Love in B Minor

by Elodie Nowodazkij

  A Broken Dreams Novel

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  Elodie Nowodazkij

  LOVE IN B MINOR Copyright © 2016 by Elodie Nowodazkij

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For information, contact elodie@elodienowodazkij.com or visit: www.elodienowodazkij.com

  Book and Cover design by Elodie Nowodazkij

  First Edition: March 2016

  Pour toi, Paris.

  For you, Paris.

  CHAPTER 1 – JEN

  Kneeing a guy in the balls might not be the best idea.

  And not because the guy in question is one of those up and coming actors everyone says will be the next Leonardo DiCaprio, but because I don’t want my friend Alisha to get in trouble. This club is new in Paris, but is already considered to be the “it” club. It’s full of important people, and Alisha begged her cousin every single day for the past three weeks to find a way to get us in. He’s DJ-ing and his music is the only part of this evening that doesn’t suck.

  “I think Scorsese is going to ask me to play the main role in his next movie. He needs a hero who speaks French. Hello? I’m French.” His voice is way too close to my ear and I scoot away. But he doesn’t get it. “I’ve got to ask for my friend over there.” He points to someone who could be a doppelganger of Justin Bieber. “Do you have another friend or a sister maybe? He’s feeling lonely.”

  My heart tightens and my eyes lock on the bottles lined up behind the bar. But concentrating on their bright colors or on the way the bartender manages to pour four drinks at once doesn’t stop the pain from nesting itself deep in my chest.

  I had a sister.

  “Did I say something wrong?” It seems Bjorn the Actor can be perceptive after all.

  I inhale and exhale slowly.

  If I lose it, it’s going to be the second time this week. I couldn’t hold back the tears after my ballet company’s director—Igor—yelled at me telling me I should have stayed in New York. Those words resonated in my heart and as soon as I got to my apartment, I plopped myself on my couch, held one of the last drawings my sister did for me and let the tears fall.

  Future DiCaprio leans in and his cologne’s too strong, making me want to gag. “You need to cheer up, angel. Can I get you another drink?”

  I shake my head, still staring straight ahead, hoping he finally gets the message.

  “Come on, beautiful. I’ve heard some amazing things about American girls.” Even his voice is sleazy.

  I push his hand away from my shoulder. I really don’t want to know what he’s heard about American girls. Or about Asian girls. Or about black girls. Which I’m sure is going to come next, since he’s already asked me where my parents were from. He probably wouldn’t care that my great-grandparents on my mother’s side came from Japan, and that my grandfather on my father’s side was born in Guinea and played soccer in Ireland, where he met my grandmother. Their relationship was scandalous at the time. Both my parents were born in the US, and when I told him that, he snickered.

  Asshole.

  His French accent isn’t even redeeming his assholery.

  I stand up so fast the barstool almost falls, but I catch it and put on my leather jacket over my silky red halter top, leaving my barely sipped mojito on the counter. One of the perks of being nineteen in Paris. No need for fake ID. Even though tipping isn’t as common here, I leave two euros next to my drink and the bartender nods my way with a smile that doesn’t only say thank you, but also that she knows how annoying this guy is.

  “I need some fresh air.” My fake smile must resemble a grimace because he raises an eyebrow, looking confused, but I don’t give him any time to reply. Instead, I shuffle through the bodies crowding the center of the VIP room.

  Alisha is sitting in one of the corner booths. Laughing and leaning into Steve, who she met tonight. He’s from Ohio and is apparently the new member of a rock band which is looking to make a comeback after some internal issues. Whatever that means. He’s built like a footballer and is entirely bald—not Alisha’s usual style, but she seems like she’s having the time of her life.

  “I’m going to get some fresh air,” I whisper in her ear and she jumps up, shrieking so loudly heads turn our way. Even Bjorn the Actor. Crap.

  “I didn’t see you coming!”

  “You did indeed look quite busy there.” I smile at Steve, who grins back, showing one dimple. If his band makes it to the top, Alisha’s going to have to deal with a bunch of groupies. She’s usually a boyfriend type. Her last relationship lasted eighteen months and it’s the first time she’s been out since it ended. “I’ll be back, I swear. I only need to escape Douchey McDouchey.”

  She frowns and glances at the bar, where Bjorn sits. He’s looking for someone and I sure don’t want to be found. “You can sit with us.” She taps the seat next to her, but she and Steve seem way too cozy for me to impose.

  “No. I’ll be fine. The girl sitting behind us has been shooting me death glares ever since he bought me a drink. I’m pretty sure she’s about to make her move, and I’m pretty sure he’s not going to refuse.”

  “You’re going to be cold.” She eyes my opened jacket, which is more a fashion statement than anything else. I checked my big winter coat at the entrance.

  “I’ll only be five minutes.” I step away. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  She purses her lips, as if she’s thinking really hard about what she should do. “I promise,” I repeat and step away from them, hurrying to the exit door. I get my hand stamped and slide past the bouncer.

