No Trespassing

By: K.D. Robichaux
“I HATE HIM!” I hiss, before tipping back the shot glass of icy Patron, biting into my lime as if I was tearing into the man in question’s throat.


“Hate is such a strong word, honey,” Erin says, handing me a napkin from beside her, where we’re sitting at the bar of our favorite little pub, only a block from the townhouse we share.

And then our usual back and forth begins, as I rant, “That good for nothin’—”

“He’s one of the leading historical preservers in the world.”

“—selfish—”

“He donates half his millions to charity.”

“—asshole! I hate his stupid face!” I finish, ignoring her interruptions, especially what comes out of her mouth next.

“You mean his perfect, drool-inducing, panty-wetting, heart-stopping face?”

All I can do is growl and give her a death stare as I shoot back the next ounce of tequila.

“Come on, Emmy. Even you have to admit how hot he is, whether he is your self-proclaimed mortal enemy or not. I bet 90 percent of the people watching his show are women who only tune in because he’s so fucking gorgeous.” She takes a sip of her Seven and Seven. “Have you seen his Twitter followers and Facebook friends? Really, like that many hot chicks are watching The Adventure Channel for the history documentaries,” she scoffs.

I look at her sideways, feeling my body sway a bit on my stool. “What are you trying to say? Hot chicks can’t like history? I like history, you twat. Am I not hot?” I snarl my upper lip at her and cross my eyes, making her laugh. I’ll do just about anything to get her off the subject of how good-looking Dean Savageman, host of the popular No Trespassing television series, is, because as much as I despise the fucker, I can’t deny that man was blessed by God himself in the looks department. The ass.

“Oh, yeah. And you’ll be even hotter when your face gets stuck like that.” She nudges me with her elbow, causing me to almost fall off my seat.

“Every time, Rin. Every. Damn. Time. I show up at these locations, my hard earned History and Archeology degrees in hand along with my Louisiana driver’s license to prove I’m not a terrorist there to do any sort of damage to the place, and no one will let me in. Even name-dropping my freakin’ parents won’t work. I mean, what good is being the only daughter of pretty well-known archaeologists if it’s not going to get me access anywhere?” I huff, only half-joking. “I was conceived against the door of the queen’s chamber of the Great Pyramid of Giza, for fuck’s sake. Mom and Dad love telling me that story.” I roll my eyes.

Erin giggles as she sips from her straw. “What did you say the pharaoh’s name was again? Coffee something?”

“Ugh, bitch. Khufu.” I take the last shot in the row of five shot glasses I’d ordered when we first sat down.

“Yeah, that guy. I bet he rolled over in his pretty coffin thingy,” she says, nodding at the bartender for a refill.

“Sarcophagus. You’re killing me.” I press the ball of my hand to my forehead to relieve some of the pressure I feel building at my best friend’s cluelessness when it comes to what I know so much about. But I don’t blame her. When she starts rattling on about the newest trends in psychology, I can feel my eyes roll into the back of my head.

“I mean, if I had any desire to go to Egypt and work over there with my parents, I know I’d be set. But growing up surrounded by nothing but images of pyramids, sandy deserts, hieroglyphics, the Sphinx… it’s like I’m jaded. That shit doesn’t interest me. They submersed me in it too much. I want to see things right here. Right in our country. Shit, right in our state! But no. No one gives a rat’s testicle that my mom and dad are the people who drove the crawler robot that discovered that behind the queen’s chamber door was yet another door, and that on the other side of that door were hieroglyphs written in red paint. A giant discovery, huge, in fact, but apparently meaningless when it comes to getting me access to snap a couple fucking pictures for my blog.”

“Tits,” she proclaims, and I look at her oddly. “Have you tried showing the security guards your tits? You have great tits, Em.”

I start to deny it, but confess, “There was that one time. But it was right here in New Orleans, and I was just trying to get in to watch them add someone to a family tomb in Lafayette Cemetery.” I pout.

She looks at me in horror. “There is something so wrong with you. I can’t wait until you finally give in and let me shrink you. I’d have a field day.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s so cool. It’s so hot here in NOLA, and the tombs are above ground, like an oven on top of a hole. They put the deceased into the pretty tomb part you see, and then nature does its thing. Then when someone else in that family passes away, they go in there and basically just scrape the remains to the back, where they fall into the hole beneath, and—”

“Stop! That is way too much information. I could’ve gone my whole life without knowing that,” she cuts me off, visibly shuddering.

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