The Finish Line

by Stewart , Kate

  What separates us is a velvet rope and an insane amount of influence and money. Though I’m sure if Preston flexed his bank account, he’d be a contender for the highest roller in here.

  I’m not obsessed with money, I know the evils of it, but more than once tonight, I’ve been slapped by the reality of my standing due to lack of it. I think of Dom, still sleeping on the same fucking twin mattress he’s had since he was five, the roof leak in the corner of his bedroom, and the black mold growing in his closet because of it. My lackluster room at the hostel is a palace in comparison.

  “Je pourrais te permettre de me toucher. Mais pas si tu continues à m’insulter en détournant ton regard.” I might allow you to touch me. But not if you keep insulting me by looking away.

  Light brown eyes scold me as she arches her back against the pole in another attempt to gain my interest. It’s a tempting offer, but I’m too distracted, my reasons for staying in Paris dwindling by the second. I could hang it up now, let some of my aspirations go. I could attend an Ivy League university back home and find a way to pay for it. Four or five years from now, secure a job with a six-figure salary, enough to move Dom out of Delphine’s shithole and secure his future.

  But it’s a gut feeling, combined with the hairs rising on the back of my neck, that has my thoughts shifting again. A tangible tension has been building since the three suited men walked in a half-hour ago. The staff scattered like rats. And from what I’ve witnessed, it’s due to a mix of fear and respect, which leads me to believe they are someone important or work for someone important, and I’m determined to figure out which.

  “Dis-moi sur quelle chanson danser. Tu vas voir, ça en vaudra la peine.” Tell me which song to dance to. You’ll see, it will be worth it.

  It’s the man tucked in the corner booth that I’m most curious about. He hasn’t paid a bit of attention to the dancers. Everything about his demeanor screams organizational man. He’s a decade at most past his prime and very, very, well paid, which I deduce from his dress, the high dollar bottles being delivered to his table every few minutes, and the cigar he’s chewing on. It’s cliché gangster 101, so obvious and obnoxious. Chances are, they’re more drunk on their effect, on the attention they’ve gathered than the liquor they’re tossing down their throats.

  “Arrête de regarder, si tu ne veux pas qu’il te remarque.” Stop staring if you don’t want him to notice you.

  “Qui est-il?” Who is he?

  “Un homme qui n’aime pas qu’on pose des questions à son sujet.” A man who doesn’t like people asking questions about him.

  Placing one of the higher bills in my hand at her heels, she glances down and then back to me before subtly shaking her head.

  “Je ne sais rien. Personne ne sait rien ici. Et personne ne te dira quoi que ce soit. Mais tout ce que je sais, c’est que si tu poses trop de questions, si tu suscites le moindre soupçon, tu disparaitras, ou tu le souhaiteras fortement.” I don’t know anything. No one here does. And no one will tell you anything, either. But what I do know is that if you ask, if you even so much as arouse suspicion, you’ll disappear or wish you had.

  I look down at the wad of cash Preston pressed into my hand in the car before we arrived and know if I pocket some of it, it will make life a bit easier for me. Both angered and shamed by the thought, I lay it all at her feet.

  “Quelqu’un sait quelque chose. Et si ce quelqu’un c’est toi, je serai très reconnaissant.” Someone knows something. And if that someone is you, I would be appreciative.

  Just as the man’s eyes lock onto mine, she blocks his view of me, brushing her nipples along my lips. Both her allure and the gin take over, and I do my best to keep from getting hard. This isn’t the place, and though beautiful, she isn’t the girl to indulge with.

  She grips my shoulders and turns me to face Preston, who’s sitting in our booth, two popped bottles open and sweating in buckets. A dark-brunette beauty bounces in his lap. At this point, he looks only half-conscious, the only sign of life a dopey smile on his face as she grinds against him. My dancer runs her palms from my shoulders to my chest, encasing me from behind. Her breath hits my ear a second before she digs her nails through the fabric. It’s then my cock can’t take no for an answer. Hissing through my teeth, I’m thankful for the cover of the jacket.

