by Jess Bentley
But instead, I shake my head and clench my jaw. I have things to do, business of my own. I have a lot of details to work out, I and might as well get started.
I’m headed back to America, and I’ll have to do it on my own.
I’ll have to do this on my own. It’s going to become a mantra.
Kelsey, I pray. Kelsey, I need you. Help me get out of here. You’re the catalyst for this. I flew all the way across the ocean so that I could learn whatever it is I could from this experience, and now it’s time for me to learn it, and get the fuck out of here.
In the second elevator, I rake my fingers through my hair and put my sandals on, straightening my dress. It’s nothing compared to the Rodarte that King bought me, and for a moment I wish I still had that gorgeous piece, almost wanted to go back to get it. But it’s not me anyway. Where else would I wear such a thing, and besides the ten thousand in price, what’s the cost to me? To not even be able to have my own autonomy? I rubbed my head. Or even safety? Who the fuck is R, and why is he able to do all of this?
Is it just because I let him?
My mind wanders to his stiff cock, that blunt instrument that I had given all the power over me. Or is it the grief that had that power? If it weren’t for my grief, there’s no way I would have sunk myself into this situation. No way I would be on the plane in the first place. And even Kelsey herself—she was the one who originally had power over me.
She never wanted me to develop.
The doors to the elevator open soundlessly, with just a small tinkling bell announcing my arrival in the lobby. I slip out, heading toward the door.
“May I help you?” I hear in a polite voice, but the timbre of the sound makes me feel uneasy. Looking over my shoulder, I see the owner of the voice with a phone cradled at her neck, typing into the computer. She wasn’t even talking to me.
I emerge onto the streets of Paris. How many centuries have women been escaping from their circumstances on this pavement? The light is cold, vacant. The Eiffel Tower, the massive Louvre, the apartment buildings loom down on me. The advertisements, with their familiar images of popular movies but their taglines distorted into French are at once comforting and discomfiting. I take a breath.
You know what? Fuck you, Kelsey, I think. Fuck you for putting me in this situation. If you hadn’t controlled everything about my life I wouldn’t be in this position, running from some man. An engine rolls up beside me, breaking my thoughts. Is it King?
No. Once it passes, I clutch my bag to me and head off to the nearest main intersection. There are shouts of delivery people in the streets as the city wakes up, and my stomach, despite its knots, growls.
Fuck this, I need food. I go into the nearest cafe, anger and hunger taking over my apprehension and finally mobilizing me.
“Excusez-moi,” I say, to the man behind the counter in what I’m sure is heavily accented French. “Cafe s’il-vous plait, et une baguette.” I point to the pastry behind the glass.
He looks at me funny—a smirk in his lips, eyebrow arched. Freaking French. “Baguette?” he repeats.
“Oui,” I say.
He shrugs. “Pour emporter?”
I shrug back. I have no idea what he’s saying, what that means. But I don’t care. When he hands me the long baton of bread, I realize my mistake. I’d pointed at what I of course know is a croissant. I hide my grimace and hand over the few euros in my bag. A small victory, but my own. I did it. If the same thing happens at the airport, I realize grimly, I might end up in England or something, but at least I will be the fuck out of here.
Clutching my prizes to my chest, the cafe door closes behind me. My stomach is so empty I feel the coffee wind and burn its way down my throat. Or maybe it’s raw from taking in King.
Now to get a cab. The wind whips my skirt around my legs and I hold my free arm aloft as I reach the intersection, and immediately a cab is at my side. Gratefully I open the door and sit.
“Where you going?”
“Why aren’t you speaking to me in French?” I ask, puzzled.
“Because you are clearly Americain,” he replies. “Where you going?”
“The airport,” I say almost happily. The sensation of happiness is feeling so foreign to me right now. I wonder the last time I felt it. “Going home. Finally going home.”
“Charles de Gaulle it is.” He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “As you wish, Madame.”
