by Jess Bentley
I fling everything I can carry into one large suitcase and leave with it, rolling it behind me. Everything else that R had claimed he was buying for us, that he was furnishing to decorate our new life together, I leave behind.
Using the documentation he'd given me, I find a new flat in the Marais. It isn't as charming or as historical as the one I shared with R, but it is mine. Back to my original Paris with the drug dealers and the homeless, dragging their dogs behind them.
I'd struggled over the decision to spend some of Kelsey's money doing it, but isn't it really my money? Didn’t I earn it, albeit unknowingly? Isn’t it something that had been stolen from me that now I am reinvesting in my own life? At least that's what I am telling myself.
And I am starting again. I keep my hair red and cut it short into a cute pixie that sweeps the top of my eyebrows. I get glasses even though I don't need glasses. I buy a lot of hats.
A new wardrobe, a new address, and a new attitude... I tell myself that this time it will be for real.
18
Raleigh
I gave her a week to come back to me. But she didn't.
She changed her cell phone number, at least I knew that much. I asked the doorman to ring the old number and it had already been given to a new couple that spoke only Polish.
It was as though she'd disappeared completely. I promised myself not to hire another investigator, but the skin on that promise was wearing extremely thin. What if she was hurt? What if she had already run out of money?
And then one day on the Rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré, I saw her. Just the curve of the back of her shoulder, but I knew was her. How many hours had I spent looking at that shoulder while she was asleep? While she was flung over her childhood bed, arms and legs spread out, completely unaware of my intrusion?
It couldn't have been anyone else. I knew it had to be her.
But I wanted to respect her wishes, and so I merely followed her at a respectful distance until I saw her disappear into a doorway on the Rue de Bretagne, where she must live.
She is a creature of habit, as I well know. She has little rituals that I've watched countless times. She talks to herself. She likes to confront the mirror, casting her weight on one hip and pointing her chin in the air imperiously as though she is daring her reflection to talk back. She is never really quite that sassy in real life, but it is nice to know it is in there somewhere.
I sip at the small paper cup as I sit on a bench outside her apartment, waiting for her to go to the café for her breakfast and morning coffee.
As soon as I see her emerge from the darkened doorway, I rise from my bench, holding the newspaper under my arm as I stride toward the other end of the block.
This should take about two and half minutes. I flip the coffee cup lid off with my thumb into a garbage can as I navigate the sidewalk. Near the end, I hold out the newspaper and pretend to read it as I'm walking, as one does. Reading and walking, totally normal, until…
“Oh no!”
I stop up short, the coffee sloshes over the edge of the cup and splashes across her toes in a pair of fetching leather sandals.
“Pardonnez moi! I'm so—Jordan?”
She just stands, stepping slightly from foot to foot, probably feeling the coffee squishing under the balls of her feet. Just the thought of that sensitive skin makes my gut clench with longing.
Maybe this was a mistake!
Too late now, I tell myself. It's too late. Just do it.
“I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there!” I mutter, completely embarrassed. Now that my charade has been executed, I can see how completely pathetic it is. She probably sees right through me.
“Let me buy you new ones. Oh… those are really nice shoes.”
“No it's all right,” she finally says, and I watch her stained toes flexing in her sandals.
“Oh, you must let me,” I insist. “I can have something delivered to you today. Truly, I am so sorry.”
She looks up at me, her eyes steelier than I remember. But there's that pink flush in her cheeks, the stubborn set of her jaw. She still in there, my little girl.
“I suppose you better come upstairs then,” she mutters, turning on her heel and stalking off.
I don't know what to say, so I simply follow her. She gathers her skirt around her knees as she stomps up the narrow stairway way to a second floor flat and flings open the door. I follow her tentatively.
As soon as I clear the doorway, she flings herself at me. Her hands push up into my hair, dragging me on top of her, pulling me down onto the bare wooden floor. Her leg wraps around me, as hungry as her mouth.
Instinct takes over and I snap open my trousers, freeing my ready, throbbing cock just as she slides black lace panties over her ankles and flings them to the side. Her knees spread open in a silent invitation. I roll on top of her, mounting her with my hand under the small of her back to lift her hips.
She arches back, exposing her throat to me and I dive for it, burying my nose against her and inhaling deeply as I plunge into her warm sheath. Her ankles lock behind my hips, dragging me deeper inside her.
Like a thousand times before, we are locked together, grinding, thrusting, finding each other in the dark space between our souls. I know exactly what she needs from me and I give it to her, all of it. I lunge into her, impaling her until our bodies explode simultaneously.
We are both covered with sweat as I finally fall, withdrawing breathlessly and trying to pull her into my arms.
“Oh, Jordan, I missed you so much. That was—”
“That was sex, R,” she says simply. She sits up, smoothing her skirt back over her knees and letting her eyes wander over me dispassionately. “Good sex, I'll be the first to admit,” she continues coldly. “But just sex.”
“I think you know it's more than just sex,” I retort.
