Sister of a Sinner Page 2

  “Number twenty-nine. The New Orleans Sinners have selected Knox Polk, Junior.”

  Chapter Two

  What to do about Junior? Xochi sat in a lawn chair in the shade of one of the ranch’s numerous live oak trees. Her redheaded half-brother, Tom—a kicker for the Sinners—and his lanky, blonde wife, Alix—the team’s punter—lounged on a blanket at her feet. Married not quite a year and still clearly honeymooning, Tom spooned behind Alix and fed her tidbits of pineapple and kiwi from a paper plate. Their intimacy made Xo a little uncomfortable, but she did love the way Tom’s glowing yellow aura blended with Alix’s bright blue to form a lovely shade of turquoise where their heads touched.

  Over by the barbecue pavilion, Junior Polk stood in the place of honor next to the Sinners’ retired Samoan cornerback, Adam Malala a master of the umu oven. The celebration of Mack and Junior’s university graduation pig roast quickly became a three swine affair with both the football teams from LSU and ’Bama attending in addition to Sinners players old and new, their families, and a bevy of friends—an outsized affair as always. Adam, using his hands to make a point to Junior, nodded his head. The sun glinted off a few silver strands in Adam’s wild, frizzy mane. They discussed football or maybe cooking while waiting for the pork extravaganza to emerge from the pit. Junior stood by prepared to lift the pigs from the oven, which took some muscle. Not that there wasn’t plenty of that around.

  On the other hand, Mack had gone off to the swimming pool with his pals who cavorted in the water, showing off for and ogling his sister and womb-mate, Lorena, who made up the second of the Billodeaux triplets and sat in the lifeguard stand. Long limbs toned from playing volleyball, Lori took a tan like no one else in the family. Her black hair flowed halfway down her back when not bound into a braid like today and had less curl to it than most of the family, only lovely waves. Her eyes were what the people in the nearby town of Chapelle called Billodeaux brown, a particularly rich, dark chocolate shade surrounded by thick lashes. She wore a bikini as if she’d created that style, not too brief and not spilling out of it anywhere, a problem that troubled Xochi with her abundantly curvy body. If Xo spent more time gazing into mirrors, which she did not, she’d see the same eyes, similar hair, but a different kind of beauty.

  The LSU guys played shirtless volleyball on the sand court near the pool hoping to lure Lorena into a game. Knox Polk, Sr. prowled between the LSU Tigers and the Crimson Tide in the pool making certain no brawls occurred since the Tide had beaten LSU again this year. Lorena stayed on the stand, blowing her whistle occasionally if the horseplay got too rough and telling the college guys to stay in the deep water and let the little kids have the shallow end. She had no intention of taking sides no matter how the overgrown boys tried to attract her. Having grown up with football players, they failed to impress. Not a problem for Xochi as she was five years too old for this batch of young men. If only Junior thought so, too.

  He glanced her way. His vast chest heaved. His violet aura flared around his big, round head like a crown. Not deep purple, not lavender, but the color of juicy ripe plums so sweet you could almost taste them, very becoming with his brown skin, lighter than his mother’s and darker than his father’s almost white complexion. He owned Corazon’s round, brown eyes, puppy dog eyes, or maybe only Xochi thought of them that way since Junior had trailed after her like a pitiful stray from the day she’d punched his tormentors in the face.

  Now as the leaves were raked from the earth oven, Junior sent his wide, appealing grin with the small space between his two front teeth her way and flexed his muscles playfully. They were nicely revealed by the purple jersey with the sleeves and tails ripped away. It rode up to expose one row of his six-pack abs. Cutoff jeans with frayed edges flattered his thick, muscular legs. He wore heavy sandals like Adam who motioned for him to help raise one end of the pig and place it on a plank. No tats and closely shorn hair showed his father’s military influence. A lot to like there Xochi admitted to herself as she answered his smile—but young, way too young.

  Junior and Adam hefted the pig, took it into the pavilion, and came back for the next. The third piece of pork went by a different route. Raising the plank to their shoulders, they carried it off toward the swimming pool and volleyball court. Children slid down the rock wall and left the bouncy house to follow. Adults joined the procession. Adam began a Samoan chant soon picked up by the crowd. No one had any idea what it meant and didn’t care. Xo couldn’t help herself. She tagged along as Junior once followed after her.

