Afterwards

by Nia Forrester

  And her wild side was . . . damn. Just a week ago, Chris had opened his eyes to the feeling of a hand traveling along his chest in the dark. They’d spent the evening working together of all things—in his office, her on her laptop and him at his desk—turning in around midnight without many words exchanged because they were both so busy preparing for the trip. He thought she was tired, so let her crawl under the covers and wasn’t surprised that she passed out right away. But then, much later when the house was dark and silent and still, she reached out for him. Chris felt her weight as she straddled his thighs. With a few short strokes with her hands she brought him to readiness and wordlessly lowered herself onto him, taking from him what she needed, saying nothing grasping his shoulders and like a wave. She came quickly, but didn’t stop until he had as well, and then she fell forward onto his chest, tongued his neck, kissed his jaw, and fell asleep.

  Tonight, the early hour of their flight was his excuse to have her stay over. But excuses were something he seemed to need more than she did. She stayed with him when she wanted to be where he was, and was unselfconscious about that. Even so, she never made any assumptions that he would want her there. At work, there had been a few occasions when she’d stopped by unexpectedly, holding onto the doorframe at the threshold of his office and leaning in.

  Hey, she might say, keeping her voice low in case she was overheard. Do you have anything tonight? I want to come stay with you.

  I want to come stay with you. No pretense, no explanation. No excuse. I want to come stay with you.

  And no expectations either. Just that they would spend a few hours in each other’s company, eating dinner, talking about work or not. Sometimes not talking at all. Sexing like crazy, or not. And then she would go home early the next morning, or ride with him to work where she would carefully splinter off from his side in case they were seen spending too much time together. She never stayed more than one night at a time.

  These days, when she leaned into his office, though that wasn’t always her mission, Chris found himself hoping she would say those words: I want to come stay with you. And the nights when he had something else to do, somewhere else to be, he wanted only for it to be over with, and wondered what she was doing, whether her nights could only be about Scrabble and dinner with her mother. It seemed unlikely, because Jamal Turner was still hanging around, and Chris had begun to notice that a couple of the scouts seemed to have something for Robyn as well. Young, horny bastards who seemed to always have “just one more question” after meetings with the legal team where she was present.

  Dr. Allen had confirmed earlier in the evening that all she had was a bruised tailbone and given her some super-strength ibuprofen and recommended she sleep on her stomach with an icepack applied to the area for fifteen to twenty minute stints when she was awake. She’d also advised Robyn not to take the transatlantic flight which caused tears to pool in her eyes when she looked at Chris, wordlessly pleading with him not to prevent her from going.

  Or you could use a donut, Dr. Allen had suggested, noting the look pass between them. But be prepared to lie flat on your stomach for a few hours once you get there.

  And Robyn’s shoulders had sagged in relief. What surprised Chris was that he was relieved too; he didn’t want to deny Robyn something as important to her as this trip to Paris clearly was. More and more, he didn’t want to deny her anything.

  She was sleeping now, the icepack on the small of her back. Chris removed the cooling agent every once in a while, and examined the ferocious purple and black bruise that had bloomed just above the crack of her ass. The fall had freaked Jon out, so Chris knew it had to have been serious. He’d called Robyn an “adrenaline junkie in the making” and told Chris that maybe she needed to see some motorcycle accident footage so she could learn to “respect her vehicle.” That wouldn’t be necessary, because the one thing Chris had no problem denying her would be more time on bikes by herself. As far as he was concerned, that shit was done, whether she liked it or not. When he put the pack against her skin once more after removing it, Robyn gave a soft gasp in her sleep, reminiscent of the soft gasps he heard from her frequently under very different circumstances.

  Rising from his place next to her, Chris went to sit across the room, picking up his tablet as was his custom when he was awake in the wee morning hours. There was yet another email from Sheryl about her upcoming marriage and was asking whether he had time to meet her at her house to “discuss it some more.” He knew what that meant, and he wasn’t interested. Shoving aside the tablet, Chris reached instead for his laptop, thinking that he would look over some numbers in preparation for the meetings in Paris, but before he did, a name caught his eye.