  I breathe in the air of Paris. It’s not something specific about the city but ever since I arrived, I feel like I’ve been transported into this new world, this old world: the cafés on the street, the people rushing around like in New York but then still taking the time to live and argue and love. And the buildings fascinate me. Mom used to tell me stories about the architecture in Paris like she would tell me a goodnight story—full of whispers and enthralled in the legends. She loves the big avenues like this one, where the buildings have balconies wrapped around the third and sixth floor. All coming from the time Napoleon decided to redesign the city. And I could spend hours looking at them. I stroll down and turn into a side street. There the buildings appear older, a bit more cramped together. They look like they’ve seen it all. And they probably have. My eyes search for a possible inscription on the building in front of me. I’ve been taking pictures of every one I see. Like by my apartment, there’s one mentioning a soldier who died during World War II and another that references a writer who lived in that house during the 18th century. I glance up at the small balcony, wondering what the history of this particular building is, who lives there, who lived there before. Anything to let go of the annoyance and sadness rippling through me.

  “Bah alors t’es toute seule?"

  I turn my head to the right. One guy approaches, but his smile is not friendly or flirty. His smirk has me shivering from fear instead of the cold, and my entire body tenses. I’ve ventured a bit far from the club and there’s no one aro
und.

  I open my mouth, ready to scream, but there’s a flash in the dark. The moon reflects on the blade of a knife and I freeze. I can’t move. All I can think is that my parents shouldn’t have to lose another daughter.

  That I need to call them, talk to them, tell them how much I love them.

  That I don’t want to die.

  CHAPTER 2 – LUCAS

  I didn’t want to go out tonight. I wanted to stay home and watch a movie, but Steve insisted we needed to chill before the big audition we’re having for our next music video. This next song could put us back on the map or bury us deep in the charts. There’s so much expectation and I don’t know…I’m not feeling it.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I sound annoyed, but I’m fighting hard to keep my cool. My manager—Grégoire—is on his way to the club, calling me from his cell like what he has to tell me can’t wait. “Listen, I got to go. I’ll see you when you get there.” I hang up before he tries to guilt me into listening to him. He’s pretty good at that. Playing the guilt card. Reminding me that the other members of the band depend on me. Reminding me that my best friend—Benji—lived for the music and that he wouldn’t want me to give up. Reminding me that we have fans waiting for us, people who care.

  But I don’t feel like talking about the band tonight.

  I stretch to catch another glimpse of the gorgeous girl sitting at the bar. That top she has on isn’t very thick and every time she moves, it moves along with her, floating on her beautiful skin. I’m dying to run my fingers through her hair and if Bjorn—the actor who should win an award for assholery—wasn’t sitting next to her, I’d make a move.

  I should make a move anyways.

  I stand up, but before I can walk up to her, Dimitri—another member of our band—stops me. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he slurs before hugging me. “I’m just so happy.” He plops himself on the seat by me and wraps his arm around me. He’s usually the quiet type, but when he drinks he’s out of this world. And right now he’s so drunk, I need to call a driver for him. His wife, Amie, will never forgive me if I let him go out like this. “We’re going to be awesome. I need us to be awesome,” he mutters and again I’m reminded I’m not the only one in the band. The only one who needs this. Dimitri helps Amie’s entire family. He doesn’t only pay the mortgage of her parents’ house, he also foots the bill for his own younger brother’s tuition. He got accepted into a prestigious business school in Paris, but didn’t qualify for financial aid. Dimitri is only twenty-five but according to Grégoire, the way he takes care of everyone, the way he is with Amie, he appeals to a different demographic.

  “I want another drink.” He holds himself to the table before leaning back and closing his eyes. Snoring.

  My eyes dart around. The mysterious girl is talking to the girl who’s sitting with Steve, and then she slides out of the club not wearing her coat. She has to come back.

  I call a driver for Dimitri and tell Steve I’m bringing him out. The girl he’s with stares at my sunglasses without saying a word, and I tilt my head and pat Steve’s shoulder, silently reminding him that I’m Clément tonight. Clément the roadie.

  I don’t want to be famous tonight.

  Dimitri’s heavy but at least cooperating. Once outside, the cold air has him shivering. The car pulls up soon after, and I help him inside, call Amie to let her know he’s on his way. She thanks me profusely. As I talk to her, my steps take me down almost to the Seine and I stare at the reflection of the lights on the water.

  So peaceful.

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  I’m inside the club. Where are you?

  Grégoire must not be pleased, and when Grégoire is not pleased he’s even more unpleasant than usual. What really pushes me to turn back around, though, is the thought that the gorgeous girl might be back at the bar. If she’s gone before I get back inside, that’s going to put a damper on my evening.

  I stride back, enjoying being incognito for the evening, thinking about new songs for our next album even though I haven’t been able to write a single song since the one about Benji’s death.

  But then I see her.

  CHAPTER 3 - JEN

  My back is pressed against the cold wall. And my brain searches for something, anything to get me out of this situation, but all I can concentrate on is the scar on his left cheek. I’m tempted to ask him where he got it from. Maybe save myself some time. Maybe show him that I’m a person too.