  “Si tu ne croyais pas aux fantômes avant de venir ici ce soir, il en est la preuve. Il a un intérêt dans ce club. Une danseuse. Elle ne parle à personne ici. Jamais. Elle est escortée partout où elle va. Un des videurs les a suivis une fois et a disparu. Ce ne sont pas les hommes avec qui plaisanter.” If you didn’t believe in ghosts before you came here tonight, he is proof. He has one interest in this club. A dancer. She doesn’t talk to anyone here. Not ever. She’s escorted everywhere she goes. One of the bouncers followed them once and disappeared. These are not the men to be messed with.

  “Merci.” Thank you.

  Just after our exchange, I stop drinking, and after politely declining several appealing suggestions from my dancer, I pry Preston from the brunette. Wrapping his arm around my neck, I begin the task of hauling him out of the club while he struggles against me, whispering declarations to his abandoned dancer standing feet away.

  “Je te retrouverai, mon amour.” I will find you again, my love. Palm on his chest, he grins at her. “Finally, I have found true love in the city made for lovers. And now I have to leave. Au revoir, ma chérie.”

  “I’m willing to bet she’ll move on quickly,” I huff as he struggles against me, slurring his sentimental goodbye.

  He turns to face me, not at all pleased I’ve cut this part of our night short. “What do you know about love, man?”

  “That it’s distracting your feet, do me a favor and try to remember what they’re for.”

  “That blonde was into you. Why didn’t you pounce on that?”

  “Not my type.”

  “What is your type? You like a whip cracker and rope, don’t you? It’s always the quiet ones. Tell me, King, am I right?”

  “Use your feet,” I grunt as I practically drag him across the room.

  “I bet you like ’em mean,” he says, stopping the two of us in the middle of the club. “I need to take a piss.”

  After waiting an eternity outside the bathroom, we make it to the entrance, which is now deserted, thanks to the lateness of the hour and the rapidly dropping temperature.

  “Where’s the car?”

  “I called him while I was taking a leak. He’s not far.”

  He leans back against the side of the building, his eyes closed. “I shouldn’t have had that last drink. The air is helping. I’ll be all right in a minute. Just need my second wind. The night is still young, King.”

  “You’re done.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” He slowly opens his eyes, not a trace of humor in his tone. “In more ways than one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, even with my parents six feet under, I have expectations to meet. A family full of overachievers to impress back home. The minute I step off that plane, they’ll be peering over my shoulder for the rest of my life.” He exhales, his breath visible and glowing from the neon shed off the club lights. “For you, this was a Friday night, but for me…well, it’s my last hurrah.”

  “You’ve got college.”

  “No, I don’t.” He nods over his shoulder toward the club. “No offense to working ladies, but I’m not interested in strippers, man. It was just something to check off my list. Another experience I can say I didn’t miss out on. There are no strip clubs in my future. Hell, there’s no fucking fun in my future.”

  “What’s in your future?”

  “Boredom. A shit ton of it, followed by more boredom. Rich boy problems, I know.” He cups the back of his head. His slicked brown locks thoroughly picked through by the fingers of the dancer. “The money is mine, but with it comes the pressure. I have to accomplish more than being a spoiled trust fund baby. Want to know the worst part
? The road ahead isn’t that unappealing to me. I’m kind of a no-frills guy.”

  “I’m going to have to call bullshit.”

  “No, this is different. I’ll be honest, man, I’ve never partaken in half the shit we’ve done this semester.”

  I chuckle. “Same.”

  He cracks a grin. “I suspected as much. And I’ll admit I’ve enjoyed it. I think my issue is that I just want the freedom to decide, you know what I mean?”

  My reply is cut off, as is my view of him as he’s pinned to the brick, his eyes going wide at the sudden appearance of the man between us.

  “Vide tes poches. Maintenant.” Empty your pockets. Now.

