The Divas Pen LLC Publication
The Divas Pen LLC Publication
Works by Sienna Mynx
About the Author
The Divas Pen LLC Publication
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Wedding © Copyright 2017
Cover art by Reese Dante
Electronic book publication February 2017
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this
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This book is a work of fiction and any
resemblance to persons, living or dead or places,
events or locales is purely coincidental. The
characters are productions of the author’s
imagination and used fictitiously.
To my readers, fans, and
disbelievers, I am stronger as a writer
and storyteller because of you. I thank
you. As I grow with each new tale, I
learn so much about the art of love
and what it takes to weave a
believable story. I gift you this saucy
tale, and it is my hope that the
struggles and rewards of Coco and
Brick remind you, too, of how sweet
and imperfect love can be.
Laissez les bons temps rouler (Lazay
Lay Bon Tom Roulay)
Let the good times roll…
Bourbon Street, New Orleans
April 13, 2012
“Whoa! Watch your step, Georgie!” My best
friend laughs off the warning I give her and
stumbles in the shoes I told her not to wear. The
stench of sewer, garbage, and leftover settling rain
water overcomes me when she and I miss a step
and land feet-first in a small murky puddle. Yuck!
“Hey! What the hell? She almost knocked me
ova!” a woman shouts from behind us. Georgie is
swinging her arms and her purse on the crowded
sidewalk. Several people shoot her menacing
glares. A few of them, not drunk enough to find her
cute, shout curse words at us. Lord, I hope this
girl don’t get us into a fight we can’t win.
“Sorry! She’s sorry, okay?” I call out to the
person we offended. Instead of holding Georgie by
the arm, I’ve got my arm around her waist. I’m
making her walk upright with me. And Georgie is
grinning. She’s not drunk. Not really. She just likes
to get wild after a sip of alcohol to show others
how daring and free she can be.
“Come on, Georgie, cut it out.” After a bit of
a struggle I pull Georgie out to the street. Forget
the sidewalk. If we’re gonna do this and not have
to step in piss and vomit, we should try walking in
the middle of the street. My decision proves to be
another not so bright idea. Between the laughing
and fast-walking crowds, we bump shoulders with
people from every walk of life. From drunk
tourists to mean looking thugs standing still and
“A horsey!” Georgie exclaims.
“Whaa the fuc—?”
It’s too late to stop her. Georgie breaks free
from me and charges straight for the police officer
on the horse. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
These cops don’t like you touching their mounts.
I’m walking fast, almost twisting my ankle to catch
up with her as my high-heel shoes get stuck in the
cobblestone crevices of the road.
“Hey, horsey! Heeeeeey, horsey-horsey-
“Georgie! No!” I catch her by the arm. But
Georgie swings her purse and almost smacks the
animal on the nose.
“Cut it out!” I tell her and yank her close. The
officer on the horse is wearing a helmet and deep
scowl. He’s staring directly at Georgie.
“Aaww, pooh! I just wanna say hi.”
“Sorry, Officer,” I say and smile for him.
“Keep it moving,” he replies.
“C’mon, Georgie.” Georgie blows the horse a
kiss and tries to blow one to the officer, but I’m
dragging her away from them both. Now she’s
killing my buzz. It’s time to get off Bourbon Street.
“Where is the place?” I ask her.
“Dauphine. We’ll find it. I promise.”
Of course, if we’re going to sneak down into
the Quarter to have fun we had to start with
drinking. We hit two bars on Bourbon Street first.
And Georgie and I were feeling no pain.
“Show me your tits!” a bunch of men on the
balcony of a bar shout down to us. I ignore them
but Georgie never ignores anyone.
“Fuck you!” Georgie shoots them the middle
finger. “You show me your dick!”
Someone throws beads, and another person
tosses his beer into the street. I yank Georgie out of
the way and it splashes on a group of young black
teens. They immediately get riled up. Four of them
run to the front of the bar and Georgie and I run in
the opposite direction, laughing.
“Wait! Wait, Coco, I need to catch my breath,”
Georgie stops. She’s clutching her chest. Before
long she’s smiling with me and we’re on the
“I think we should call Marcel. Just to make
sure we’re headed in the right direction.”
“I know where we’re going, Coco. We’re on
Dauphine… I've been here before. Plus, if Marcel
finds out we’ve been drinking he’ll get all pissy.