  “Tu parles pas, t’es timide?” His breath smells like beer and hopelessness.

  My limited French can’t save me from this situation. “Je…Je ne comprends pas.”

  He blocks my way. “You no speak French?” He rubs his fingers together. “Money. Money.”

  There’s someone in the distance. That’s my chance. “I don’t have money.” My voice is loud enough for him to hear me. He turns around, and I swear he can see me, but instead of coming to help, he keeps on walking. My chest tightens; what if I don’t find a way out?

  My phone is tucked in my back pocket. I’d give him my purse if it only held my ID, one credit card and twenty euros. But it also has a picture of my little sister, and it’s not one of those pictures that is saved on the computer or from my phone. When she was feeling better, I took her to the mall because she wanted to ride the merry-go-round there. There were those photo booths and we made silly faces and we laughed and I can’t lose those pictures.

  He taps on my head. “Hello? You hear?”

  I stare at him and for a split second, he almost looks embarrassed, like he doesn’t want to do this. I could maybe talk him out of taking my purse and hope for the best.

  A shadow appears to my left. Nope. Not a shadow. A guy.

  “Il y a un problème?” He doesn’t seem scared. Or looking for a fight. Just concerned. And there’s something in the way he walks that reassures me. Maybe it’s the confidence or simply the fact that he seems to care. Though he’s got shades on at night, so maybe I’m misreading everything.

  “I’m not sure.” My voice doesn’t shake as much as I thought it would, and I cross my fingers he speaks English.

  He steps even closer. “Are you okay?” His tone is soothing and warm, like he wants to make sure I’m not scared of him, that I know he’s got my back.

  “Dégage.” The guy still holding the knife attempts to circle around him. Actually, while kneeing someone in the balls might not be a great idea, kicking him in the balls is an excellent idea. I focus on the movement, like I would for a pirouette; I gather all my adrenaline into that one kick and as swiftly as possible, I kick him where it hurts. He screeches loudly and bends down, jumping on his feet, dropping his knife.

  “Salope. Putain, salope.” Something about calling me a bitch. The guy with the sunglasses touches my shoulder.

  “That was amazing,” he says and then he lowers his voice just above a whisper. “You look like you could use a shot of something—you’re shaking.”

  Before I can reply, two bouncers from the club run our way. One of them pins the mugger to the wall. The mugger who is now whimpering, and mumbling words in French I don’t understand.

  The other bouncer catches sight of us and his eyes widen. Words tumble out of his mouth and he sounds apologetic, but I’m not sure why.

  The guy who helped me switches to English. “We should call the police.”

  The bouncer’s mouth opens then closes. Which has me all kinds of confused as to what’s going on. Finally, he speaks. “I will do that. I will tell them what happened. We have cameras out there so it should be fine. You can go back inside.”

  The mugger yells and thrashes but the bouncer holding him doesn’t bulge.

  I raise my hand as if I’m back in school—I’m feeling way too calm for what happened. “Shouldn’t we wait for the police?”

  The bouncer shakes his head. “Two other people have been robbed today and the police have been looking for a guy who
matches this description.”

  “Putain, j’ai rien fait!” The robber screams and struggles to get away from the bouncer’s grasp. “I didn’t do nothing!” He yells this time in English as if for my benefit, as if I would take his side, defend him, say it must all be a big mistake. I stare at him. His skin is ashen and his hair is in strings like it hasn’t been washed in days. His arms are strong but his cheeks are hollow like he hasn’t eaten properly in weeks and his eyes are full of despair, of need. He looks like an addict who hasn’t had his fix in too long. My heart beats faster than if I had danced an entire ballet. The adrenaline crashes down and I’m left with feelings I can’t deal with: that fear of dying, this desire to live, is that what my little sister had to deal with before taking a last breath? Did she know what was happening? A fist of sadness tightens around my throat. Tears threaten to escape.

  The guy with the sunglasses nudges me softly as if he doesn’t want to scare me, as though he can see I’m very close to losing it. “If you want to stay, we can stay. But otherwise, Karim has my number.” He points to the bouncer who’s been talking to us, the one who looks a bit older and very nice. “I’ll make sure he’ll give it to them.” His voice is soothing and concerned and I’m tempted to step into his arms. I’m not making any sense.

  I’m torn. I want to stay, but really, what do I have on the guy except him flashing a knife at me? He didn’t put it to my throat, he didn’t rob me, he threatened me but didn’t touch me.

  The robber is silent now, but still staring at me. Karim looks at me gruffly but with a hint of kindness. “My daughter is your age.” He’s got a thick French accent and I have to decipher some of the words. He pauses as if he’s conflicted and then continues. “You don’t need to wait. He’s been operating in this area for the past three weeks, but the police are more interested about…how do you say this…the bigger fish. His boss. You…” His eyes look like a father’s eyes. It’s the same look I’ve seen in my dad’s eyes when he’s worried. “You don’t deserve to have to wait here in the same air as the man who attacked you. Trust me, you don’t need to stay.”