  There was an email message from Robyn in his inbox as well, and it had been sent earlier that evening. Confused, Chris picked up the tablet. She’d been with him at the house since this afternoon, so she must have sent it from her phone, sometime when they were together.

  Clicking on her name he opened the message and read it, smiling.

  It’s late, Chris. Come back to bed.

  17

  Etienne Allard drummed a beat on the table in front of him with three fingers, glancing once again at face of his cell phone. A twenty-nine year old Algerian, he had long, ropy dreadlocks held back by a black-and-white bandana, and thick dark brows, that drew attention to his amber-colored eyes. Dressed like a Seattle hipster, he also had a goatee that he occasionally reached up to stroke. To his left and right at the conference room table, were his deputies and co-owners at Pouvoir Noir Records, Gaetan Bault and Christien Nadeau. All three looked younger than their years, probably because of the way they dressed and their casual, Euro-mannerisms. While Robyn and Frank had turned up for their meeting dressed in American-style business attire, there was not one stitch of tailored clothing among the entire Pouvoir Noir team. They were all crushed cotton shirts, hoodies, boots and denim.

  “This is becoming embarrassing,” Frank said to Robyn sotto voce. “Are you sure he knows what time?”

  Robyn nodded. “Yes. Positive.”

  Waiting for Chris to arrive for the past forty-five minutes, they’d already occupied the past thirty or so of those minutes with strong French coffee, delicious pastry, and pleasantries about their flight from New York. Frank may have been embarrassed but Robyn was concerned. She’d left Chris in the hotel room getting dressed while she rushed over to make it there early, and when she left him, he had that squinty-eyed look that she had become familiar with; the look he got before the pain hit.

  “Something must have come up. Maybe we should begin without him,” Frank said so the entire room could hear. “I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.”

  “I am sure he will,” Etienne Allard said in his heavily-accented English. “But just as he does his business, we have business to do as well.”

  Gaetan Bault said something in French that Robyn did not completely understand, but she did recognize from her years of high school French, the word for ‘rude’.

  “So let’s get on with it then,” Frank said affably. “He’ll join us in progress.”

  Robyn could hear the strain in his voice. He probably thought Chris had flaked on them, or worse, was being passive-aggressive since this trip to Paris had not been something he wanted to undertake in the first place. But nothing about Chris was passive. Especially not his aggression.

  They’d all flown in two nights prior, Frank reluctantly making the trip and only after Chris pointed out that if he could take the time, so could his general counsel. Despite the comforts of business-class on Air France, both men had been irritable and exhausted when they checked in at the Four Seasons Hotel George V. Robyn alone seemed excited to be there. A trip to Paris for work had not even been within the realm of the possible in her life six months ago, and now here she was. The entire ride from the airport, she’d paid rapt attention to every detail, happy that both Chris and Frank were too tired to be inclined to talk business. The hotel itself was in t
he heart of Paris’ Golden Triangle, and as they drew closer to their destination, Robyn took in the names of the boutiques: Dior, Céline, Chanel, Donna Karan, Loewe, Thierry Mugler and the magnificent Arc de Triomphe looming ahead and above.

  Chastity and Stephen had booked all the travel, so Chris and Robyn had separate suites, of course. Robyn hadn’t expected otherwise and was fine with it, just happy to be along for the trip at all, particularly with her injury from her motorcycle mishap so fresh in Chris’ mind. Still, only minutes after she’d settled in her room and put away her luggage, preparing to spend many long minutes staring out the window at the Eiffel Tower in the distance, Chris rung her in her room, his voice tired and impatient.

  Are you on your way, or not? he asked, as though it had been agreed that she was to have come to him right away.

  Robyn had smiled into the receiver. I would be, she said. If I knew where you were.

