by Alix Nichols
“Do you live in Paris?”
“No, he doesn’t,” Amanda replied for him. “He’s here only for a short stay.”
“That’s a shame.” Jeanne shrugged. “When are you leaving?”
Kes licked the tip of his thumb and held it up. “As soon as the wind changes and the crickets start singing the packing song.”
Jeanne gave him an amused look.
Amanda stared into his eyes. All his protective layers were back, and he looked his usual self—gorgeous and without a care in the world.
She exhaled with relief.
Good.
She’d take this Kes any day over the one who had nearly stolen her heart a few minutes ago.
* * *
There was a variety of ways to fool the pit manager, and Kes was an ace at all of them. He joked and chatted to camouflage his concentration. He tipped the dealers lavishly and made rookie mistakes on purpose. Every now and then, he played the slots. He made sure to use only his peripheral vision to survey the cards on the table, and he always—always—walked away from winning too much in one go.
On top of that, Kes was a paragon of discretion. No one, not even the people he sympathized with, could tempt him to brag about his skill or how much he was winning. Professionals like him knew casinos used innocent-looking props to pick out and expose card counters.
Those strategies worked, but only for a time. Once the casino started seriously suspecting him, they sent him a “gentle” message. It could be just switching dealers in the middle of a deck or calling for a forced shuffle midshoe. If he continued to play—and to win—they’d offer him a voucher for a free meal at the restaurant and a night at the hotel just to get him away from the table.
At that point, he’d usually show the house that he got the point, enjoy his free meal, and leave town the next day. He rarely let things escalate to an invitation from the security chief for a private session. These sessions took place in a windowless basement room, lasted for several taxing hours, and ended in him being banned from the casino.
He hadn’t allowed such a thing to happen in the last three years.
That was, until his current stint at Casino Enghien-les-Bains, where he’d showed a cavalier disregard for one gentle message after another, refusing to “back off.”
And tonight, the inevitable happened.
Just as he was pocketing the two grand he’d won over the course of the evening, two massive individuals asked him to join their boss for a quick, private chat.
The next couple of hours were unpleasant, to say the least. A burly, mustached man—no doubt the head of security—and his two sidekicks took turns repeating the same questions, each round more aggressive than the previous one. Mustache would go first, then the bouncers, and then Mustache again.
On some level, Kes admired their work. The trio had a well-practiced teamwork thing going there, designed to intimidate geeky card counters into confessing their sins and begging for mercy. But Kes knew Mustache and his acolytes were questioning him just for the pleasure of watching a man break down. Confession or not, the verdict had already been pronounced, signed, and sealed: a permanent banishment from the casino.
Which meant his best option was to keep calm and recite Gypsy rhymes in his head.
“You see this telephone?” Mustache asked. “One call and the police will be here to arrest you.”
“Please.” Kes rolled his eyes. “We both know card counting is a perfectly legal activity.”
“So you did count?”
“Me? Never. We Gypsies suck at math.”
The man’s face grew flaming red, and various muscles on it began to twitch with suppressed rage. Kes imagined him in a Nazi uniform, yelling with a ridiculous German accent from bad war movies, Vee hef veys to make you tawk!
The image transformed his smirk into a grin, which sent Mustache over the tipping point.
He screamed at the top of his voice, “You son of a bitch! I’m gonna share your mug shot with every casino in the country! They’ll be able to spot you the moment you step in!”
Kes shrugged, unimpressed. He doubted the man would go to such lengths, and he doubted even more that a casino would want to spare its competitors the same loss it had suffered.
When they finally gave up and let him go, he hailed a cab and sank into the back seat, completely spent. The grueling questioning had exhausted him, but it wasn’t just that. He knew the casino would have outed him sooner or later, but he had hoped it would be later rather than sooner. Had he been more careful, he could’ve played in Enghien-les-Bains for at least two more weeks.
What was he supposed to do now? Pack up and leave? Or stay and lie to Amanda and his family?
Kes rubbed his temples. He had no more business in Paris. If he stayed on, he’d be spending money without a chance to make any. He’d be hanging out with Amanda, falling a little more for her with every passing day—and getting no closer to having her than he’d been on day one of their pastime companions deal.
Outside the cab window, the ugly northern suburbs began to give way to the majestic vistas of central Paris. Tastefully lit, the city shimmered and beckoned, looking every bit like its poster image and charming the brains out of anyone who dared glance at it.
It was truly a thing of beauty. Just like Amanda . . .
Maybe he should simply tell her the truth—that he could no longer play at the local casino and he had to move on to pastures nouveaux. Would she be sorry to hear the news? Would she change her mind about him or at least grant him a good-bye night?
He smirked. Knowing Amanda, she’d just shrug and say, “Godspeed. Send me a postcard.”
The cab slowed down and stopped a few meters from the Gypsy jazz club in the Latin Quarter where Marco was waiting for him. Kes paid the driver and stepped into the bar, immediately enveloped by a familiar sound.
Ah, so tonight was Reinhardt Night. Perfect.
