by L. A. Witt
“Absolutely.” The word almost broke Marcus’s composure. He cleared his throat twice. “I love him, Julien. I do.”
“I know.” Julien stepped closer and put his hands on Marcus’s shoulders. “I know you think that asking him to stay means asking him to let go of his dreams and his future, but I know him. Quite possibly better than he knows himself.” He paused, looking straight into Marcus’s eyes. “Timur joined the Legion because he needed to get away from a shithole town and a fucked-up family. There was no future for him there. The one thing he always talked about, the only thing he ever dreamed about, was eventually finding someone to go home to.”
Marcus swallowed.
Julien went on. “The Legion is not Timur’s dream, Marcus. You are.”
So much for composure.
Julien wrapped his arms around Marcus and stroked his hair. “He loves you, Marcus. He told me the day Chris and I got home.”
“But what do I do?” Marcus pulled back and wiped his eyes. “He’s already gone.”
“Not quite.”
Marcus searched Julien’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
“He’ll be in Paris tomorrow. For a few days. No more than a week.”
“You know for sure he’ll be there?”
Julien nodded. “The jet lag is pretty brutal going over there. He’s planning to spend a few days just relaxing.” He held Marcus’s gaze. “If you can reach him, you can still stop him from reenlisting.”
“If. A last-minute plane ticket to Paris isn’t cheap.”
“No, but neither is five years of regret.”
Marcus flinched. “Do you have any way to reach him?”
Julien shook his head. “I’ve always had to contact him through the Legion. He’s…electronically, impossible to reach.”
“Fuck.” Marcus rubbed a hand over his face.
Then he paused.
He looked at Julien. “Do you really think if I got to him, he’d change his mind?”
“If you flew halfway around the world for him? Absolutely.”
Marcus took a deep breath. “I have an idea.”
Chapter Nineteen
When Marcus asked Liam if he could leave, and quite possibly take the next few days off, Liam took one look at him and practically shoved him out the door.
“Whatever it is, I know it’s important. Go.” Then he’d turned to Julien. “How’d you like to learn to tend bar for a night?”
Julien’s eyes got huge.
Marcus didn’t stay to find out if he took Liam up on the offer—he headed out the front door and jogged across the parking lot to his car.
I could just call, he told himself as he turned onto Broadway.
But he drove anyway, heading from Capitol Hill toward the skyscrapers of downtown Seattle. Something like this needed to be done face-to-face, no matter how much pride he’d have to swallow to do it.
He parked in the parking garage at the base of the building. It was expensive, but hopefully worth it. With his stomach roiling and his heart pounding in his ears, he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button to go to the penthouse.
All the way up, floor after floor, he prayed this would work. Every step of it, from this point to begging Timur’s forgiveness. It was a long shot, that was for sure.
The elevator stopped.
Marcus gulped.
The doors slid open, and the scent of garlic, shallots and celeriac met his nose. He didn’t let himself look at the glowing blue sign above the entryway, and walked inside.
He didn’t recognize the hostess. She smiled at him over the podium. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Le Chien Bleu. How many?”
“Actually…” he cleared his throat, “…I need to speak to Ray.”
The smile didn’t falter. “What name should I give him?”
“Marcus.”
She nodded. “I’ll be right back. Excuse me for one second.”
“Take your time.” Please hurry.
It was probably less than two minutes, but felt like an eternity, before the hostess returned with Marcus’s ex-husband on her heels.
He stopped, staring wide-eyed at Marcus, the overhead lights picking out sparks of gray hair along the sides of Ray’s head. His eyes flicked toward the hostess, and he gestured for Marcus to come with him.
Without a word, Marcus followed. They’d had more than a few fights here but were always careful to keep it behind closed doors. Amazing how much a man could rein in his temper when business was on the line.
A few of the servers and all the cooks noticed Marcus’s presence. He didn’t make eye contact, but he could feel their double takes and hear the falter in their wine presentations and food preparation. It had been a few months since he’d been here, and even though the arguments had been kept hidden, it had been impossible not to feel the tension.
Ray closed the office door, cutting off the familiar sounds of a busy restaurant, and studied Marcus. “This is…unexpected.” His tone was guarded. “What, uh, brings you in?”
Pulse still thundering, Marcus swallowed hard. “I need your help.”
Ray’s eyes widened. “Oh. Um. Okay. What do you need?”
“It’s a long story.” Marcus folded his arms and shifted his weight, but then realized how defensive he looked, so he lowered his arms. And didn’t know what to do with them. Shit, when had it become so difficult to just stand in the same room as Ray?
“Marcus?” Ray stepped closer, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No, nothing like that.” Marcus could not look him in the eye, no matter how hard he tried. “I need to get to France. As soon as possible.”
Ray straightened. “France?”
“Yeah. It’s…” Marcus waved a hand. “It’s really complicated and hard to explain. But I need to get there. Fast. And I…” He took a deep breath. Here goes. “I can’t afford it on my own.”
“I see.” Ray stepped around behind his desk and opened his laptop. “How soon?”
“As soon as I can.”