The ripped leather seats feel more comfortable than silk cushions ever could as I sink back into the sunlit ride. I close my eyes and rip pieces of baguette from the bag, tearing the buttery crisp crust with my teeth and letting the gentle flavor of the bread suffuse my mouth. The sips of coffee wash it down, and somehow this becomes the simplest and most delicious meal I’ve ever tasted.
“Good bread?” the cabbie says, smiling a little. Then his attention turns to the road, and he lets out a stream of invective words in rough French. “Do you see what these turkeys do?” he demands of me.
“Eh, I am not in a rush,” I say, swallowing. “I don’t have to make a particular flight. That is, I have to get it organized.” I do have one, but I didn’t know exactly what time it leaves—just that I’m pretty sure I’m early. I’ll just have to take whatever they can give me. Still, being free of R is worth it, despite the gnawing feeling in my mind.
Will he come after me? Do I want him to?
King is like a drug. Sure I am in the euphoria stage of getting away from him, from everyone. But I know the withdrawal will hit me, and I will feel the grief of Kelsey’s loss. And the loss of my idea of Kelsey. I will feel the finality of never being able to speak to her, to accuse her of taking me over, of running me like her personal safety blanket.
I push those thoughts away and try to regain the peace that I found in the sunlight and baguette before these thoughts begin circling like vultures in my mind. Vultures waiting for my “relationship” with King to die so they can feast on its bones. Bones like the over-picked carcass of Paris, the old and stately architecture taken over by the garishness of storefronts, the subdued ancient palate scarred with yellows and reds.
After a bumpy ride, we arrive at the airport. The sunlight is still in my eyes, but seems too bright now. Why is my happiness so fleeting? Will my entire life be a trial, where I move from one problem to another? Losing something every time along the way?
First I lost Kelsey.
That’s not true. First I lost my independence to Kelsey, trading it for some kind of servitude. Then I lost Kelsey, and got a chance to regain myself, to figure out who Jordan Burke is, but I immediately gave it to King. I gave myself away the first chance I got. I could have just left, instead of using King. My face twists.
You were grieving, some part of me says. You didn’t know what you were doing. And besides, he helped you forget. Oh how he helped me forget. You can still find yourself. I try to imagine what Kelsey would have said: “You look hot in that dress, girlie. You should spend enough for a down payment for a house on clothes all the time.”
I have to smile. Was she really that bad? The answer has to be no. It was all me. I was useless. Still am, basically. I met this man, and clearly I lacked the necessary strength to resist him. Sure he might be gorgeous; in fact, the best-looking man I’ve ever met—those cheekbones, that hair, the steep angles of his pecs, the six-pack, or maybe eight-pack. Abs upon abs. The line of his hips, leading down to that perfect, massive cock. One that practically tore me in two when it filled me for the first time, but in the best of ways. My inner core jumps as I relive the feeling of being taken by King, used, spanked.
The plane. How long have I been standing on the sidewalk outside the airport lost in thought? I have to set up my return flight. Now. Despite what I said to the cab driver, nobody really wants to camp out in the airport. They just don’t want to die in a cab, either.
And if I am not careful, maybe King will end up figuring where I am.
Do I want him to? Does part of me?
I take my place in line, ready to exchange my ticket. The other thing I realize is that I have to admit that I’m not even one hundred per cent certain what day of the week it is. How embarrassing. I don’t have luggage, leaving it at my musty hotel.
“Bonjour, ‘allo,” says a chic woman in a uniform, waving me over.
“Hi there. My name is Jordan Burke,” I say.
“Are you checking in for a flight?” she asks, eyes on her computer screen. I nod, because maybe. “Your passport?”
I fish around in my bag, trying not to allow my hands to shake, trying not to let them be seen. “One moment,” I say. King hadn’t taken my ID, did he? I ran out so fast, I didn’t check. Stupid. But then my fingers close around it and I’m safe. I hand her the small, leathery book.
“Uh, what day is it?”