Nothing could match the Manouche master’s virtuoso guitar when Kes needed cheering up. It never failed to lift him from the cage of his misery into a higher, airier place, where he lingered even after the music stopped. Cyril’s songs the other day had done the same thing.
Except that piece about a runaway curtain. That “experimental” little song had hit him with a sucker punch, stirring something repressed and painful in Kes’s soul. Something he preferred not to dwell on.
“Hey, pral, finally!” Marco greeted him with a hug. “I didn’t understand your confused texts about what held you at the casino.”
“I was questioned by the security team.”
“Shit. Did they kick you out?”
“Yep.”
“You’ll be leaving Paris, then?”
Kes delayed his reply to order a glass of wine and consider what to say.
“So?” Marco prompted.
“Soon.”
“The baptism is next week. It would make sense to stay with the clan until you go off to the States.” Marco gave him a soft look.
“Speaking of the baptism,” Kes said, eyes trained on his glass. “I’ll be bringing a friend along.”
“A friend?” Marco echoed, his voice tinged with irony.
“Yes, pral, a friend.” Kes looked up from his glass. “A female friend.”
“A gadji?”
Kes nodded.
“I have no problem with that, man, but your folks might.”
Kes shrugged. “I’m sure they’ll be civil. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“Are you dating her?” Marco’s voice had a weird edge to it.
Kes shook his head. “She’s just a friend. As I said.”
“So your plan to go to Las Vegas in a few weeks is still on, right?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Kes stared at his glass and then emptied it in one gulp. “I’ll leave Paris at the end of the month, spend a couple of weeks with the clan, and then off to Vegas.”
Marco nodded.
Was it relief Kes glimpsed in his eyes? No, it couldn’t
be. Why would Marco feel relieved to be shipping off his best friend?
It didn’t make any sense.
* * *
Chapter Eight
The New Pact
~ ~ ~
A Woman’s Guide to Perfection
Guideline # 8
The Perfect Woman has at least two male friends.
Rationale: Having guy friends is beneficial on many levels, including but not limited to: confidence building, gaining easy access to a male perspective, gaining easy access to eligible men (your friend’s friends), philosophizing, and watching action movies.
A word of caution: Having a gay male friend is a must these days, and the authors of this Guide definitely recommend it. But if all your guy friends are gay, do try to befriend at least one straight man so you can get some of the benefits described above.
Permissible exception: If you fancy your male friend, you may want to defriend him for a short while (i.e., stop playing video games with him and his chums and keep some distance). When you reenter his life, he may be able to see you as a woman rather than a buddy who occasionally wears a skirt.
Damage control: If one of your male friends fancies you, there are three possible scenarios:
(a) You are interested, too. In this case, propose a weekend trip to Dunkerque, Roubaix, or some other ugly northern town with nothing to explore. There’s a good chance you’ll spend most of the weekend at the hotel, exploring each other’s bodies.
(b) You are not interested. Act preemptively and discourage him from declaring his feelings by waxing lyrical about your amazing colleague who’d be a perfect match for him.
(c) You suspect he fancies you but aren’t sure. This may lead to a number of unpleasant and embarrassing situations, so test the waters before diving in. Take him to Dunkerque or Roubaix for a weekend. If on Saturday afternoon, he drags you to the natural history museum and then to the local pub, after which both of you spend the night puking, you’ll know he just likes you as a person.
~ ~ ~
Amanda stepped into her truncated bathtub and drew the curtain. She hadn’t slept well. Last night, she’d taken Kes to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the cozy little Studio Galande. She’d been itching to watch the iconic movie for years, but had never found a partner willing to do the interactive thing. Because the point of going to that movie wasn’t to enjoy art. It was to sing “Sweet Transvestite,” dance to “Time Warp,” sprinkle your neighbors with your water gun, catcall at the actors, and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all afterward.
You couldn’t very well go to The Rocky Horror Picture Show alone. With a like-minded buddy, the night was likely to be a lot of fun. By yourself it was bound to be pathetic.
With Kes, the experience had been a riot.
He’d transformed the event into an unrestrained, uninhibited fiesta that made her feel like she didn’t have a worry in the world. He wore a blond wig and shouted hilarious comments about the on-screen action. She swooned whenever Susan Sarandon did landing in Kes’s strong arms and giggling so much her cheeks began to hurt halfway through the movie.
It ended after midnight, and Kes insisted on walking her home. They spent over an hour in the foyer of her building, reenacting the movie’s craziest moments and imagining alternative plotlines. She didn’t want to say good night, didn’t want him to leave. He was so close and desirable that she had to summon all her willpower to recall why inviting him upstairs was such a bad idea.
But she managed.
And he left.
It took Amanda hours to fall asleep.
She sighed, turned on the water, and closed her eyes.
Three cheers for the inventor of the shower.
Coffee was an excellent tonic, but it could never help you shake off the night and feel ready to face the day in the same way a shower did.
She opened her eyes to grab the shampoo—and froze.
The trespasser was there.
Perched outside the overflow hole, the little monster watched her with an air of serenity and a total disregard for the danger he was in.
Merde!
“I thought we had a deal, you and me,” Amanda said.