  I didn’t see him. Not at all. He was background noise, a pedestrian walking down a typically busy Parisian street. I didn’t think a thing about the man approaching us because I was fully immersed in our conversation. Preston seems just as surprised as the man glares between us, producing a knife out of thin air before thrusting it toward me. I barely manage to escape the tip, jumping back to the curb.

  Satisfied with the space the move provided him, he grips Preston by the collar, pressing the tip of the blade into the base of his throat. I’m three feet away at most, and I know with just a little more pressure or a fast flick of his wrist, Preston will die.

  Something inside me breaks with Preston’s expression, and I leap forward, jerking the man’s head back by the hair before smashing his face into the brick just next to Preston’s shoulder. Adrenaline takes over as I fist the side of his head repeatedly until he goes limp and the knife clatters on the pavement at my feet. Once he’s on the ground, I kick him with the hard-edged heel of my shoe until his arms are no longer raised in defense.

  With a quick glance around, I see we’re still alone and lift him from underneath the arms before glancing up at Preston. He’s still plastered against the brick, his eyes wide. I eye the camera at the entrance, thankful we’re just out of view.

  “Grab his legs,” I blurt, panic rising as Dom’s face flits through my mind. This can’t be it. This can’t be the mistake that takes me out. “Preston, I can’t go to jail.” I don’t voice my bigger fear, that I’m unsure if the man is dead or not. I’ve never hit someone so hard in my life.

  Preston leaps into action, and we carry the unconscious man to a nearby alley and drop him behind a dumpster. Bending, I press my fingers to his neck to check for a pulse.

  “He alive?”

  I nod and stand. “Come on.”

  Preston stops me, gripping me by the shoulder. “Take his money.”

  “What?”

  He juts his chin to the unconscious thief and flits his hardening gaze back to mine. “It’s only fucking fair. Take his money.”

  Turning back, I lean over the man and study the damage I’ve inflicted. His face is mangled, and there’s blood oozing from his ear.

  “Do it, King.”

  Ripping open his jacket, I check his pockets and retrieve a wad of bills, some frayed, some newer looking, and I know it’s not his. He didn’t earn a cent of it.

  “Jackpot. He’s been at this all night.”

  Pocketing the money, I join Preston where he stands before we wordlessly leave the alley, hastening when we see the limo waiting at the club entrance. Once the driver’s ushered us inside, he takes his seat behind the wheel. “Where to, Mr. Monroe?”

  We stare off before he speaks up. “I’m hungry. You?”

  I nod.

  “Take us somewhere for breakfast. You choose.”

  The driver speeds away from the curb. “Yes, sir.”

  Preston lifts his chin toward me. “You’re going to have to lose the jacket.”

  Inspecting it through the passing street lights, I see a splatter of blood on the coat. It’s far too noticeable. While shedding it, I lean in on a whisper. “I’ve never done anything like that.”

  “How did it feel?”

  I lift a shoulder. “I’m not going to cry about it.”

  “Me neither.” He leans forward, his hands clasped between his legs, his voice low. “And don’t ever second guess what you just did. That man was going to end me no matter what I had in my pockets. I saw it in his eyes. He was fucking high.” He sits back in his seat, his expression contemplative. “Along with my father’s looks, I was blessed with his judgment. I know when to trust people and when not to. Usually within the first minute of meeting them.” Pulling the case from his pocket, he lights the half joint he put out hours earlier, pinching some loose weed off his tongue before he speaks. “The way I see it, there are bad men capable of doing bad things, and then there are good men capable of doing bad things for good fucking reasons.” He looks at me pointedly. “You’re one of those.”

  “Which are you?”

  “Incapable of being either. Eventually, I’m going to be a man in need of guys like you.”

  Preston dropped me off just as dawn began to light the streets. After a few hours of sleep, duffle in hand for my flight home, I opened my door to see I was blocked in by six large boxes. At the top of the first lay a note.

  Thanks for saving me the burden of packing, Wingman.