  The Crimson Tide stopped splashing. The volleyball game ceased as the two brown men trotted the roasted pig once around the pool and back to the pavilion. As Xo passed Mack, he shouted to her, “What was that all about?”

  If only his aura weren’t the dull orange of ambition. If only Junior’s violet crown didn’t indicate love. “I think they are announcing that your graduation dinner is about to commence and to get your butt out of the pool and dry off.” Sure enough, she heard Joe Billodeaux banging on an old-fashioned iron triangle over by the pavilion.

  Lorena blew a shrill whistle. “Pool closed until an hour after dinner. Be sure to wash the sand from your feet in the outdoor shower.” She left her perch so fast not a single guy got a chance to grab her around the waist and swing her down. Xo helped Lori herd the small children, buckling sandals, slipping flip-flops onto their feet, and wrapping them in big, white pool house towels before escorting them out, leaving all that gorgeous man flesh to dry off without a female audience.

  By the time the sisters arrived at the pavilion, a long row of guests snaked through the grounds like a hungry anaconda. The new grads and their families had been shoved to the front of the line and already sat behind heaping plates. Junior cupped his big hands, making a pretty good megaphone, and shouted, “Let Xo and Lori cut in.”

  A tall, lithe light-skinned man with striking green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses made a gap for them right in front of the pavilion door. Xo smiled her appreciation. “So, Connor Bullock is back in town. Have you finished your medical studies?”

  Eldest son of the Reverend Revelation Bullock, the famed cornerback, and the one who didn’t go into football, nodded. “Almost. I start my residency in orthopedic surgery at Ochsner next week. I hoped you might show me around New Orleans when we both have some free time. Johns Hopkins is a fine place to get medical training, but I missed Louisiana—words I never thought I’d say.”

  “The people, the food, the total lack of snow, the state does have its charms.”

  “Its women,” Connor added. “I hear you sometimes act as a translator at the hospital. If you are over there, have me paged. We might be able to catch a cup of coffee together.”

  “As my partner in the interpreting service, Stacy still does most of the medical interpreting, but I take over when she’s busy. Mostly, I do the business and police work.”

  “Must be interesting.”

  “Not so much. Too many dark auras.” Xo moved her eyes away from his penetrating green gaze.

  Connor lowered his voice. As a member of the family closest to the Billodeauxs, he knew her secret. “I still think you suffer from a neurological condition that could be cured with drugs or surgery.”

  “Drugs were tried early on. No thanks on the surgery. The only thing that made sense to me were the words of Rosemarie Leleux, our local faith healer. As a Cajun traiteur, she said I had a gift from God and to use it wisely.”

  Connor twisted one of her black curls around a slim finger. “I admit it would be a shame to shave your hair to get inside your head. Tell me what you see when you look at me.”

  “A brilliant orange halo—pride, ambition, self-confidence. Not necessarily bad attributes.”

  “I’m a surgeon so an easy guess.”

  Letting Lorena go first, they bumped along in the line and reached the stack of plates. Conversation ceased as they made their selections. Steaming roast pork of course, rice dressing, baked beans and French bread, potat
o salad, even some taro—Cajun barbecues tended to come down heavy on the starches. Xochi made sure half her plate held fresh fruit and green salad. Her curves didn’t need to get any curvier. She’d have to dance off today’s feast.

  Puberty had knocked her down like a Mexican lucha libre wrestler. She started early, blossoming out at age eleven, developing a full womanly figure by thirteen, much to the envy of tall, flat-chested Stacy, the Billodeaux’s ward and now Dean’s wife who had turned out gorgeous in the end. Xo’s full breasts wobbled and got in the way of most sports participation. Her rounded hips seemed to sap her speed on the soccer field. She stopped growing at an even five-foot-five, not tiny like some of the Billodeaux girls, but she’d never play volleyball like Lorena or basketball for sure. Then, the auras appeared, and she learned to recognize the hue of lust and sometimes even perversion when men stared at her.