Her eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly. “It is Friday, Madame,” she says carefully, before returning to the computer. “When is your flight?”
“The sixteenth,” I say.
“Well then you are… a bit early,” she murmurs. “You should come back tomorrow.”
“Is it possible to change to today?” My stomach twists in knots, but I need to face my fears. Kelsey could have easily done all this, no problem. She would have taken charge, never mind any sneering. Except nobody would have sneered at her. No matter, I have to finally learn to do things on my own. Unbidden, King’s face comes into my mind. To get away from him gives me courage, no matter how much my body wants him. How much my soul wants him.
He will become a memory of the kind of life I never wanted. “I really would like to leave today.”
“Most things are possible. But it will cost you,” she says. “Your booking doesn’t allow last-minute changes.”
“Fine,” I say, despite tears threatening. I stared down at my hands, their familiar lines and planes grounding me somehow.
“Ah, wait just one moment, I may have found you a solution,” she says, and gives me a wink. “If you go on the very same flight today, there is one seat left. I can arrange it so you are switched, no charge,” she says triumphantly.
“Yes please,” I choke, a sob escaping my lips. “Please do that.” This’ll be over. And I can return to my life, be nearly normal, build my independence step by step instead of being thrown into a crazy life. No more over-the-top dresses, no more beautiful men with magical cocks—no more anything. Just normalcy.
The rest of the experience is a blur. Quite literally. My eyes keep filling up with stupid, hot tears as I manage my way through the airport, locating the English on signs, being jostled by other travelers, trying to get comfortable in the sterile airport gate seats. But that’s nothing compared to the grief that is awakening in my body. It’s all I could do to stay present, to breathe, to try to respond to the calls for my flight. It’s only once I sit in the seat of the plane, in which I vowed to stay the entire time, that I am finally able to relax.
I fasten the seat belt low over my hips and peer out the tiny window. This is probably the last time I'm going to see France, through this window. Workers run across the tarmac, back and forth with those orange tipped flashlights they carry. I see them dashing toward rolling luggage carts, holding their bulky headphones close to their ears.
The dreary weather starts to become a little more dreary, and long raindrops slash the window from the outside. After a few more moments, the window is so covered in rain that the scene outside is warped and obscured, too dark to see.
The man in the suit next to me leans over, his shoulder brushing unsubtly against my breast as he gestures with his chin at the outside world. I shrink back against my chair, relishing the idea that soon I'll be back in America where they have a slightly more generous notion of personal space.
“Rain, yes?” he smirks, his eyes wandering over the outlines of my dress. I hope the flight attendant comes around soon and offers us those blankets, so I can cover up. “Do you suppose ees good luck? The rain?”
“Um, yeah, luck,” I mutter, turning away.
Personal space. I can't wait.
I keep my eyes trained out the window, watching the starbursts of headlights bouncing around the raindrops as we roll toward the runway. In just minutes we are picking up speed, the giant tires whining against the concrete.
And then gravity presses me back into my chair like a hand as the plane takes off. I hear the landing gear clunking into the space below as it retracts, and somehow this feels like an accomplishment. It is just one more phase of the journey. We really are underway.
The man in the suit leans close to me again, though I'm trying not to acknowledge him in any way. His breath is oily and thick, sliding over my shoulder like a hand.
“I think I know you, oui?” he breathes.
I can't see him, but I imagine that he is just about to reach out and touch me. I'm not sure what I will do. There aren't any more seats on this flight, they told me so when I booked it. But I'm sure if I start screaming or trying to claw his eyeballs out, they will find somewhere to stow me.
I raise a hand without looking, sort of hoping that I will bop him on the nose as I do so.
“No, no. I don't know you,” I say, letting my voice get slightly louder at the end.
“Oh, yes. But I think I do,” he continues. “Perhaps I saw you?? Does that seem —”
“Miss?”
It's a woman's voice, and I twist around in my seat immediately, grateful that help has come. Did she see us? Did she know that I needed her?