She shrugs one shoulder, looking away.
“I suppose you did that on purpose? Bumped into me on purpose? That was some kind of plan?”
I don't even want to lie it to her anymore, so I just tell the truth. “Yes. I had to see you.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out over a long, long time.
I look around the room, trying to get my bearings. I don't recognize anything here, in fact, I'm kind of surprised these are the furnishings she chose. It's completely different than the pieces in our flat. More modern, more austere, with natural fibers and a more pragmatic aesthetic that I would've ascribed to her.
“Jordan, you must know I have feelings for you.”
Her head bobs up and down a few times. “I think that my feelings for you are purely physical, R,” she sighs. “If that's all right with you, I mean. Otherwise, we probably shouldn't see each other again.”
“You are giving me a choice?”
Her lips purse, and I can see how she's different. Not as soft. Not as eager. Not as innocent.
“Well,” she says finally, her tone full of impatience. She's dismissing me. She expects me to leave now. “I suppose you can let me know.”
I want to come up with some kind snappy retort, but everything in my repertoire sounds thin and insincere. Instead I just stand, redress myself and head for the door. I hear it close behind me and feel like I've lost. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have lost everything.
19
Jordan
One of the really nice things about my neighborhood is that there is a small school, an École, they call it, just around the corner. They do the usual adult education classes like English and French for foreigners. I'd like to learn French but every time I try I get this sneering attitude and I've decided it's just better to go ahead and be an American, speaking English. At least that way they'll be snotty to me in French and I won't necessarily even understand what they're saying.
The school also has classes about other things, and after a little while I decided it would be worth looking into. Maybe something would spark my interest, give me some idea of the direction for my li
fe. While living in France was expensive, I did have quite a lot of money left. I knew it wouldn't last forever, but I wasn't feeling any great urgency to start working at the local Burger King or anything.
Art appreciation classes have been going really well. The instructor shows us slides, talking in this bored, above-it-all sort of voice as she describes each painting in her impenetrable accent. According to her, French painting is the best. Apparently those Italians and Dutch are a bunch of has-beens who shall not be named.
After class, Daniel finally gets up the courage to talk to me as we’re leaving. He's tall and good-looking, with a youthful shock of hair that just covers his coffee-brown eyes. I’ve seen him glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, but he always dashes off without saying anything at all.
He happens to be in the doorway at the same time that I'm attempting to leave, slinging my satchel strap over my shoulder. His eyes meet mine shyly from under that hair and he purses his lips slightly. I find that expression particularly charming, as though he is just lightly kissing the air.
He speaks to me in a sexy, boyish accent. “You speak French?”
“Not a bit,” I tell him proudly.
His eyes crinkle when he smiles at me and I suddenly realize he's the first person I have made eye contact with in weeks. It's nice, seeing someone. Really looking at them. He asked me if I will have dinner with him and I tell him no, but I agree to a cocktail at dinner time.
I am being coy, how about that? I like the feeling of being in control. I like the subtle twitch of disappointment when I say no at first, and he has to come up with an alternate plan. It makes me feel powerful.
I gave him the address of the little restaurant down the block from my house. Not too close so he can't stalk me or anything, but not so far that I need to take a taxi. I could probably have three or four glasses of wine and still manage to stumble home.
He's already there when I arrive, camped out at a small, tablecloth-covered table at the corner of the gated enclosure. His smile is wide and brilliant when he sees me, his cheeks lined with long dimples that bracket his perfect white teeth.
This is fun, I tell myself. Fun, remember that? It's a thing people have people. I should try it.
There's already a glass of wine at my seat when I sit down. I smile at his thoughtfulness, thanking him as I tip the rim of my glass against his. That sound the glasses make is like the starting gun of a race. The game is on. Flirtation, go!
He is charming and self-effacing and has this lovely, sexy chuckle that I find myself eager to hear again every time it dies away. It makes me think that his chest must be broad and strong, just right for leaning my head on.
Oh my, what am I saying? The wine must already be going to my head.
He leans forward, cupping his square chin on the palm of his hand and tapping at that sculpted cheekbone with his fingertip.
“So tell me more about you,” he invites me. “I love your accent. I love the way you talk.”
“My accent?” I repeat. “I don't have a… Oh, I suppose I do. I never thought about it.”
“Yes, I like the sound of it. It's so refreshing to hear you talk.”
“Oh, you have heard me talk before, haven't you? Madame Brevelle has called on me at least four times. Remember all those questions about Corot? I felt like she was daring me not to know who he was!”
“Ah yes, the French are very possessive of our reputation as artists,” he agrees readily. “No, but what I mean is… you know.”
I take another sip of my wine. At first it had seemed a little rough, a little astringent, but now the sweetness is really coming through. I like the way it makes my blood feel thick as honey.
“What do I know? About Corot?”
He tips his head to the side and wrinkles his nose slightly. “You know. There is no sound. On your… videos? Your, um, broadcast? Stream! That's the word!”