  Xochi pulled her mind back to Connor Bullock who had his father’s height, but not his bulk, and definitely his physician mother’s medical brains. He’d never be a candidate for CTE, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, the scourge of football players, especially ones like Junior who played defense. Junior caught her eye as she exited the pavilion. “Saved a seat for you!”

  Indeed, he had by hooking his big sandaled feet around the around the chair opposite him so that no one could pull it out, childish but sweet. Xo headed his way followed by Connor and Lorena.

  “Have room for me?” Connor asked politely enough.

  Not seeming at all sorry, Junior shook his head. “Your folks are sitting right down there. They can put a chair on the end of the table for you.”

  Young Dr. Bullock, a very bright man, didn’t push the point but made one. “Congratulations on your graduation and playing for the Sinners. I’ll be able to put you back together again when you tear that first ACL. Xo, I’ll be in touch. Looking forward to having you show me the sights.” He ambled off to join his parents.

  “Hey, what about me?” Lorena asked her triplet brother.

  “Didn’t think about it. I’m sure the ’Bama guys will fit you in,” Mack said.

  The hooting began like two troops of jungle apes trying to dominate each other. “Over here, Lori, right beside me!” “Hey, LSU rules. Sit with us, Lorena.” The tables for the two teams had been prudently spaced far apart to prevent conflict. Short, brainy, bespectacled Trinity, the third of the triplets, saved the day. “Plenty of room at the geek table, Lori.” She chose to take the space between the non-athletic brother and Teddy Billodeaux in his wheelchair. Problem solved. More chest beating averted.

  When the clamor desisted, Junior leaned across the table toward Xochi. He covered quite a distance. Puberty had done a job on Junior Polk, too, a very good job. From butterball child who played lineman in Pop Warner football because his dad, Joe Billodeaux, and even the Reverend Bullock thought that would toughen the boy, he’d grown up and up topping his father at six-foot-four yet retaining a solid, square body that somehow turned all that fat into two-hundred-thirty pounds of muscle. Yet, Junior still possessed those brown puppy dog eyes of his early years with not a hint of meanness in them.

  “Adam says a boy becomes a man when he can build an umu oven and roast a pig for his family the way I did today. Mack didn’t help at all.”

  “Yes, that trot around the grounds carrying a whole roasted pig was pretty impressive.”

  “You think so?” He gave her that hopeful, charming gap-toothed grin again.

  She knew what answer he craved. “Absolutely.”

  Maybe she gave Junior too much encouragement because the next thing he said was, “I was thinking I might stay at your place until I can get my own space in the city.” No lust in his aura, only love.

  “Wouldn’t you rather room with Tom and Alix? They have a much bigger place right on the edge of the Quarter.”

  “You’re kidding me. Look at them. Tom says they still do it everywhere, both bedrooms, the sofa, the kitchen, the dining room table.”

  Xochi did look. The couple still lay on their blanket far from others, plates of food in front of them, but feeding each other like mating cranes, so in love. She allowed herself an inward sigh of envy. “I guess I see what you mean. How about my dad’s condo? He doesn’t come into the city that often, and you’d have plenty of space with all those bedrooms.”

  “I only need one bedroom, Xo, and yours, I mean your guestroom, is closer to the action.”

  “Like you couldn’t afford a cab with that signing bonus.”

  “Hey, I can walk to Mariah’s Place and all over the Quarter from your location. You can show me your favorite spots.”

  “You were in New Orleans all the time when you played for LSU and hardly need a guide. Besides, my guestroom is pretty frou-frou. Stacy decorated it. Why don’t you stay in the Garden District with her and Dean? Plenty of room there, and I bet they’d have a king-sized bed for you rather than a queen.”

  Junior’s big brown eyes rolled sideways in the direction of Dean and Stacy. “She’s not drinking anything alcoholic. You know what that means.”

  Xochi knew—because Stacy had told her, pregnant again not so very long after she’d given birth to her daughter. Stace simply wanted her childbearing over and done since she suffered terribly from morning-noon-and-night sickness as she called it.

  “I mean I wouldn’t want to be underfoot while Stacey isn’t feeling well,” Junior continued, all sincere consideration.

  “Okay, okay. Stay with me, but put your mind to finding your own place.”