We lock arms and the rest of the walk sobers
Georgie a bit. It also gives me a chance to really
look around at the people and buildings I pass. It’s
funny to me how I grew up between Houma and
Shreveport but only started visiting dive bars in
New Orleans when Georgie met Marcel. If my
family found out I was strutting around the French
Quarter in this dress that barely covered my ass,
inebriated, they’d kill me—literally.
“There! We go through there.” Georgie
pointed to a dark alley between two storefronts.
It’s not what I expected. But dive bars are usually
off in the dark recesses of the French Quarter.
These places are where the real jazz and blues
players go to whet their whistles without being
hassled because of their celebrity. And most
tourists either can’t find them or fear the alleys of
the Quarter they have to breech to reach them. Not
Georgie and me. We’re fearless, to a point.
“I told you I’d find it!” Georgie rushes into
the alley. There’s sparse lighting between the two
buildings, but enough to entice Georgie to go
further. Me? I’m looking at the forgotten trash,
broken bottles, discarded needles, wood planks
and bags of garbage along the way, afraid of rats or
bugs. Finally, we venture past the alley into an
open space and Georgie cheers. In the Quarter, the
buildings you see sometimes cover buildings
Georgie throws her arms up in celebration
“Touchdown!” she yells over finding her way. Her
purse falls. We laugh and hug each other because
it’s how giddy we both feel. Georgie picks up her
purse. She bends over at the waist and I know her
ass is on full display. I have to step to the back of
her to give her some modesty.
“Got it!” Georgie giggled.
There’s a man seated on a stool to the front of
a closed door. He’s got on all white, even white
crocodile shoes with gold tips. His cane is white
and his fedora is, too. Large gold rings are on each
finger, chains around his neck. He leers at me for
ruining the show of Georgie’s ass. And then gives
us both a snake charmer’s smile when we walk
over to him. We can see he has gold teeth, too.
“Say, Red? You o-kay?” he asks Georgie and
tries to see her from behind me.
“She’s fine,” I answer for us both.
“Yes, indeed, she fine alright,” he mumbles.
And then his gaze locks on me. He smiles at what
he sees. “Wa’sup babee? You lost or lookin’ for
somethin’?” he asks.
“My boyfriend, Marcel, is inside. We’re on
the list.” Georgie pushes me over so she can be
seen. She flashes her sweet smile at the man and I
can tell he likes her flirting.
“You a juvie?” he asks us.
Georgie laughs. I can't help but smile, too. We
both go into our purses to get our identifications.
We’re both 22, and in these dresses we look at
least 25. The joke isn’t our age. We could be
sixteen and get inside. It’s his way of trying to
delay us, talk to us, keep us with him. He barely
glances at our IDs. Most times his gaze is
switching from our breasts to our hips, and not our
“Uh, can we go in now, please?” I ask.
“Sure thang, go on.” He sucks his gold teeth.
“C’mon, Georgie.” I make her go first through
the door. Hell, she knows the place; I don’t.
“How you livin’?” The man in white asks me
when I pass him. I’m not sure if he meant it as a
question or a statement. Those snake eyes of his
makes the question feel obscene. He touches my
arm. I ignore the question and walk right in. I
swear I need an oxygen mask the second-hand
smoke is so dense. And the lighting in the bar is all
red. So I’m squinting and following Georgie. On
stage is an old man playing a guitar and singing the
blues with a band of musicians behind him. I can’t
help but bob my head in appreciation to the down-
home sound. I feel like dancing. Finals are over.
I’ve got no one to answer to. Soon I’ll be
graduating. And I’ve had a few drinks in me to
bring on the early celebrating.
“There he is! Marcel! Marcel!” Georgie
There are a few men to the back left-hand
side of the stage and they all look over at us.
Georgie and I are holding hands but we have to
bump shoulders with the crowd nursing their
drinks between those seated at tables and those
seated at the bar. Several men, I don't know who,
but I know it’s several, all take a turn at touching
my hip or backside. I try to give them warning…
back-off looks, but it doesn’t work. Finally, we
break free from the sexual harassment and Georgie
is in the arms of her beau.
“Wassup, Coco, yeah!” Marcel says.
“Ya’ll ladies get here okay?”
“We made it,” Georgie giggles when he kisses
her on the neck and squeezes her ass. She’s
checked the drunk girl routine at the door. This is
flirty Georgie now. I have to cut my eyes away
from her performance to keep from giggling, too.