The man in the suit settles back in his seat confirming that he was, indeed, way too damn close to me. What was he thinking? The French, I swear!
“Yes?” I stammer.
It is a flight attendant, and she grips the back of the seat in front of us as she leans forward. The plane is still ascending steeply and she has to hold herself at an angle to keep from tipping over. I assumed that flight attendants were generally strapped in like the rest of us during this kind of part of the journey, but I guess not.
Then I see she's got something in her hand, and she is holding it out to me.
“Miss?” she repeats. She blinks large, almond-shaped eyes and purses her lips suggestively as she glances at the man next to me. What is she doing? Is she also French? Is this some kind of conspiracy?
But it's a card. A cream-colored card. She wants me to take it from her, and my heart leaps as I think that I know what it is.
Chapter 12
Raleigh
Traffic was wretched getting to De Gaulle airport. It didn't help that I'd spent way too much time watching Jordan sleep instead of getting ready to go. But I didn't want to leave her and trying to tear myself away from the warm sensation of her skin left me feeling somewhat bereft.
Not only was the desire to be close to her overwhelmingly intense, the knowledge that I should want her this badly weighed heavily on my mind as well.
But in any case, she was the one who said she was leaving. She wants to go to the States, and I do believe that's the right move. But it's also the right move for me to get there first and create a soft space for her to land. Well, isn't it?
I'm being foolish, I tell myself. I'm acting like a fool. I'm letting myself get in way too deep. I'm acting like an overprotective boyfriend.
Boyfriend. The word puts a foul taste in my mouth. Who has boyfriends? Boyfriends are for children.
As the limo idles in semi-gridlocked traffic, I get my plans in order. Happily, Richard Branson coincidentally brought a Gulfstream that's gassed and ready to go at Charles de Gaulle. It only took me two phone calls to get a hold of him this time, and that's a relief. The Gulfstream will cut hours off the flight.
But when we pull up to the Departures area, a taxicab stops in front of us, and she gets out. At first it's like I'm watching her from far away. I see her through the window emerging from the taxi, muttering to herself and scowling. The window is smeared with bleary drizzle that’s just started falling, but I can see her furrowed brow, the downturn of the corne
rs of her mouth.
And I realize I've done this to her. She's mad at me. I left. I run through the probable scenario through my mind. I imagine her waking up, finding the note that I had fretted over for long minutes like a highschool boy. What could I say to her, that she would accept, I wondered? But she'd been so determined, I convinced myself she wasn't really going to care. She was leaving anyway.
And yet, what was I really thinking? Of course she would care. We had just been intimate. We had just slept in each other's arms all night, and then I left her there without even waking her up to say goodbye.
Of course she's angry with me, and seeing it in real life is much worse than I imagined. But I don't leave the limo. I watch her for a few moments, letting it sink in. She's on her own, she's going back to the States, and she's angry.
Sliding my cell phone from my pocket, I swipe the face to activate it. In a few seconds I get the concierge from the hotel back on the line.
“Oui?”
“Yes,” I murmur, keeping my voice low as though she can somehow hear me. “I’d like to book two first class flights to the United States. Can you make that arrangement for me?”
“Bien sûr, Monsieur King,” the concierge answers, in a clipped, professional tone.
Looks like I'll be flying commercial after all. Slipping sunglasses over my nose though the sky is gray and not too bright, I head into the airport and follow her at a safe distance. She stalks toward the ticketing counter with her hand digging around in her bag. While I hang back, she negotiates with the agent who tips her head in some kind of apology.
She's trying to get a flight for today, I assume. That's going to be difficult feat to manage.
But presumably, she does. In a few moments, the agent is handing her folded envelope with a courteous smile. Jordan takes it and heads off toward Customs after just a few moments of swinging her gaze uncertainly left and right. Somehow, she doesn't see me.
Well, this is creepy, I scold myself. Am I really just going to follow her through the airport? Just watch her? Do that not just seem a little ironic?
