by Jess Bentley
Oh well, I say brightly, in my mind. There are other shops.
I’m uneasy.
My stomach grumbles as I walk down the wide street. Maybe I’m not in the best area but Paris sure doesn’t seem like it does in the movies. The signs said I was in the Marais section, and it looked good online—filled with culture and excitement, they said. But that’s not what it is, I figure, as I avert my eyes from the sight of someone shooting up in a closed storefront.
Some hippie types are sitting with their dog. One of them is rolling a joint, and the other is playing a stringed instrument that I haven’t seen before. It’s kind of like a ukulele but different. More strings. A small guitar? Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound quite in tune.
The sumptuous pictures I saw online of my room are nothing like the reality either. Clicking through the site, the place seemed so modern, clean, and fresh; almost a miniature apartment with lots of space. In person, it’s funny-shaped. Not square or rectangular. More like a closet. It’s small, and I can only wedge the tiny window open with the door stopper. Otherwise it crashes down.
When the concierge shuffled ahead of me with his key, I was so looking forward to sinking into a tub, or a bed, but all that flew away when he let me in. I could feel my face fall, and I know he saw it. I tried to ask him for a different room, but he said he didn’t speak English. I’m not sure I believe him.
No, this Paris is not like any movies I’ve seen. It’s full of graffiti, people doing drugs in the street. The only thing that seems authentic is the cranky barista. Well, that and the proverbial dog shit covering the sidewalk.
I am starting to wonder if everything is like that once you scratch the surface.
The sun is bright and hurts my eyes a bit as I rush toward the area that contains the Louvre and some other attractions: Eiffel Tower, a grand Ferris wheel overlooking the city, and large parks.
It strikes me that it’s not only the look of the place. Paris doesn’t feel the way I expected being here would feel, either. I rub my stomach to stop its complaining, and consider doing my best to muster up the courage to buy a pastry from a shop, but I’m not quite hungry enough to face humiliation again.
There has to be some kind of cart around the tourist traps that would have English speakers. The food might be questionable, but I’ll grab something there and devour it. Not exactly the Parisian breakfast that I was imagining I’d have. Which I would have, if I weren’t so shy.
Damn you, Kelsey.
I remember sitting on her bed with her in college, and her playing with her globe.
“Look, there,” she said, pointing to a little spot. “That’s Paris. And here’s where we are. We would just have to go all the way around to... here, and we would be in the most beautiful city on earth. The city of love.”
“Can’t I just look on my phone?” I groaned. It wasn’t a question but a complaint. I didn’t really want to follow her across the globe. I was, frankly, getting sick of following her everywhere else.
Who knew I would follow her ghost?
At this point I’m so hungry I can’t wait to walk to the Louvre. I need food now. Chatelet-Les Halles metro station is in front of me, and I decide, that’s it. Who cares if it’s one stop, it’s worth a damn Euro. After all, it’s Kelsey’s money from the will that will be paying for this trip. Might as well spend it, as I’m starting to feel like I earned every cent from living with her.
Louvre-Rivoli is the next station and I wait on the platform, its sharp architecture with its dated browns and creams looking a little sad under the grime of the day.
I notice with a grin that the subway tube is encased in some kind of metal sheath. Mr. King comes into my mind unbidden as the train penetrates the track.
I feel someone hit me in the arm, and there’s a huge, ragged face in mine. He’s speaking French, but roughly, and laughing. It’s partly the shock and partly his demeanor, but I can’t concentrate on what the words are. Suddenly his hands are on my breasts, and at the same time the subway stops.
He’s yelling at me, and I instinctively bat his hands away and cover myself and turn to run into the subway car. Nobody stops to help me—they’re just like robots walking onto the subway. He grabs my ass, and squeezes, hard. What the hell?
Is he going to follow me?
I run into the car, and as he follows me past the other commuters, I wish that I had only turned and run up the stairs. My breath is fast, but I feel like I can’t get any air. Finally I find my voice.
“Leave me alone!” I say, and he only laughs more, and I can see that he’s missing a tooth in front, and another is gold.
For some reason the image of a pirate comes in my mind. A pirate ready to steal my booty. I try to keep my purse in front of me to cover myself, and lean on the subway door to protect my rear end. My heart is pounding. Why is nobody helping?
He’s telling me something in French, and I can’t understand a word. Finally he speaks English.
“I know you,” he says in heavily-accented French. “You want this.” And with that, he drives his erection into my hip. It feels disgusting. Hard and aggressive. At the same time the door opens. “I masturbate to you!” he yells as I half-stumble and half-back out of the subway car. He licks his lips as I turn and run up the escalator.
I emerge into the bright air again, feeling dirty and disgusting. Now I know this is definitely not the Paris I was imagining. This is not the world I was imagining when I thought about traveling. All I want to do is take a shower and lie down in my own bed, not the strange bed in the strange room. I reach in my pocket to pull out some money to buy something eat, but I realize I’m no longer hungry. I feel numb. Then I see what I’ve pulled out of my pocket is Mr. King’s card.
I could call him.
It would be nice to see a familiar face.
