show you how to make my grandma’s gumbo. But I gotta warn you…”
“What?”
He looked me dead in the eye. “She never cooked it naked, so this might be better.”
We both laughed as I stepped up beside him. I was the main course and the chef.
It started off innocent enough.
Chopped celery, bell peppers, and onions aka the Holy Trinity of Louisiana cooking. Maison showed me how to make a roux. I stood beside him, apron tied at the waist, not a stitch of clothing beneath it.
“Careful,” he warned, watching me stir. “That roux is sensitive. Burn it and we starting over.”
“I’m sensitive too,” I shot back, swaying my hips as I stirred.
He smirked. “Noted.”
At some point, I dipped my finger in the gumbo base and tasted it. “Mmm. Needs more spice.”
“Oh yeah?” He reached into the cabinet.
I leaned close. “I wasn’t talking about the food.”
He paused, looked at me, and let out the softest “damn” under his breath. Things escalated from there.
We danced in the kitchen between roux-checks. He played all types of music. I dropped it low in front of the stove while stirring. He poured shots of tequila. I licked a lime from his neck. He whispered something about dessert, and I told him I am dessert.
At one point, I squirted a little gumbo base on his chest “by accident,” and he said, “Cool, I like my skin seasoned.”
We were gone. Drunk on vibes, sugar, spice, and sexual tension.
Then I stopped mid-laugh, eyes wide. “Wait.”
He looked concerned. “What?”
“We not gone make it back to the hotel.”
He blinked. “That’s fine.”
“Fine?”
“We’re staying here tonight.”
I stared at him. “You planned this, huh?”
He grinned. “Every damn detail.”
I shook my head, lips curved. “Intentional-ass man. You better be glad I like that.”
He pulled me close. “I know.”
By the time the gumbo was actually done, it had been hours.
And in between stirring and simmering, we were everywhere.
Kitchen. Hallway. Living room floor. Bathroom counter.
I mean, Maison didn’t let me stop moaning half the night.
The gumbo was fire. But the foreplay while cooking the gumbo was legendary.
And that post-gumbo sex with the smell of spices still on our skin was even better.
I couldn’t tell if I was full from the bowl or from the way he fed every part of me that night.
But either way… Chef’s kiss.