She could swear she saw the critter twitch his head as if to say, What deal? I don’t recall a deal.
“I spared your life, and you were supposed to haul your sorry ass out of my bathroom. Remember?” She rolled her eyes.
Jesus. I talk to spiders now.
But how else could she impress upon him the seriousness of his situation? She doubted telepathy would work.
“I want you gone, understand?” She glared. “If you stay, you’re toast. I’ll have to dispose of you. And I will.”
She finished her shower quickly and slammed the bathroom door behind her. Before she left for work, she went back to the bathroom door and yelled, “Get out of my apartment, or you’re dead!”
At the bistro, Manon greeted her with a small list of things to do before the lunch service. They were shorthanded today—Jeanne had taken a day off to prepare for her wedding tomorrow. The bistro would be closed for the occasion.
Amanda had her bridesmaid’s dress packed, her hairdresser booked, her speech written, and her plus one secured.
There was no reason to stress.
Rob and Lena could bask in their marital bliss all they wanted. She wasn’t going to let their happiness ruin her day. She’d be beautiful, confident, and escorted by a gorgeous man. Whom her dear friend Jeanne had booked into Amanda’s room. Admittedly, she’d ended up inviting more people than planned, and Mat’s little town didn’t have enough available accommodations.
Oh dear.
Better not think about it now. Everything was going to be all right in the best of all possible worlds . . . provided Kes didn’t tell her friends who he really was and what he did for a living.
By eleven, the bistro slowed down as it usually did, and Amanda joined Manon and Amar, who were reading the same newspaper at the bar.
“You’re so cute,” Amanda said before biting into her croissant. “Sharing a paper like that.”
Amar blushed and Manon scrambled behind the bar to rinse her cup.
It was great fun to tease those two.
Amanda turned to Amar. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
He gave her an uncertain look.
She wiped her hands and mouth with a napkin. “Do you wear a white robe at home?”
He blinked, clearly taken by surprise.
“Why would he do that?” Manon asked. “To look like Casper?”
“The little ghost boy? God, no!” Amanda smirked. “I was thinking Lawrence of Arabia.”
Manon put her hands on her hips. “Why would he want to look like Lawrence of Arabia?”
“May I offer an opinion?” Amar asked. “Or have I been assigned a nonspeaking part?”
Amanda grimaced, still looking at the headwaiter. “Eww. I just pictured Casper with black stubble. Thank you, Manon, for giving me such a disturbing image. It’s like seeing Tinker Bell pregnant. Or Minions having sex.”
“I’ve had enough of this conversation.” Amar folded the paper and stood. “You have a sick mind, Amanda.”
She waved him off. “Oh, don’t be such a hypocrite. Everyone has thoughts like this sometimes. Even a prude like you.”
“I do, and so do other people, I suppose. But we don’t voice them.”
The remark gave Amanda pause. Amar was right. People generally didn’t say the kind of things she said. Everyone she knew was smoother and a lot more socially competent than she could ever hope to be.
And she hated how naturally that competence came to them.
The kind of competence that came naturally to her was when she set out to learn a new skill or solve a work-related problem. But she seemed incapable of learning the art of being pleasant. Getting others to like her was a Herculean task that she accomplished only by accident or despite her best efforts, such as with Kes.
Amanda sighed. Maybe
it wasn’t her fault. Maybe she was born missing some crucial neurological barrier that allowed normal people to filter the informational flow between their brain and their vocal cords. A barrier that told them when to keep their mouths shut.
Yes, that had to be it. She was born with an invisible but consequential flaw. And that’s why she needed her Guide. Vivienne had given it to her on her fifteenth birthday with a pretty card inside it that read, “To my beloved daughter. This is who I’d like you to be.”
Amanda read the little book from cover to cover in one sitting, then reread it the next day, and then read it again two or three hundred times since then. She’d memorized its every piece of advice on what a woman should do to succeed professionally and make a good match. In short, have a perfect life—or at least a life as close to perfect as her social status, IQ, and looks allowed.
Ruthless and superficial as it was, the book reassured her. It helped her stay focused on her life goals and navigate some tricky social situations. It doubled as a teddy bear and a shrink.
It was her best friend.
* * *
“This is my wife, Nana.” Pepe pointed to the tall natural blonde by his side. “She’s Danish, but she can speak French.”
Nana smiled at her considerably shorter husband and extended her hand.
Amanda shook it. “Here in France we tend to do the cheek kiss—except in a business setting. Actually, we do it even in a business setting.”
“I’ll have to get used to it.” Nana held her hand out to Kes, who shook it.
“You should if you want to blend in.” Amanda furrowed her brow, thinking. “Forget what I said. The way you look, I doubt you’ll ever blend in anywhere south of the Belgian border.”
“Oh.” Nana’s face fell.
They stood in awkward silence for a moment, watching the photographer direct the newlyweds between two magnificent rosebushes for yet another series of mandatory pics.
This one was with the parents.
“Say ouistiti, everyone,” he ordered, and everyone smiled for the camera.
After he clicked his camera a dozen times, he asked his models to move a couple of meters to the left so the rosebush could serve as a backdrop for the next series of shots.
