Going, Going, Gone (An Elijah Mikaelson Love Story)

Chapter 3: Charles

I would like to say, ever since moving to New Orleans, I've become quite street smart. I learned the art of pick pocketing, always knew when people meant trouble, when people need protecting, where to go, where not to go. But now? Now I'm just being plain dumb.

I am way too intoxicated for my liking and way too giggly for it either. I've been sitting across from Elijah for quite some time and last I glanced at my watch, it was peaking to be midnight. Even when Cami came back around and gave me the do you need help look, I just smiled and shook my head before retuning back to Elijah.

Elijah, who sits across from me, watches as I down another glass of merlot into the hatch. An unfamiliar sparkle has found a way into his eyes and has stayed there for most of the night. He shakes his head, laughing at my previous declaration. "I find that quite amusing yet hard to fathom."

"Oh no, it happened." I snort, laughing as I recall my early days of pocketing in the streets of New Orleans and getting caught by a much older man before crying and being let go by his generosity. Tears can do wonders for a small girl.

I haven't told Elijah about my work with Charles, nor about who I really am, but I have kept him amused with my stories of failed pocketing attempts. I may be skilled, hell I may even be deemed a professional by now, but there was a time. A time where I was a shy, stuttering girl who felt awkward touching people, especially men in the pocket areas.

The story only took place three weeks after I had found my way to my apartment in New Orleans, settled in and got prepared to start a new life down here. Only two weeks after I had met Charles when I wandered into a bar asking for any available positions.

Correction, begging for any available positions with no luck, leaving me upset and scared for the future.

It was only when I was leaving with my head down and tears piling in my eyes, did I feel his rough hands on my shoulders. I was fully prepared to ask the man to leave me alone but instead he held up a fifty and a glass of bourbon, telling me to stay until I felt better. Hesitantly I did, but it was the offering of money that won me over. We had talked and he quickly offered me a position with him, one with money and protection.

That's how I got into this life. At first, I went with Charles wherever he went and did occasional runs for whatever he needed: milk, alcohol, Reese cups. Then, as days began to go by and we were walking home from the store, he stopped me in my tracks.

"Do you know where me and my people get our money from?" He questioned, taking me back. Charles, who never fully let me in until then, had never priorly talked about money or finances or anything other than what I could find at the store for him.

I knew he was not a clean or innocent man, and I knew his business pertained to laundering drugs, but that was all I knew. To be honest, I only accepted his job position because I knew there was nothing illegal about grabbing milk for someone who did all of this.

Like an idiot, I shook my head and muttered to him a no.

He laughed and pointed around the streets of New Orleans as we walked. "There," he told me pointing towards groups of tourists walking the streets "selling to these types of people is one of the fastest ways, you can sell them fake grass and tell them it's the most premium thing they've laid their hands on. They'll eat it right up."

I didn't even question what it was supposed to be. Drugs. Marijuana.

He laughed as my shocked expression grew on my face. We walked and he pointed out all the ways his group got their finances.

Local businesses paying for personal protection, feuding acquaintances who wanted to give the other side a quick scare and pick pocketing. And of course, drugs and booze to anyone who needed it.