The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series)
Page 9
So, really, tonight isn’t a big deal.
It won’t kill him.
* * *
Sixteen
“You said in Nîmes you wanted to talk to me about something.” Hugo plants himself in front of me and hands me my martini.
I take a small sip. “I did.”
“How about now?” He smiles even though the expression in his eyes is serious.
Now’s the perfect time.
“Hmm.” I study the olive in my glass. “There are too many people here. I can’t even hear myself speak.”
Coward.
He smirks. “I can hear you all right.”
I give another hmm and look around. A well-dressed, cheerful crowd fills La Bohème on this invitation-only night before its public reopening. People stand in small groups around the front room and bar area. Some sit at the tables that are pushed to the walls.
Jeanne’s walls, now that my work here is done.
Since the party started a couple of hours ago, Hugo and I have received tons of compliments on the “complete but respectful” makeover we’ve given this place. Our order book has filled up to the point where I’ve begun to turn people down. There’s only so much Hugo, René, and I can accomplish in a day, a week, and a month even if we put in insanely long hours.
Except René, that is, to whom dinner with his wife and kids is sacred.
I could hire more hands.
Hugo could run a team of his own. Now that he has his contractor license, he’s officially qualified to do it. We could figure out how to handle two projects at the same time. We could—
Hugo cocks his head. “So?”
“You first,” I say. I’m totally not stalling.
He nods. “OK, I’ll go first.”
As he drops his head to collect his thoughts, Diane storms past us. I wave to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. There’s a glint in her eyes and her lips are pressed together, giving her that familiar air of single-minded resolve. The one she usually sports just before she does something stupid.
Diane heads to the bar and picks up a big orange-colored cocktail from a tray and a large slice of white and pink cream cake.
Weird. Diane hates cream cakes.
She marches toward Sebastian Darcy, who’s talking with someone by the wall, and plants herself in his personal space. He turns to her with a half-polite, half-inquisitive expression. She throws the contents of her glass at the front of his white shirt. On impulse, Darcy looks down to examine the stain. And that’s when Diane smashes her cake on his face.
“What the fuck!” Darcy glares at her.
A blob of whipped cream detaches itself from his cheek and falls onto one of his expensive and impeccably polished shoes.
Someone giggles.
Darcy pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his face.
Diane sneers at him. Then she spins around and walks toward the door.
“Hey, you, whoever you are!” He barks after her. “I don’t know why you did this, and I don’t care, but I promise you’ll regret it!”
She storms out the door without turning back.
Darcy leaves shortly after.
A pang of guilt constricts my chest. God knows what a powerful man like Sebastian Darcy will do to someone who publicly humiliated him. Diane is gutsy and irreverent, but behind her blasé attitude, she’s a naive small-town girl who never expects the worst.
Something tells me his last remark wasn’t an empty threat. And something tells me Diane’s outburst is related to a past event that’s somehow my fault. I’ll talk to her tonight.
But first, I must ensure Hugo’s safety.
I turn to him. “You were going to say something before we got interrupted by Diane the Drama Queen.”
He smiles. “That girl has balls.”
I spread my arms in a gesture of helplessness.
“So, yeah.” He clears his throat. “I lied to you.”
“About what?”
“Well, technically, it wasn’t a lie.”
“Right.” I sigh. “So what was your non-lie about?”
“Remember that deal we made two weeks ago in your kitchen?”
I nod. “You promised you weren’t going to fall for me.”
“I promised no such thing.”
“What do you mean? You said—”
“I said you shouldn’t presume I’ll fall in love once we’ve had sex.”
“Exactly. So you lied?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You’re not making any sense, Hugo.”
He takes my empty martini glass and sets it on the closest table. Then he takes my hand. “I didn’t lie, pichune. I just failed to mention something.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t going to fall for you after sex. I’d already fallen. Since middle school.”
I take a moment to process this.
“Why didn’t you say something back then? You never asked me out, never even held my hand.”
“I was shy, remember?”
“Yes, but still…”
“OK, if you want the whole truth, it was because of Lionel.”
“What did Lionel have to do with it?”
“He took me aside after one of our basketball practices and had the big-brother talk with me.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. I remember every word he said. ‘Chloe’s seen too much loss, and she’s just beginning to heal. I’m asking you not to try anything. If things turn sour between the two of you, it may be more than she can handle.’ ”
“Poor Lionel! He was worried about what his looming death would do to me.”
“I figured as much. Everyone knew about his illness.”
I sigh.
“So, I heeded his advice.” Hugo gives my hand a squeeze. “I was young. I didn’t know my heart.”
“And you do now?”
He nods.
“Well, too bad,” I say. “Because I’m ending our affair. From now on, we’ll be just friends and business partners.”
“Pichune, you’re overreacting.”
“No, I’m not! Lionel was right to warn you not to date me, only he got one crucial detail wrong. It wasn’t for my sake—it was for yours. Stay away from me, Hugo, please!”