I finger the paper for the hundredth time since he gave it to me. R. King, it says. I could call him; he said so. Before I left, he wished me bon voyage, through my parents. Said again that if I got into any trouble while I was in the city I should let him know and he would be happy to get a call.
I sit down in the large square, leaning against a lamppost. The architecture of the Louvre is simultaneously welcoming and forbidding—its sheer size, the beauty, the modern entrance protruding up from the expanse.
I’ve somehow missed the vendors; where are they? I figure there must be some here. Hungry or not, I should probably eat before I faint. Fingering the card again, I weigh the pros and cons of calling him. It’s only a simple call to your family friend, a little voice in my head says.
A gorgeous family friend. A gorgeous older man, says another. You know your motivations aren’t entirely innocent. Do you really want to wrap yourself up in someone else, someone who would never think of you that way? Especially after just being assaulted?
I don’t know if I could even entertain such a thought of being with anyone after that drunk pushed himself against me in the subway, though.
But Mr. King isn’t anything like that, the first voice tells me.
I bet he knows some really nice restaurants. And he’d probably invite me, too. My cell phone seems to jump into my hand when I root around in my purse for some candy or a mint. It’s the perfect size for my grasp. Why am I thinking of Mr. King’s cock?
He’s your dad’s friend, he doesn’t see you in that way. He can’t. Besides, you’ve only just graduated from Kelsey. Can’t you stand on your own two feet? Do you have to leech onto someone else? Your dad’s friend?
It’s not leeching if he offers.
Someone looks at me on the square and points, saying something and nudging his friend. I look down at myself. Did that drunk guy mess me up? I don’t think so. I look fine. Then another person shouts something. I look behind me, but there’s nobody there.
This is really starting to freak me out. It’s probably nothing, but I don’t know why people are making a fuss over me. I clutch my cell phone in my hand as fear clenches my heart. I scramble t
o stand up so I’m not vulnerable, just in case someone comes at me again.
This isn’t going the way I thought at all.
“Now listen, Jordan,” my mother had said when I insisted I wanted to go to Paris. “Are you sure you can handle it? You’re not exactly Indiana Jones!”
Indiana Jones? Jeez. “I’ll be fine, Mom,” I scoffed, trying not to show how nervous I actually was, how much I wished Kelsey was still with me—still in the world, for that matter—and on this trip.
“Well, if you’re sure, but I don’t want you getting into any situations that are hard to handle.”
“We support you, honey,” my dad piped in, “but we love you and don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Maybe it’s best to call Mr. King?
I avoid everyone’s eyes and my stomach rumbles so loudly I’m afraid it’s booming across the square. Turning my face to the wall, I quickly dial the numbers on the card as stars start to swim in front of my face. I must have stood too quickly.
“King,” I hear as soon as he picks up.
“Mr. King,” I say. “It’s Jordan.”
“Where are you? I’m coming to pick you up right now.”
God help me, my core contracts in pleasure.
Chapter 4
Raleigh
If we both leaned our elbows on the table, we would be close enough to kiss.
In the light of the small restaurant, Jordan looks like a shy goddess. The warmth makes her skin glow, and the subtle flashes of the candlelight play across the tops of her breasts, which peek out of her neckline.
If I had my way, I’d...
“Don’t you think?” she finishes.
Fuck. I have no idea what she’s talking about. Christ. Just then, as if by magic, the waiter swoops in. I love the French. They know just how to woo, and how to do damage control when something gets in the way. They’re a nation of cock-lockers, not cock-blockers.
“Madame,” he says. “More wine?”
“Yes, please,” Jordan answers, looking up at him. I take the opportunity to surreptitiously check out her body again. Her elegant neck, her proud breasts, her waist. Her arms. It’s all perfect.
I wonder what day it is today.
What’s less perfect is to be stuffed like sardines in this restaurant, instead of stuffing her sweet pussy. But that’s how they do it in Paris: pack in the tables until everyone’s on each other’s lap. I wouldn’t mind if Jordan were on mine. I can feel my cock strain against my zipper.
Jordan, you make me want to bend you over right here.
“Monsieur,” says the waiter.
“Oui, s’il-vous plait,” I answer. She looks up at me, probably surprised at my decent French accent. “I spent some years in France,” I say as an aside, by way of explanation. “As a child, and then later for business. It’s partially why your family and I lost touch the last decade or so.” Her eyes widen. I don’t mention Justine, my ex. She’d be the other reason.
“Oh my God,” she says quickly, covering her mouth just as fast as the words come out. “I just remembered you.”
“What do you mean?” I take a sip of the rich dark wine, and hold it in my mouth a moment before swallowing.
“I was totally embarrassing to you, wasn’t I?” she asks slowly. She puts her face in her hands. I want to grab her and tell her no, she was just a kid, but I’d embarrass myself.
“Don’t be silly.”
When she finally looks up at me, her eyes are apologetic and her smile mortified. “I tried to monopolize you as a kid. I would not let you out of my sight.”
I grin. “Well, yeah,” I finally admit. “You were quite...eager.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
My hand snakes across the table of its own accord, moving to touch her arm. “Don’t be.”
