Rewind Boxed Set

by Rowan Shaw

  I winced. "Tell Jean-François I'll treat. I'll refund you when I see you."

  He shook his head. "You can take us next time as pay-back. Are you sure you want to meet? You seem busy."

  "No, it's fine."

  I wasn't sure what to do, honestly. I couldn't kick Brandon out, but the thought of introducing him to my best friends paralyzed me. I wasn't entirely ready for that. Even after last night.

  "Can I meet you guys in an hour? Stanislas Square?"

  "Fine. But you're treating us to some coffee."

  "That's a deal."

  I closed my eyes and pinched my nose when he turned off his camera.

  "Was that Enzo?" Brandon asked, fully awake.

  "Yes, I was supposed to meet him thirty minutes ago, and I slept past the time."

  He gave a nod and tilted his head. His hair was a wild mess from me tugging at it hard while we fucked, and he had that morning afterglow shining through as his mouth spread into a lazy smile. "So if you missed the meeting, does it mean we have time to do that thing again? The one you introduced me to last night?"

  I wasn't sure what he was referring to; we had done a lot of things last night. "I'm afraid we can't. I have to go meet them and make amends."

  "Oh."

  The disappointment was so transparent on his face, I dropped a soft kiss on his lips. "You're coming with me."

  "To meet your friend?"

  "Two of them, actually." I didn't know what the fuck I was doing, but this was happening, apparently.

  "Isn't it a bit early to introduce me to your friends?"

  "Unless you want me to kick you out."

  "No, thanks."

  "Come on." I jerked my chin toward the door and got off the bed to go shower with him. Of course the shower only managed to turn me on.

  "Just a quickie," I said and got to my knees to please him all the way before he took his turn to suck me off under the hot water. The blow jobs made us late, of course, so we had to rush to get dressed.

  I couldn't find my car keys either.

  "You dropped them on your bookshelf last night," Brandon said, pointing at it.

  "Whatever would I do without you?" I sighed and grabbed them. "Let's go."

  Driving wasn't bad, but it took forever to park. I repressed a few curses when the clock confirmed we were already fifteen minutes behind. The guys were going to kill me. Brandon and I nearly ran to the square, where I couldn't even locate Enzo. I messaged him to ask where the hell he was, my phone beeping with a response almost instantly.

  ENZO: Inside the café. It's cold outside. We figured you'd be late. As always.

  "It's about time," Jean-François called, waving at us from their table in the far back as soon as we walked in.

  "I am so sorry." I leaned forward to kiss him on the cheeks, followed by Brandon who did the same and introduced himself. Enzo was far from discreet in his staring. I rounded my eyes for him to stop, and he gave a tiny smile telling me I wasn't done hearing about this.

  "What did you have for lunch?" I asked them as we sat down.

  "Nothing I could afford," Enzo replied, his eyebrow raised.

  "Again, I am so sorry."

  "You owe us big time," he added while Jean-François sized Brandon up and smirked.

  "You're all forgiven," Jean-François said, still staring before interrogating Brandon like we were at some damn police station.

  I knew he was doing it to punish me. When he'd garnered enough information about the man I'd spent all night railing, he stopped prying into Brandon's private life and looked at me. "What else is new with you, tombeur?"

  I fucking hated it when he called me Lover Boy, and he knew it. "Just work."

  Everyone turned quiet when the bartender came up to us to ask what we wanted to drink.

  "Un sirop menthe, s'il vous plaît."

  "The same," Brandon replied, then turned to me. "I've never had one of those."

  "You don't have any in the US?" I asked.

  "No, we have juices, but not those syrups you drink here."

  "Well, then Patrick could never live there," Jean-François joked. "He's addicted to that stuff."

  "Am not."

  "Really? How many bottles do you have at your place?"

  "About ten. It's really not that many."

  "I don't have a single bottle at home," Jean-François commented.

  "That's because you don't know what's good in life."

  "I don't know where you're storing all that sugar," he added. "It's disgusting, really."

  "You and I go work out every week."

  "Correction: you come with me once a week. I go every single day."

  "Well, and I never go," Enzo said, all proud of himself.

  Brandon shot him a complicit grin.

  "Did you guys eat anything?" Enzo changed the subject.

  Brandon sent me a look weighted with meaning.

  "Oh we ate all right," I joked.

  A light pink color covered his cheeks.

  "That quickly?" Enzo asked. "What did you have?"

  I couldn't hide a smirk. He was so oblivious sometimes.

  "We had some eggplant. It was delicious."

  Brandon bit his upper lip, his face tomato-red as he tried not to laugh.

  Jean-François sent us both a quick glance, his lips quirking with a knowing lopsided smirk.

  We spent another hour chatting, and when the conversation turned to Cyrille and other people Brandon didn't know, I whispered in his ear to ask if he wanted to leave and have more eggplant. He didn't reply, but his eyes shone with instant need. We kissed the guys goodbye, and I reiterated my promise to treat them to a full meal next time.

  "They're nice," Brandon said as soon as we were out, strolling out of the square. "I'm flattered you presented me to your friends at all. Does this make us official?"

  I couldn't repress a smile. "I think we both know we became official the day I accepted to date you without sex included."