Something wet runs down my cheek.
Shit.
“Chloe,” he says. “Since you told me about your Midas touch, I did some research.”
I give him a tired look.
“Listen to me.” He steps closer. “I’m not sure I can explain this properly, but it’s called ‘magical thinking.’ ”
I shrug. “Yeah, I’ve heard about it. But it’s not my case, Hugo. I’m not deluding myself. There’s too much evidence that my curse is real.”
“What evidence? Your adoptive parents’ death?”
“Among other things.”
“It isn’t evidence, Chloe. It’s what triggered your problem. This happens to grieving children all the time. They start thinking it was their fault.”
I put my chin up. “It was my fault.”
He smiles softly and shakes his head. “You’re sabotaging your happiness because of that.”
“Rubbish. I’m perfectly happy.”
“OK, fine. Whatever.” His eyes bore into mine. “Now you’re afraid I might be your next victim, right?”
I hold his gaze. “You will be my next victim if you don’t run while you can.”
“I don’t want to run. It’s my life, and I’m OK with taking that risk.” His lips quirk. “Considering there’s no risk.”
Hugo Bonnet, you’re a mule. And a pain in the neck.
I speak slowly, articulating every word. “Which part of ‘I’m lethally toxic’ don’t you understand?”
“Every. Single. Part,” he says, mimicking my cadence.
“Well, if you don’t care about your life, so be it. But I do, and I’ll do what it takes to keep you safe.”
“Chloe…”
I pull my han
d from his and shove both hands into the pockets of my pants. “You can’t force me to be with you.”
“Tell me something,” The corners of his mouth turn down. “Do you get a kick out of it?”
“Of what?”
“Feeling almighty when in reality you’re being chicken.”
“What the—”
“You’re pushing me away because what we have scares the shit out of you.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what scares me.”
“You’re right,” he says with a smirk. “My apologies. It’s not the commitment that scares you, it’s your evil superpowers and what they might do to me.”
That’s exactly right!
Only… it does sound kind of megalomaniacal when he puts it that way.
But I won’t let him ridicule me into changing my mind.
I shrug. “Mock me all you want.”
“I’m not mocking you.”
“And, believe me, I don’t enjoy having superpowers. I’d give anything to get rid of them!”
“Hey,” he says with a smile. “I have good news—you don’t have any superpowers. You’re not an evil goddess of death and suffering. You’re just a human who’s had a rough start in life… and who needs to address a few issues.”
His words are so reasonable and convincing. Anything I say in rebuttal will sound crazy.
Am I crazy? Am I messed up? Do I really have “issues” to address?
I think I do.
In fact, I’m almost sure of it.
I’ve suspected for a while now that I am yet to come to terms with being an adoptee. All those imaginary arguments with Claire have been my awkward attempts to do just that. I’ve begun to wonder why I’m so convinced my birth parents are dead. Perhaps it’s to camouflage a more brutal truth. A truth that makes me feel like I’m defective beyond repair. Like I’m worthless and undeserving of anything good, undeserving of love.
The truth that my birth mom and dad didn’t want me.
Have I invented my Midas touch—my superpowers, as Hugo calls them—in a misguided attempt to heal myself, to dull the pain of that truth? In some sick and twisted way, has it been easier to live with being a monster than a victim? Has it been easier to accept myself as someone who was cursed rather than rejected?
Suddenly, it’s all too much to take in.
The room feels like a sauna, and it’s too hard to breathe.
I glance at the door. “I need to be by myself now, OK?”
Hugo doesn’t look convinced.
“Please stay here and enjoy the party. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Without waiting for his reply, I push past him and head toward Jeanne. I say a hurried good-bye to her and Mat and a few other people I know and then rush to the exit without stopping to button my coat.
Outside, the night air hits me in the chest, but I’m glad for it. I take a few strides down rue Cadet in the direction of the métro station when I hear steps behind me.
“Hugo, I asked you to stay—,” I hiss as I turn around.
Except it isn’t Hugo.
It’s Fabien.
“What are you doing here?” I ask drily.
A part of me registers with relief that at least I wasn’t being paranoid. He really is stalking me.
He gives me a humorless smile. “And hello to you, too, Chloe.”
I fold my arms across my chest.
“To answer your question,” he says, “I’m giving you one last chance.”
“To do what?”
“Beg me to take you back.”
Seriously? “I’ll do no such thing.”
“Right,” he says quietly and looks down.
This was too easy.
He looks up, his face contorted in anger. “You prefer to sleep around, don’t you?” His voice is loud now.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Promiscuity is your middle name,” he yells. “No, slut is your middle name!”
What a jerk!
My hand is itching to slap him, but I stop myself. Fabien is almost foaming at the mouth, his face distorted with rage. Adding oil to the fire may not be a good idea.
I move to walk past him, but he grabs my shoulders and shakes me.
“Let go of me!” I bawl.