“Okay.” Ray’s brow furrowed as he punched in his login password. Then he brought up his browser and went to a travel website. “France, you said? As in, Paris?”
Marcus shifted. “Charles de Gaulle Airport.”
Ray glanced at him, the question written all over the creases in his forehead, but he didn’t ask. “Okay, let’s see…” He started typing again. Clicked a button. Then he whistled. “Wow. A flight out tomorrow night is twenty-eight hundred.”
Marcus’s heart dropped. “Shit.”
“That’ll get you there on Sunday, though. Late evening.”
“But it’s…” Marcus pushed out a breath. “Shit, that’s a lot of money.”
“Money’s not the issue.” Ray met his eyes. “You really need to get there, don’t you?”
There was no way in hell Marcus was falling apart again. Not here, not in front of Ray. Without speaking, he nodded.
Fingers clattered across keys. “There is a flight out early tomorrow morning.”
“How much?”
“Do you want to be on it?”
More than you can imagine. “How much is it?”
“Marcus.” Ray shook his head. “I can tell this is important to you.” He paused. “I can tell he’s important to you.”
Marcus jumped. “Who said anything about ‘he’?”
Ray smiled, a combination of sadness, nostalgia and genuine affection in his eyes. “I was married to you for a long time. I know you.” He gestured at the computer. “Do you want to be on the flight tomorrow morning or not?”
Avoiding his eyes, Marcus nodded. “Yes.”
Ray tapped a key. He entered a few details and then pulled out a debit card and entered the numbers. One more click and… “Done. Go home and p
ack. You need to be at the airport by two fifteen.”
Marcus didn’t move. “How much do I owe you?”
“We’ll work that out when you get back.” Ray slid his card back into his wallet and stood. As he came around the desk, he added, “Whoever he is and whatever is going on is more important than the money.”
“Thank you, Ray. It means a lot.”
“You’re welcome.” Ray hugged him. “Good luck. And let me know when you land safely, all right?”
“I will.”
“Now go home and pack.”
“I’m on it.” As they released each other, Marcus smiled. “I really appreciate this.”
“I know you do.” Ray squeezed his arm. “And I hope whoever’s in France knows how lucky he is.”
Lucky—after he’d let him go, even pushed him away. The thought almost turned Marcus’s stomach. Even though he had a lot of time to pack and get ready, nervous tension was settling in his neck. He wanted to be going, doing something. In that mood, he’d drive to the airport many hours too early. “I think the record so far is mixed in terms of luck.” Marcus shrugged and pushed his hands into his pockets. “I just have to fix a mistake.”
“Good luck. And if it works out and you want to introduce him…”
“Yeah, maybe. I think he’d appreciate the food.” He searched Ray’s face, but Ray seemed quite mellow—wistful rather than jealous. He wouldn’t rush it, introducing them, but considering Ray lent him the money, keeping Ray at arm’s length would be strange. They were over each other, and Marcus felt like he was over the resentment. Bottom line, they’d had some good years. Quite a few of them. They’d built this place together from a third-rate eatery, had gutted the whole thing, had worked so hard that one of their running jokes was to torch it, take the insurance money and run—and more than once, they’d been actually just another minor disaster away from doing exactly that. And now, just looking around, he saw that the waitstaff were perfectly poised, the decor was tasteful, everything flawless, working like clockwork. Above all, the patrons seemed to be enjoying the food and having a good time. They’d built this, and even if Ray owned it all now, he was also still running it, still tied into all this, and it looked good on him. This place was very much Ray, but Marcus remembered fondly how hard he himself had worked. He’d bet if he walked into the kitchen, things were still pretty much run the exact same way he’d set them up there.
They’d done good.
Ray touched his arm. “Marcus, get out of here. Pack your things and go catch your flight.”
“I know. I will.” Marcus took a half step toward the door, but hesitated. Then he turned and wrapped his arms around his ex-husband, hugging him tight. “Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome.” Ray hugged him back. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
Marcus nodded against Ray’s shoulder. In spite of all the bitterness and drama between them, he knew that was true.
“Go,” Ray whispered, nudging him back. “I don’t want you missing whatever’s at the end of that flight.”
Marcus’s heart sped up. What was waiting on the other end? Rejection? Reconciliation?
Only one way to find out.
Chapter Twenty
Marcus should’ve known Lady Luck wasn’t entirely on his side.
His passport had grown legs and hidden underneath a pile of bills that needed to be shredded or filed. He got on the freeway just in time to get caught in Boeing’s third-shift traffic. It took four tries to find a long-term parking lot that didn’t look like a shady front for a ring of car thieves. And that was to say nothing about getting through the security cattle line that had no business being that long at three in the goddamned morning.
But finally, with his bag thoroughly searched and his passport safely tucked inside his jacket pocket, he made it to his gate.
Just in time to find out his flight was delayed due to mechanical problems.
He paced beside the window, his stomach turning. The only thing racing faster than his heart was his mind. There wasn’t time for this, damn it. What if the flight was canceled? What if… God, so many what-ifs.