  And he’d rattled off his suite number, hanging up without waiting for her response. Shortly afterward, she was walking across the threshold into a duplex suite that was far nicer than any apartment Robyn had ever lived in, and much larger.

  Where’s your stuff? Chris asked, noting her empty arms as he let her in.

  In my room, she said, confused.

  Decorated in the Louis XVI-style Chris’ suite featured rich brocades and velvets, gilded furniture and marble floors. There was a fireplace in the sitting room, and a terrace just off the bedroom from which she could make out some of the city’s most famous landmarks. Taking out her camera, Robyn took a few pictures, planning to send them to her mother as soon as she had a chance. Chris had joined her on the terrace, and seeing what she was up to, rolled his eyes as though he couldn’t imagine what would possess someone to want to take pictures of Paris at night, and gone back inside.

  Even after his call, Robyn’s assumption had been that she would visit with him in his suite, make love to him in his suite, but not necessarily sleep there. Especially since they were on what was to be entirely a business trip, and with Frank, no less. Though they’d been involved for more than a month, they’d both been very discreet about it at work, and as far as Robyn was concerned, would continue to be. The last thing she needed to get around was that she was sleeping with the boss. When the affair ended, so would her professional credibility if word were to get around.

  I’ll send someone to get your bags, Chris said, and looking back inside, Robyn saw that he had reached for the house phone.

  And that was that.

  “Miss Crandall,” Etienne Allard said unexpectedly, bringing her back to the present. “Is this your first time in Paris?”

  “Robyn. And yes. As a matter of fact it is.”

  “I can tell,” he said. “Your eyes, they often drift over my shoulders and out onto the boulevard. It is a shame. That you are . . .” he struggled to find an English word to express his thought, “. . . impeded by work from seeing our sights.”

  “I don’t consider this meeting an impediment at all,” Robyn assured him.

  “Afterwards, this evening, I can take you to see Paris.” It was a declaration rather than a question.

  For a moment Robyn said nothing, trying to figure out whether the invitation was hospitality or a come-on. But what were the chances he was actually asking her out, in front of her boss, in the middle of a business meeting?

  Etienne Allard smiled. With his Black-guy swagger and bedroom eyes of mysterious color, he was definitely sexy; and his brand of cool that was less affectation, more genuine than that of many of the blue-eyed soulful guys Robyn encountered in the States.

  “Maybe,” she said, finally glancing at Frank who shrugged as if to say: don’t look at me. Do whatever floats your boat.

  “I don’t like this response,” Etienne Allard said, shaking his head. “It is, how you say . . . lukewarm? What can I offer that will tempt you to say instead, ‘yes Etienne, I would love to’.”

  “Hang-gliding,” Robyn said. “I would love to go hang-gliding.”

  Etienne laughed. “This I cannot promise. But there is a club, where we find new performers, underground, very dodgy and quite possibly illegal.”

  “Yes, Etienne,” she said, smiling. “I would love to.”

  “Assuming you’re joking about the illegal part,” Frank said dryly.

  “What laws are we talking about breaking?”

  Everyone turned at the sound of Chris’ voice as he strode into the conference room. The Pouvoir Noir guys all stood, greeting him in turn, with that half-hug, half-handshake thing guys did. And to Robyn’s surprise, Chris rattled off a greeting in French, just before patting Etienne on the back and taking a place next to Frank. She knew, of course, that he was well-traveled and capable of handling the pronunciation of French wine, but bilingual?

  “Jet lag,” he said to no one in particular as he sat. “Sorry to be late.”

  But Robyn knew he was suffering from a lot more than that by the way he seemed to cringe at each word he spoke, and by the hand he put to his jaw, like someone with a toothache. Her suspicion was correct; he was either at the beginning or tail-end of a migraine.

  “It’s a little bright in here,” she said, indicating the blinds behind Etienne and his guys. “And the view of the Seine will only ruin my concentration, so if you don’t mind . . .”