When there’s finally skin-to-skin contact, we both jump. I knew there was something strong there, but I had no idea that it would be like this. Burning. Electricity scorches through my fingertips and she jumps back, her eyes widening in shock.
“Mr. King,” she says. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” I finally say. “You don’t have to call me Mr. King.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to sound, and Jordan blushes. I clear my throat.
“I’m sorry,” she answers. “I remember you, but I don’t really know your name, and even if I did I’m not sure I could say it out loud.”
I’d like you to be screaming it, I think. Over and over.
“You don’t know it?” I say. “Don’t your parents refer to me?”
“Yeah, my dad does,” she answers. Shit, I didn’t want to bring him into this. “But he most often calls you ‘King.’ My mother usually says ‘your friend, King.’“
“Ah,” I say. “Yeah, most people in college called me that.”
I think Margaret doesn’t like me too much. She’d definitely not like me if she knew what I was thinking right now. I take another sip of wine, to stall. “Well, what does it matter if you know it if you can’t call me by it in any case?”
“I know it starts with R,” she offers.
“Then call me R.”
“Okay,” she says. “R.” She’s rolling it around her mouth like it was a hard candy. “Rrr.”
Or something else hard.
My cock twitches, quivers at the vibration from her mouth.
“How does that feel?” I ask softly.
“Good,” she says. “Rrrr.” Her eyes sparkle.
“I like how it sounds in your voice.”
“I think we’re drunk,” she says.
“Could very well be,” I reply, and signal to the waiter to refill our glasses. He weaves his way through tiny tables close together, and pours our glasses with a flourish.
“Plus de pain, Madame?” he says with an arched eyebrow.
Oh shit, we never ordered, and she hasn’t eaten anything but a breadstick. No wonder she’s drunk. I starve her, then I ply her with alcohol.
I quickly order for us in French and it earns me another one of Jordan’s “looks”: innocent but somehow sexy as hell.
“I never would have pegged you for a fluent French speaker,” she exclaims. “What were you talking about?”
“Ah, I just ordered some food for us. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty.”
“Not at all,” she answers, “I didn’t want to have to say a word, honestly. I’m too scared to try to speak here.”
“You’re going to have to get over that, at some point,” I admonish her lightly. “You need to be braver than that if you’re going to be a world traveler.” It occurs to me I don’t know why Jordan came here to Paris. Was it just to see the City of Light, of Love? Was it for some other reason?
“I’m terrified,” she says with no affect, and I realize it’s the most starkly true thing that she’s ever said to me. The part of her that wanted me to pay all my attention to her, the little girl, she’s still there, buried under the most sexual, succulent body I’ve had the pleasure of seeing.
Yes, I’ve spent some time with that body. But she seems like she doesn’t let on what she does. Of course, who would tell their dad’s friend something like that?
The part of me that knows who she is and what she’s done is at war with this public persona of hers. Which is the public and which is private? I don’t know what is real and what isn’t with her. But her innocence is appealing, even if it’s false.
“So tell me more about this person who was following you,” I say.
“I’d really rather not.” She takes a quick gulp of wine. “I’d like to put it behind me if I can.”
“But you said he seemed to know who you were?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes meet mine again and I search them for any sign of guilt, but they are completely guileless. She is either a very good actress, or she’s actually innocent. I’m determined to figure out which.
There can’t be any way I’ve made a mistake. My PI is too much of a pro for that. If I se
e her body, somehow, and that mole is there, I’ll know for sure.
“Oh,” says Jordan, as an appetizer is placed in front of her. It’s escargot—a dish that’s a little dated, perhaps, but how can you go to Paris and not eat one of the classiques? “What is this?”
“Just try one,” I answer.
She dips the snail deeper into its bath of garlic lemon butter and then brings it to her mouth.
“Go on,” I say, and she finally pops it between her soft lips, her eyes opening wide and then closing as her head falls back. I watch her jaw line move as she eats the snail, and when she looks back at me her eyes are half-shut and a few loose strands of hair fall in her face.
“That was the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” she says wonderingly.
We’ll change that, I think.
“Have some baguette with the next bite,” I say, pushing the basket toward her.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks suddenly, sharply.
“No reason,” I say. Because I want to fuck you until you scream. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“No reason,” she answers.
“Jordan,” I say. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“No rea—”
“You don’t get to say that more than once,” I admonish her. “Tell me.”
“To get the hell away,” she says. “I had to get the hell away.”
“I understand.”
The restaurant is getting darker, and as she places her next snail on the crispy, soft baguette, I find myself feeling the buzz of the wine slipping its shadowy fingers around the parts of me with good sense, and wresting them away. I begin to fantasize about Jordan more openly and look at her more baldly, without apology. She sneaks looks back at me. Does she see me as an authority figure? A dirty old man? A creep? A sexy older man? I don’t know.
She herself changes in the light. The wine is getting to her too. She’s slurring a bit.
Our food comes, and the night gets a bit late, a bit blurry. Before I know it Jordan and I are tumbling out of the restaurant, full of delicacies and wine, and she’s on my arm, laughing up at me. We’re stumbling toward my car service. Her foot goes out in front of her at a funny angle and she nearly falls.