  Chapter 32

  PATRICK

  "You got everything?" I asked Brandon as he got in the car with a picnic bag. We'd been dating for a month, and though I couldn't always get away from my professional obligations, I did my best to allow time for him on the days he didn't have his daughter. We spent the majority of nights together and every other weekend as well.

  "Yep, ham and butter sandwiches, a tomato and cucumber salad, peaches, and water," he replied.

  "The drive to Domrémy-la-Pucelle should take about an hour."

  He set the picnic bag on the back seat and turned to me as he put his seatbelt on. "You never told me what there was to see there."

  "It's a surprise."

  "Why is the town called Domrémy-the-Virgin?" he asked and settled in his seat.

  I started the car, turned the music on, and drove away. "You'll see."

  "Is that Céline Dion playing on the stereo?" he asked.

  "Yes, is that okay?"

  He shrugged one shoulder and looked out the window at the rows of gray houses in his neighborhood. "I don't mind."

  "I saw her in concert a long time ago. Jean-Jacques Goldman was there, too."

  "He writes her French songs, right?"

  "Yep."

  I put the music louder when “Tout l'or des hommes” played and started singing along. Brandon's head whipped toward me.

  "You can sing?"

  I took a turn and shot him a look from the corner of my eye. "Sure, if you can call that singing."

  "You're hitting every note right."

  "Really?"

  "Are you hiding something from me?" he asked.

  "Like what?"

  "Did you take singing classes?"

  I looked in the rearview mirror and made another turn on a national road heading west, then sped up, the engine roaring when I pressed the accelerator. The car was still cold from the freezing winter, and the heater wouldn't blow hot air just yet no matter how high I set the temperature.

  "For a couple of years."


  In my peripheral vision, I saw his mouth gape open. "Why didn't you say anything?"

  I laughed. "Because I didn't want you to ask me to sing."

  "But you're singing now."

  "Only because I love this song."

  "You can sing songs by Céline Dion. That's no easy task, Patrick. You're sure you only took two years of classes?"

  "Yes, when I was a teen. Then I decided to move on to tennis." That was a bad decision too; I hated tennis.

  "I learn things about you every day."

  "That's a good thing, mon chou. Otherwise, what will we be talking about ten years from now?"

  His entire body froze by my side. "Ten years from now?"

  I sent him a quick glance. "Well, we're dating. I'm not going to set an expiration date on our relationship."

  "True." He kept staring at me as we chatted the entire drive, our conversation only interrupted whenever I cursed at other drivers.

  "Do people always drive that fast?" he asked.

  "That's a game some people like to play, yes. But I'm not going to participate."

  "What do you mean?"

  I pointed at a radar. "See that? They're everywhere. And look at that fucker." I honked at some asshole who'd just cut right in front of me, forcing me to hit the brakes as I shouted, "T'as eu ton permis dans une boîte Bonux? Connard!"

  "Well, that's another thing I learned about you today: you're an angry driver."

  I cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "No one's perfect, mon lapin."

  "Oh don't worry. I never thought you were perfect."

  "You got that right," I huffed with a laugh.

  "So, are you going to tell me what we're visiting?"

  "Nope. We're almost there anyway."

  "I'm hungry. When are we picnicking?"

  I looked at the clock. "It's only ten-thirty. You didn't have breakfast?"

  He hesitated for a second. "I did."

  I narrowed my eyes. "Are you lying to me, Brandon Smith?"

  "I was so tired, I slept in late. I barely had time to make the sandwiches."

  "How many sandwiches do we have? Maybe you can eat one before we get there."

  "I made four."

  "Are they small?"

  "Half a baguette for each sandwich."

  "And the salad? That's a lot of food. You can definitely have one now."

  He reached in the back to open the cooler and pull out a sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil.

  "You're lucky it's you. No one else is allowed to eat in my car."

  He paused, his sandwich in hand. "You're sure it's okay?"

  "It's just crumbs. I can vacuum the seats."

  He nodded and pulled the aluminum foil apart, making it crease under his fingers as he took a large bite of his sandwich. I turned the music up, and we didn't talk for a while. With or without the music on, I enjoyed that we'd grown to appreciate each other's presence without needing to fill the silence with useless chitchat.

  I drove for another ten minutes when the signs let me know I should exit. "We're getting there."

  "I still don't know why we're here."

  I didn't reply. I drove through the village of Domrémy, with its familiar beige roughcast houses and red tile roofs. When we reached our destination, I parked the car in a small lot. There were a few vehicles around, but I knew from experience the place was never packed, especially in November when the weather was so cold.

  Brandon scanned the environment and frowned. "May I ask what we're doing here now, or is that still a national secret?"

  I turned off the engine. "I'll give you a hint: a famous French icon was born here."

  "I have no idea."

  I didn't add a word as I stepped out of the car, then led him to the museum so I could get us tickets.

  "Wait, is this a museum about Joan of Arc?!" Brandon exclaimed when we reached the entrance.

  "Yep." I pulled the door open and gestured for him to go in first.

  "Joan of Arc was born here? So close to where we live?"

  "Yep."