That’s what those two drinks gave us both—the
The band is really jamming and I like it. I'm
swaying and rolling my hips to the music. I really
hope we get to dance tonight. I rather get a drink
and enjoy the show than watch Georgie and Marcel
grope and lick all over one another. I can’t though.
Our girl code won’t allow it. The number one rule
is that Georgie and I never split up when we go out
clubbing. So I follow them through an even
narrower hall that smells like a mixture of mildew,
bleach and pine. The walls were once blue or gray.
I'm not sure. The paint is pealing and there are
cracks and moldy chipping. The dive bar is
definitely old. Marcel pauses. There’s a side
stairwell and a man comes out of it. He's young,
tall, dark and handsome. My type! He gives me a
smile and I give him one too. I want to stop and
have a little friendly conversation but Georgie
ain’t having none of it. She grabs my hand and
pulls me so I have no choice but to follow. Down
we go. With these tiny steps I have to be careful in
The below action is sweeter than what I
experienced above— much sweeter. I can breathe.
And next the room is less crowded so it feels more
spacious. There’s a stage and a small dance floor.
Looks to me like musicians are testing their
instruments and harmonizing. Instead of the
irritating red light glow upstairs the lights work
just fine down here. There are a few tables, with
some booth seats against the back wall. And the
cool thing is we are the only women in the place.
“Fellas! This here is my baebee! Say hello!”
So many spoke at first. The one that I can't
help but notice sits in the corner to the left. He's in
a card game. His heavy lidded rheumy gaze never
leaves me even as he plays his hand. Marcel is
handling the one on one personal introductions. I'm
waiting and waiting for Marcel to get too this
dude. Finally he says his name. “This here is my
man Brick, ladies.”
“Hi,” I say and smile. Brick? How corny of a
name. Shouldn't it be a bit smoother, I wonder.
Brick leans in and smiles. “Bonjou’.”
Oh? He Cajun? Nice.
I know for a fact that not just anyone can play
the saxophone. What goes into it is more than
talent. It’s a soul-yearning that a musician has to
draw from. So when a Cajun boy like me does it in
the belly of N'awlins he better have the pipes to
collect his bones in Dauphines' Bone Room. It also
helps that my people own this joint. The Bone
Room used to be a hidden kitchen and storage area
of a pastry and praline shop during prohibition.
The way I heard the tale it was owned by the
After prohibition the Bondurants, Cajuns, my
people, we took over. We’re from Acadiana where
Cajuns are plentiful. It’s on the outskirts of the city
in swamp country. My name is Brick. Many people
call me many things, and I don’t mind any of it. Just
don’t call me white. I know society likes to give
labels. And because of my skin color it’s hard to
understand what I’m about to tell you. I’m not
white. I’m Cajun. And there’s a difference. Blacks,
Spanish, Asians, they all can identify culturally as
to who they are. But we Cajuns are considered
white trash by society. Swamp-billies by default.
We have a culture and identity that we proud of not
the Eurocentric one that this country who only sees
a man or woman by the color of their skin accepts.
We Cajun’s ain’t never owned slaves. We Cajun’s
aint’ neva been part of no special ‘white privilege’
in life. We had to hunt, fight, and scrape like any
other person in the bayou.
This is my place. The front business on
Dauphine street is Cajun Jack’s Crawfish house,
run now by my step-mother and my sisters. The
back here, is jazz land. And it's been passed down
from generation to generation with us ever since.
Pops handed me the deed on my sixteenth birthday.
I run it with Smoke, my Pops best friend since they
were farm boys. Smoke is a black man who can
play any instrument you put before him after
listening to a few bars. A musical virtuoso that has
never stepped foot outside of Louisiana.
Smoke gave me my name. Brick. It’s a weird
story that I don’t tell often. I'm the only one out of
the Bondurant boys who wants to preserve what
this place represents. My brothers and uncles want
to bring in Country musicians and local R&B
artists to draw more money at the door. My uncle
Beau tried to talk me and Smoke into putting this
place on the historical registry and becoming part
of the tours they offer in the Quarters. To hell with
that. Not as long as I can take a breath and blow
on my sax. Hell, some of the greats have played
here. From Howling Wolfe, Charlie Parker to Duke
Ellington and the Bird man. It's blasphemous to
make the Bone Room some tourist dump like the
rest of the spots on Bourbon Street.