The next second, Hugo shoves him away from me, barking insults and threats. He’s livid. I’ve never seen him like this before, not even at Manon’s party when he sent Jack Sparrow flying across the room.
Fabien takes a step back, his jaw clenched, a vicious look in his eyes.
The idiot had better run. He stands no chance against Hugo.
But Fabien doesn’t run. Instead, he pulls something from his pocket and points it at Hugo.
A gun.
I scream as the gun in Fabien’s hand makes a loud bang.
Hugo wavers and falls to the ground.
I rush to him.
Fabien scurries away.
The next few minutes are a frenzy of checking Hugo’s pulse and dialing the emergency number with fingers that tremble so much I drop the phone twice. When I finally manage to make the call, I bellow the address and beg the man on the other end of the line to hurry as if he were the one to drive here. Then I lose my grip on the phone again and it shatters. When I pick it up, part of the glass screen falls out. I drop it and kneel next to Hugo, pressing my bunched up scarf to his wound. My vision begins to blur with the horror of what’s just happened.
Then I hear a second bang and see Fabian in the distance. He runs away.
I feel as though someone punched me in the stomach, really hard. Very quickly, a burning sensation takes over. The world around me begins to disintegrate like a cookie sinking to the bottom of a coffee mug. No booms or bursts, just a slow and relentless crumbling away at the edges. Before it completely dissolves into nothingness, an almost entertaining thought strikes me. My superpowers—the ones Hugo laughed off—did do him in after all.
How ironic.
It must have been that night in Nîmes that tipped the scales.
But hey, there’s a silver lining to this story.
The superpowers that killed Hugo are erasing me from the face of the Earth, too.
* * *
Seventeen
Everything is drenched in light.
Paris is enjoying its first sunny day in three weeks, and it’s unusually warm for late November. People grab their morning coffee on terraces and turn their faces to the sun. They’re soaking up as much of its goodness as they can before they go inside and spend the next eight to twelve hours in front of a computer or at a cashier’s desk.
A dog sitter ambles around the square, pulled by an assorted pack of Chihuahuas, beagles, and poodles. He stops every few steps so that one of his furry charges can take care of business.
A tall man in his forties speeds by on a skateboard. Two preteen girls on pink scooters pant and try to keep up with him.
“Dad, slow down!” the younger girl shouts.
“Come on, munchkins, we’re almost there,” the man says without turning back. “This is so freaking cool!”
He has a huge grin on his face. His tongue sticks out a little as he pushes off again. His tie flies over his shoulder and down his back, flopping in the wind. The hems of his dark suit pants are polka-dotted with puddle water. But he doesn’t seem to care.
He’s fifteen once again.
I shift on the bench, watching the three of them vanish from sight.
Hugo puts his arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head.
Yep, we’re both alive—even though not quite kicking yet.
For once, statistics have worked for me. Hugo and I made it, like the vast majority of gunshot victims do. We have Fabien to thank for it. I’m serious. His being a lousy shot and mucking up his crime of passion was a key factor in our pulling through. Besides, the ambulance arrived quickly, and the ER doctors did a great job patching us up.
The police arrested Fabien the next day.
A nurse from the hospital has been coming by for outpatient procedures, and I asked her to refer me to a good psychotherapist. I saw him three times already, admittedly to help me with the PTSD. But he’s smart. Ten minutes into our first session, he knew I was seeing him to get help for something else entirely.
The shrink says I’m a challenge, considering the layers of fears, mental blocks, and delusions I’ve wrapped myself in since childhood.
He also says he enjoys a challenge.
Claire has been cooking my favorite dishes and spending a lot of time in the armchair next to the couch where I dwell by day.
Diane has been camping on the floor at the foot of said couch every evening after she gets home from her part-time cashier job. We watch a couple of episodes of Game of Thrones, and then she “streams” her own entertainment program in the form of witty banter. Yesterday I asked her about Darcy. She refused to give me the lowdown, but said she wasn’t through with him yet. Worse still, she hinted at some diabolical plan to punish him by “pressing right where it hurts.”
Should I worry about him, too? But I can’t bring myself to do that right now. I don’t even have the energy to worry about Diane or Claire or Charles. Hugo and I were shot. We survived. To celebrate it, I’m taking a little vacation from worrying. It’s my cheat month. I’m letting my family—because that’s what Claire, Charles, and Diane are to me—look after me, and I’m basking in their love.
And, boy, it feels good.
Hugo and I have been talking a lot over the last three weeks about work, Fabien, common friends, and all sorts of things… except our future. We’ve been pretty good at keeping a lid on that particular topic. It was easy when we were at the hospital, surrounded by medical personnel and given painkillers 24-7. After we were discharged, it became a little more difficult, although recovering in separate apartments located across the city definitely helped.
But with every passing day, it became harder and harder not to mention the elephant in the room. So, when he asked me if I was feeling brave enough to meet him in town today, I knew it was to talk about it.