  “Of course.” Christien stood and closed the blinds partway so the room wasn’t quite as bright, then sat once again.

  When Chris had walked into the room, Robyn noted a slight change in the posture of the three young men. Despite themselves, they were impressed that he was there, and now were no longer impatient; in fact, they had become something just short of deferential. It was easy to forget that he was such a big deal, he was just the man she slept with, spent time with and was getting to know. But now everyone had turned, orienting their focus in his direction waiting for him to begin the meeting, naturally ceding to his leadership.

  “So,” he said, in his take-charge voice, the one that always had people back at Scaife Enterprises sitting at attention, and then later scurrying to do his bidding. “Let’s talk about how we can make the best deal possible for us both happen.”

  “We are not yet convinced there’s a deal to be made,” Etienne Allard said, raising his chin.

  French arrogance certainly rivaled if not exceeded American arrogance, so Robyn was eager to see how these two men, forces to be reckoned with both of them, would reach a meeting of the minds. Like being in the theater with two gladiators determined to fight to the death, the negotiation was bound to be bloody, and she would have the privilege of witnessing it happen. Seeing Chris like this, going on the offense, despite his obvious discomfort made her respect him even more than she already did.

  “There’s always a deal to be made,” he said, not smiling.

  Etienne folded his arms and leaned back in his seat. “Convince me.”

  ___________________

  Fucking Frenchmen and their fucking accents.

  No doubt he’d gotten almost everything he wanted from a business standpoint. Etienne Ballard and his partners agreed to sell a controlling interest in Pouvoir Noir, and in exchange, Chris agreed that they would maintain the character and nature of the label, keeping it fairly small, to preserve its indie cred. Still, he’d insisted—and they eventually agreed—that he would have to bring Jamal Turner over to review their current stable of artists before more money was poured into developing them. That last part was posturing, because the truth was just as Frank had insisted several weeks ago—there was no way the Scaife team knew anywhere near what these guys did about their own market. Still, Jamal might pick off a few artists they could stand to lose, just for the sake of appearances.

  With the agreement ironed out in principle, and instructions sent to Turner back in New York to make his way over from the States, there would be a couple days of downtime before the final papers were signed. And so what had Etienne Ballard done? He’d invited Robyn to go with him to see Lyon
. Invited all of them, actually, including Frank.

  But it was the way he did it that Chris resented. Looking directly at Robyn, and only at Robyn, when he issued the invitation, and then turning to look at everyone else like they were afterthoughts.

  You are all welcome, of course, he said.

  But the words were hollow, and he may as well have said instead, stay here in Paris motherfuckers, because my only goal is to get laid and you’re just going to cramp my style.

  And now, Ballard was on his way to the hotel, having invited Robyn, and eventually Chris to go with him to an underground club in the Oberkampf district. That invitation, too, had been made at the last minute when after a long day of negotiation, Chris felt like he was being repeatedly hit in the head by a hammer wrapped in down pillows. The medication the hotel physician had given him had dulled his migraine, so he could function, but not altogether comfortably. So he refused the trip to the club and instead got to watch Robyn dress to go without him.

  Watching as she stepped into a black pencil pant that clung to her like a second skin, pulled on a sequined tank, and finally slid her feet into stilettos Chris tried to stare instead at the monitor of his laptop, re-reading the outline of an agreement Frank had drawn up. He had a one percent controlling interest, a much more slender hold on control than he preferred, but it was all that Ballard would agree to, crafty bastard. At the vanity, Robyn put on a rose-colored lipstick and finished with a gloss that made her lips appear fuller, and aroused in Chris the urge to bite them.

  “You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  Finally done, she turned to look at him and Chris wondered how it was that Robyn had been there, all these years, just under his nose and he hadn’t paid attention. Maybe it was because he knew she was married, then. But it seemed impossible that he never appreciated before now how gorgeous she was. She was going to turn a lot of heads at the club besides that of Ballard himself.