He smiles broadly, congratulating himself for remembering the word stream, apparently.
My mouth has gone suddenly dry.
I set the glass down in front of me slowly, turning it in place and pressing my palms flat to the tablecloth.
He knows. He recognized me.
“Oh, you know… I really should be going,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looks alarmed. “Did I make a mistake? Did I say something to offend you?”
I shake my head tightly. “Oh, no. Of course not. It's just that I haven't eaten… Too much wine, you know.”
The push myself to standing and try to take a step away from the table but his hand is quick and encircles my wrist. That innocent, farm boy sweetness has somehow been replaced by raw strength.
I should have seen this coming! I scream at myself. I should have known I could never have a normal life!
I twist my hand away roughly, saying thank you as loud as I can and attracting the attention of several of the other restaurant patrons. I hobble away, sticking him with the bill. I could have paid, of course. But at least I figure that will slow him down.
Automatically I storm toward my apartment, and then realize what a foolish move that is. Instead I double back across the street, cutting across the park in no particular direction, just away. Away from where he is. Away from the ridiculous farce of my first normal date with a stranger in Paris.
After a little while, I begin to feel more confident that he's not following me, but now I'm blocks away from where I need to be. I squint down the street, looking for a taxi and then suddenly realize where I am.
Standing right in front of R’s apartment.
Maybe it's the wine, but this feels like some kind of sign. After a few moments I tap my finger against the button, half hoping it is miraculously out of service. But I hear the electronic click as he engages the answer button, far above me in his flat.
“Jordan? Is everything all right?”
I don't even know what to say. I hang my head slightly and some part of me realizes that he can see me, even though I can't see him. What a strange, fitting coincidence. Everything old is new again.
“King,” I finally say when I find my voice, “let me up. I need you.”
I expect him to press the buzzer that disengages the deadbolt, but instead the door swings open and there he is, shirtless in just his pyjama bottoms, his arms out from his sides as though ready to fight. His eyes dart along the darkened street, looking for trouble.
“It's okay, I'm alone,” I tell him.
But he cups my elbow and pulls me inside, protectively shielding me with his body. Despite everything, I'm grateful for this. I realize I am thankful for his unwavering commitment to protecting me, even when he was being an absolute jackass about it.
He fixes me a brandy and I curl up in my favorite spot on the leather sofa, sipping it though I know I've really had enough to drink at this point. I tell him about Daniel, about a momentary blush of hope crushed to bits again by the past that just won't stay in the past.
He nods, listening to me go on and on and saying nothing. But when I finally finish, when I'm spent explaining and have no more words, he frowns sympathetically.
“Jordan, there is something else you should know,” he begins.
I tip my head back dramatically, letting it fall on the sofa. “Oh my God, what else can there be?” I ask the ceiling.
“The website is still active.”
I pick my head up and stare at him, not understanding. “Kelsey's website? That's impossible!”
He gnaws the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. I can see how sorry he is to deliver this news to me. I'm not sure if I should be grateful that he is still keeping tabs on me or if I should throw my drink in my in his face and storm back out. After all, isn’t it people just like him who made this nightmare possible?
But instead, I take several deep breaths. Somehow, this new turn of events doesn't floor me the way it would have six months ago, even two weeks ago.
“Okay,” I nod. “What are we going to do?”
> His eyebrows go up, but he doesn't move toward me. He's being cautious, I can tell. He is afraid I'll run away.
“Okay, well, you have some options,” he says, dropping his voice to serious businessman levels. I bite my lips together to keep from smirking at the sense of fondness that wells up in me. I used to love this tone of voice, didn’t I?
“What kind of options?”
“I can have someone look into it for us… Find out who is running the site. See if you have a connection, or if there is any easy way to get it dismantled.”
“How do you do that?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I have people.”
“But it's the middle of the night, R,” I remind him.
He smiles, dropping his head onto his fist on the back of the sofa. His muscles are long and thick, their restful state belying the strength I know is there. I cannot let my gaze linger too long on his skin.
“It’s not the middle of the night in the States.”
“Yes,” I chuckle. “I guess I never get used to that, do I?”
It only takes him one phone call to get the details.
The site is still operational, with even more videos on it now. According to some third-party ranking site, it's more popular than ever. Which means I am more popular than ever. Which means…
“I can't even think about this anymore,” I whisper, defeated as we stare at the blue light of his laptop, scrolling through the data his investigator had sent over immediately. Traffic rankings, back links to the site, a whole network of people who been sharing images of me, even on Pinterest! Fucking Pinterest!
His arm loops around me, drawing me closer to him. I nuzzle against his neck, breathing deep the woodsy smell, letting its warmth seeped through my blood and maybe feeling just a little bit better.
“Can I stay with you tonight?” I ask tentatively.
He presses a kiss against my hair and lingers there for a few moments.
“Of course you can stay. I'd like nothing better,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” I sigh, “and in the morning, will figure out how to shut this all down, yes?”