  "Wow. There's so much around here I've never even visited."

  "It's okay. I'll take you wherever you want." I winked at him.

  "Is this your first visit?" the brown-haired receptionist asked as soon as we reached the register.

  "Not mine, but his, yes," I replied. "He's American."

  Her eyes widened as if I'd said he was a celebrity of some sort. She instantly reverted to English, her thick French accent butchering the language. "You should go see ze house first, but when you come back for a tour of ze museum, please let me know. I'll give you some speakers so you can follow ze visit in English."

  "Je comprends très bien le français," Brandon said, but the lady shook her head.

  "It's so rare that we see Americans here," she responded, pronouncing all the Rs with a throaty rasp. "We want you to have a great visit."

  Brandon didn't have time to protest. She was already getting something from under the counter.

  "Zere, it'll be here waiting for you. Enjoy your visit."

  Brandon looked at me, baffled, and followed me out. "Why was she speaking to me in English? I just told her I could speak French."

  "She was trying to be polite. If you'd come here with an attitude, acting like she should know English, she might not have bothered."

  "Did you know I was terrified to move here at first? I thought French people hated Americans."

  "I don't know why you'd think that. Also, remember this region was ravaged by WWI and WWII. We have a lot of American cemeteries here."

  Brandon nodded through a smile, and I took him to Joan's house. It was small, cold, medieval, and unfurnished. He tightened his scarf around his neck before we visited the chapel where Joan was baptized and the church harboring all the stained glass windows displaying the scenes of her feats, victories, and downfall. As expected, the receptionist was all over us the moment we returned to the museum. She handed Brandon the speakers before he could even say a word and tried to explain to him in English how they worked. He sent me a quick glance for help, but I shook my head.

  "I'm almost vexed. I can do this without the speakers," he lamented as we began the visit.

  "It's nothing to be vexed about, mon lapin. She wasn't implying your French was bad. She was just trying to be as cordial and accommodating as she could. The more effort you make to speak French, the kinder people will be. Nothing irritates the French more than someone coming here thinking we should all speak English."

  "Do you mean nothing besides the radars on the road and people speaking ill of the revolution?"

  "Yeah, besides that."

  "Or people telling the French they're quitters and cowards?"

  "Who the fuck says that?" I asked a bit too loud, drawing some visitors' attention.

  "Some people," he whispered.

  "I've never heard anyone say that in my life. Why would anyone say that?"

  "Because of what happened during WWII."

  "You mean because we were invaded, our people forced into camps or shot dead? Gee, you don't joke about WWII and all the lives we lost around here unless you want to get punched in the face."

  We continued the visit in silence before entering a small theater with immobile mannequins, partially hidden by velvet drapes. I snickered when a light came on to illuminate one of the mannequins, followed by a voice relating the events of the Hundred Years' War.

  "Maman, pourquoi c'est en anglais?" a little girl asked her mom next to us, wondering why the show was in English.

  "Je traduirai pour toi, ma chérie."

  "I need to say something," Brandon whispered. "The little girl doesn't know English."

  "Shhh. You'll break the poor lady's heart at the front desk."

  "Can you understand what they're saying?" he asked me.

  "Kind of. I told you I understand English better than I speak it. And I've been here a couple of times already. I know the whole story."

  Brandon wrung his ha
nds together, looking at the exit door a few times as if truly considering going out there to ask them to switch the language back to French. "I feel so bad."

  I shushed him and told him to listen. Though he sent a few more glimpses at the door, he remained seated and watched the show.

  When we were done, the lady at the entrance beamed at him and asked how things went.

  "The visit was wonderful, thank you."

  Her smile spread to her eyes.

  "See how happy you made her? And there you were ready to break her heart. Tsk," I laughed when we exited.

  "I still feel bad for the little girl."

  "Her mom translated everything. Don't worry."

  He didn't seem convinced, but he didn't push the subject.

  "We can have our picnic in the next village over. I checked online this morning. They have a park with tables."

  "Isn't it a bit cold for that?" he asked, shuddering at the thought.

  "We can eat in the car if you want."

  "No, I guess it's fine." He grabbed my hand. "What place will you take me to next time?"

  I raised an eyebrow. "I think you should plan our next date. I'm always the one choosing."

  "That's because you know the area so well."

  I led him to the car and sat behind the wheel. "True, but we could also plan a long weekend outside this region if there's somewhere else you want to go."

  "I'll think about it." He pulled on his belt and sent one last glance at the village.

  "You're sleeping at my place tonight, right?" I asked.

  "Of course."

  I placed my arm on top of his seat and looked out the rear windshield to pull out of the parking spot. "I bought something I want to try on you."

  "What is it?" Brandon's eyes shone at me when I changed gears.

  "Surprise."

  "I think I've had enough surprises for one day."

  My lips rose on one side. "You told me you'd never been tied up during sex."

  His mouth gaped open. "You bought a rope?"

  "Among other toys."

  "You won't tell me, will you?"

  "Not only will I not tell you, but I will cover your eyes so you don't know what it is until I try it on you."

  I cast Brandon a glance, quick enough to catch him shivering in eagerness. Little did I know this would be our last weekend of insouciance.