  Her concession lit his face even more than the Tres Leches cake his mama carried toward him blazing with candles that spelled out his graduation year. Mama Nell followed with chocolate iced in chocolate for Mack. As the cakes were placed, the fathers pulled up in front of the table in matching Escalades, black with the Sinners’ winking red devil mascot on the rear for Junior and white with the Cowboys’ giant star logo in blue for Mack.

  Junior’s broad brow wrinkled with worry. “Mama, I hope you didn’t sell one of the Super Bowl rings for this. You know I got a nice signing bonus and could buy my own.”

  “We did sell a ring! Back to Mr. Joe where it belongs. Me and your Papi want to do this for you.”

  Xochi noted Junior didn’t ruin the surprise by protesting too much. Instead, he reached his big arm around his plump, gray-haired mother and gave her a squeeze. “You are the best. Now I can give Xo a ride back to New Orleans in style. I’m going to stay with her until I get a place of my own.”

  Corazon’s round, brown face, mostly free of wrinkles despite her age, did crease now. “You don’t make extra work for Miss Xochi, Junior.”

  When had she become Miss Xochi and not simply Xo, the little girl who yearned for someone to understand her Spanish? This kind-hearted woman had been glad to fill the role of Mexican abuela, a grandmother, in her life with Mama Nell’s complete approval. Both had wanted her to feel as accepted and loved and protected as possible after the murders of her parents.

  “I won’t. You and Papi trained me well. I don’t make a mess—and I can cook.”

  “You are a good son.” Corazon ran a hand over his close cut hair as if he still had a little boy’s curls to ruffle.

  Xochi heard Mack grouse, “I wanted a sports car.”

  Mama Nell, never a pushover despite her small size, slapped down the cake extinguishing a few candles in the breeze, and answered, “Then buy one with your bonus.” She leaned close to her third son’s ear, but both Xochi and Junior heard the message she delivered. “You will not ruin today for your father. He is so proud of you.”

  Mack stared down at the cake with its guttering blue candles. “Yeah, sure.” At least, he had the grace to be a little ashamed.

  His orange aura, duller than Connor’s, flared a little under his mother’s censure. Good. Xo knew he’d felt the need his whole life to do as well as Dean on the football field, but had chosen to be a receiver, never in direct competition with his eldest brother. No one had pushed
him one way or another. He’d chosen his path and how to walk it. She hoped no pitfalls waited for him. Not her problem.

  What was she going to do about Junior who blew out his candles with one mighty gust of air and sliced as big a piece for her as he did for his mother? How could she allow him to live with her?

  Chapter Three

  Xochi woke in her apartment to the aroma of freshly made coffee and a spicy scent she couldn’t quite place. No doubt Junior was up and about. She heard the clatter of pans and the thud of his big feet in the kitchen below. Knowing better than to appear before him in her flimsy hot pink nightgown, she forced herself out of bed and into the bathroom to dress in her Anchi Services purple uniform dress and put on her formal face. As always, she avoided viewing her own aura as much as possible by using a small makeup mirror that sat on the counter surrounded by her tubes of eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick in the brighter colors she favored.

  Today, she couldn’t help but notice a man’s shaving kit neatly zippered and stowed in one corner. Not a facial hair remained in the recently scrubbed sink. A damp bath towel hung on the rack, folded to dry. None of her brothers were this neat despite Mama Nell’s constant exhortations for them not to make extra work for Corazon and the maids. Junior Polk had to be the tidiest man alive. Maybe he was gay. No, she knew better and would have to deal with his affection for her. Might as well start now.

  Xochi took the stairs down to the living room, kitchen, office floor of the apartment, and breezed into the small dining area to find it completely set for breakfast, a meal she rarely ate. She intended to thank him for making coffee, grab a cup, and be off to work at the World Trade Center. The less contact they had, the better.

  Junior turned away from the stove and greeted her with that warm smile of his. He wore pressed khakis, a pale yellow short-sleeved shirt, tucked in and belted. As she drew closer, she caught a whiff of the lime-scented aftershave he’d patted on his round cheeks. “Great, now I can start the eggs. Huevos rancheros coming right up. I had to use the salsa from the jar in the refrigerator. It’s not too fresh, but I’ll make something better later. The tortillas are already warmed. How many eggs do you want?”