I'm the keeper of Jazz on Dauphine street and
this place stays as it is.
Tonight I'm a little anxious. I got a set with
Smoke, my mentor since I was three. And Smoke is
one of his moods. He trained with Prince of
Darkness, Miles Davis and was there when the
Coltrane and Miles collaboration went down.
Smoke took a liking to me as a kid because he saw
how much I hung around the musicians instead of
getting into sports and hell raising like my
brothers. He is credited with my freshness, my
blow, my everything. And every time I play with
him I got to bring my A-game.
Smoke is not the only reason I'm anxious. It's
the card game I'm in with this cat named Domino.
He's a mean fucker, reminds me of Shaquille
O'Neal. Tall, black, muscular and can slam an
opponent with the swipe of his hand. He's a double
bassist with a style that is hot plus soulful. And
Domino doesn't like me. We got history. I fucked
his woman twice. Almost got my jaw broke when I
went back for a third time. Could have happened if
Marcel hadn't tipped me off. Even though that deed
was over a year ago Domino hasn’t forgotten. He
holds a grudge and so do I. Marcel thinks we
should get along because he wants to put us with an
artist that can take us to the next level. Screw it.
I'm stuck in the card game with this alligator eyes
motherfucker trying not to lose all my coins.
And then she comes down the stairs I’m
distracted. I see her first. The boys are too busy
with their poker hands and keeping their eyes on
Domino. Marcel walks toward our table with his
girl Georgie under his arm. Georgie is a sweet
pampered black-creole girl that lives in one of
those million dollar homes out in English Turn.
Her family wouldn't let the likes of Marcel and me
on the grass of their front lawn. I still don't know
how Marcel hooked up with her. But whatever he’s
done Georgie’s his. She calls his phone almost
every hour on the hour. And raises hell if he don’t
at least pause for five minutes to speak. Georgie’s
cool, but she isn’t my focus. Behind them is a sexy
mocha dream I've never seen here before.
Ms. Mocha has on a purple dress that she tugs
on the sides after she takes a few steps because it's
risen so high up her thighs. And her hair has a side
part. It causes her long bangs to fall over her right
eye. She's got a figure on her too. Small in the
chest and trim in the waist she carries the real
curves in the hips, ass and thighs.
Most babes if privileged enough to be brought
down to the 'bones room' are intimidated by the
band and musicians. There's a heavy stench of
testosterone here, even traces of marijuana I
wouldn't cop too. You see we are wolves,
primates, lovers of music, liquor and fast women.
Ladies have a special instinct and can sense our
predatory ways the moment they are in our
presence. This beauty doesn't even blink when we
make eye contact. And instead of lowering her
gaze when I smile she entices me with a smile of
“I’m out of the game boys!” I say and toss in
“What the fuck, Brick? You got two aces
man?” Twig says.
“Pussy,” Domino mumbles and moves the
toothpick around in his mouth. I give him a fuck
you glare and I'm up out of my seat with money left
on the table. ‘Pussy’ is right. And I'm headed
straight for it.
Marcel takes the girls to a booth seat up
against the wall. I have to make my move before
one of these assholes does. I may own the joint but
I got no clout with the band. These men could strip
us dry and move on to another dive vying to have
them whistling tunes and bringing in crowds.
“You ladies want something to drink?”
Marcel offers. I then step up to his right. He
glances back and sees me. “W’sup Brick?”
“Hello ladies,” I say and wink at Georgie
then narrow my sights on Ms. Mocha. She bats
those long lashes at me and I'm in love. Babe has
eyes like Betty-boop, pretty-girl eyes. So bright
“Hi,” she says and scoots over. A clear
invitation for me to join her. I like that. I like a
woman that is welcoming. So I ease into the booth.
“Brick, this my girl’s best friend Coco,”
“Yeah we've been best friends since we were
six,” Georgie says.
“Coco, meet Brick, he plays the saxophone
and owns this place,” Marcel says before he walks
“Oh yeah? You play the sax?"
“I do. You like jazz?" I ask her.
She glances to Georgie and then to me.
“I like it a lot,” she says.
My brows lower. I got game and pipes, but it
should never be this easy to flirt with such a
beauty. And if Coco is best friends with Georgie
then I know her kind. Catholic, preparatory, part of
that black elite that don't mix it up with Cajun cats
like me. So what's her motivation?
“Are you a tenor or alto sax player?” she
“I go both ways,” I t...