Every time another plane sped down the runway and took off, his chest tightened a little more. He wanted to be onboard. Didn’t matter where the plane was headed—at least it was in the air, which was a step closer to Paris than this hunk of junk idling outside his gate.
Finally, almost forty-five minutes after the plane was supposed to take off, the door opened and people started shuffling onboard. Inside, they took their sweet time arranging their forty-seven pieces of carry-on, completely oblivious to how badly he needed them to sit down, shut up and let this plane get moving.
As the plane started taxiing, Marcus threw back a couple of sedatives. He doubted they’d help—he was just too wound up to sleep—but with the time change, and with the need to be focused and articulate when he landed, he’d take all the help he could get.
And as it happened, exhaustion combined with the sedative, and before the plane had even reached cruising altitude, he was out cold.
The airport was huge, but Marcus had been pretty much in a daze ever since he’d gotten off the plane. Thank God he didn’t have to wait for suitcases; all he’d packed was a backpack, so he was probably through to the other side first. Immigration gave him a side eye, but he was too tired to be very annoyed. Yes, I’m American. Sorry.
Onward. He located the taxi line, as Julien had advised him. Getting to where he wanted to be by train would take longer than just grabbing a taxi, and he was too dazed and tired to negotiate tickets and stations anyway.
The taxi driver greeted him in what seemed surly French, but nodded when Marcus held the piece of paper under his nose. The drive to Belville took about half an hour, give or take, and the area looked nothing like the glossy pictures of Paris. In fact, the area seemed somewhat run-down, with lots of graffiti, though the area seemed more colorful than unsafe. People on the streets seemed a good mix, and not exclusively white. Something of an “alternative” part of the town, then.
The taxi driver grunted at him and gesticulated. Marcus peered out of the window and spotted the bar. Chez Claude. The taxi driver looked a bit dubious, but Marcus spotted a number of backpackers strolling along the street, so he should be all right? Yes? He’d just regroup—Julien had told him while older Parisians sometimes treated you like a leper when you tried to communicate in English with them, certainly the younger generation was willing to help.
He grabbed his backpack and paid the driver after he’d navigated the strangely colorful euro bills. Yeah. This area looked nothing like those grand boulevards he’d always associated with Paris.
But he wasn’t here for the architecture.
He walked toward Chez Claude. It looked like a mix between a bar and a café and a restaurant, though not quite. Marcus’s French didn’t reach beyond his kitchen French, and most things on the menu were simple and hearty. Only about four choices, and then twenty wines and spirits. The French had their priorities. A couple of older men were sitting outside on the pavement and playing cards. Marcus walked past them, his heart already beating up into his throat.
The wall behind the shabby bar showed photos pinned against the wall—something of a history of the place, with what seemed to be entertainers on a stage, painted and costumed in straw hats and suits. The forties? A jazz band too, and patrons. Though, against the spirit of the times, no uniforms anywhere. Maybe before the war? After?
Somebody grunted something French at him.
Marcus jumped a little and found himself facing a grizzled-looking fellow with gray whiskers and dark, mistrustful eyes.
“Hi. I… Could I have a coke, please?”
The proprietor reached behind himself for a bottle and glass, and placed both before Marcus, clearly expecting him to pay, drink and piss off. Marcus found the price list a
nd placed some euro coins on the counter.
Just as he was considering how to broach the subject, a couple of men entered the bar. And it seemed the temperature in the room dropped noticeably. Marcus noticed the three men were all shaved neatly, hair cropped very close to their skulls, and two of them were black, the third possibly Arab. There was a tangible air of don’t fuck with us that made Marcus’s balls want to up and creep back into his body. They were young, the black guys both broader than the Arab, but all of them looked like they’d been cut down to the very basics. They didn’t need to wear uniforms for Marcus to know exactly what they were.
Marcus flagged them down. They eyed him warily—who the fuck was this scruffy American, and why was he talking to them?
He gestured at his own head, then theirs. “You’re military? Legion?”
The Arab nodded. He said something in rapid-fire French with a very not-French accent. Marcus didn’t catch any of it, except one word did sound a lot like “Legion”.
“I’m looking for…” Marcus studied them. They studied him. Shit. He didn’t speak a lick of French, and none of them had volunteered any English. He needed another approach.
Then he remembered the semicharged phone in his pocket. He made a just-a-second gesture—those were universal, right? He hadn’t just flipped one of them off or cursed their mothers, had he?—and dug out his phone. He quickly thumbed through some photos and pulled up one of Julien, Chris and Timur.
He held up the phone and pointed at Timur. “Is he here?” Even if they didn’t understand the words, maybe they could at least parse what he wanted to know.
The Arab shook his head. Then the second man. Then the third. They exchanged glances and shrugs.
One of the two African men craned his neck and called out something to the bartender. He pointed at Marcus’s phone.
The bartender leaned over the bar and held out his hand in a sharp give-it gesture. His brow furrowed, and Marcus’s heart sank, especially as the guy shook his head and set the phone down.
He was just reaching for it to take it back when the bartender snatched it again, muttering something in French as he put on his glasses. Then he looked at the picture again.