  P

  There was a shift between us that night. We were both aware of it. We just didn’t know exactly what it was. I never knew how instrumental that night would be in my future, but looking back now, I know it was the true beginning.

  The memory flitting fresh through my mind, I stand in Cecelia’s closet, sweat gliding down my back after another long run with Beau. I pick through her clothes, curious. She’s a no-label girl. There’s not one designer in her closet. We’re so much alike in some ways and polar opposites in others. She’s simple with her taste, even as a millionaire. She’s never given a fuck about money, which she made crystal clear when she handed me her inherited Fortune 500 company, along with the profit she made from our deal, back to Exodus in full.

  She never wanted her father’s money. She only wanted his love.

  That’s all she’s ever asked of any of the men in her life.

  I run my fingers down the fabric of one of her dresses. “I’ll make it up to you, Mon Trésor.”

  I’ve never lived with a woman, or really anyone as an adult for that matter, and I find it oddly satisfying that my first will be my last. That’s only if life and time allow it. Time itself is as fucking merciless as love is—no boundaries or ceasefire. It’s an enemy. And since I’ve been back, we haven’t resumed shit.

  But time is what she needs—time and boundaries—and that’s what I’ll have to give her. But is allowing space the right move? Do I treat her with fragility?

  That’s not what she’s used to from me. That’s not who we are.

  Grabbing some clothes of my own, I toss them on the bed and walk to her bookshelf, picking through until I see a familiar book. A new library copy of The Thorn Birds, similar to the one destroyed at the restaurant months ago.

  “I guess I’ll always be the girl crying for the moon.”

  Opening the small book, I thumb a few pages and palm my head when I see the main character’s name.

  “Why did you name it Meggie’s?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Do I know it?”

  “Intimately and from afar.”

  “King, you fucking idiot,” I mutter. I’ve flipped through the book once or twice out of curiosity, but the character names never stuck. I was too absorbed in Cecelia to see the bigger picture of what the book meant, and all these years later, I’m still as clueless.

  She named her café after the lead character of The Thorn Birds, the story closest to her heart. Her thieving this book from the Triple Falls Library is one of the reasons we exist. It’s obvious she compares herself to Meggie and our own story to the one inside the pages. I’ll memorize the fucking thing if it means so much to her. But for now, I’m coming up blank on how to proceed.

  This is my first time on the board without a strategy, and right now, she’s resuming her life like I’m some ob
stacle she has to work herself around. She’d left me here this morning, purposefully, so I couldn’t be more of a distraction.

  Frustrated, I head into her bathroom and open her medicine cabinet, satisfied when I see her birth control.

  That’s a discussion for a different day. I grab the bottle of lotion sitting next to it, uncap it and inhale.

  Immediately I’m hit with the familiarity and one of the triggers of my addiction to her, her scent. Reading the label, it dawns on me why.

  Juniper Berry.

  No wonder I’m addicted to her smell. I drink the contents of her scent nightly In. My. Fucking. Gin.

  “Well played, queen,” I muse, capping her lotion and closing the cabinet.

  Rummaging through her drawers, I realize I’m in full-fledged stalker mode with no idea what I’m searching for. Insight? Some sort of aid to help me in winning her back? Frustrated, I slam them shut, knowing I’m not going to find what I need counting her fucking Q-tips. My phone rumbles in my pocket with a text, and I’m thankful for the distraction.

  Tyler: Incoming.

  The phone rings in my hand a minute later, and I answer on the second, “Tobias.”

  “Had to make sure I knew my place picking up after two rings, huh?”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. President. How’s the big White House treating you?”

  “The bed is very comfortable, Mr. King,” he fires back in the same jovial tone. “I’ve been meaning to call you to thank you for all your help and for your contributions to the campaign.”

  “I consider it money well spent. We seem to agree on a lot of policy and change.”

  “That’s another reason for my call. I wanted to assure you that I’ll work tirelessly and have the country’s best interests at heart.”

  “No doubt you do, sir.”

  He cuts the shit. “Been a long time since prep, hasn’t it, King?”