Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

“So, we're birds of a feather . . . look, I'm sorry if I put you on the spot. It's not often I run across a guy with principles anymore and . . . well . . . it's refreshing. Al and I‘ve been separated for over a year. I've dated a little, and you wouldn't believe the men who'll tell you anything. I’m beginning to think all the men with any sort of principles are snatched up.

  You'd be astonished how many married men try to pass them off as single. It's incredible. So, to hear you'll take a pass on a married woman who’s obviously hitting on you, and to be so emphatic about it; I don't know; it's nice that men like you still exist.”

  ”We don’t. I made it up,” and she stares at me dumbfounded. “Only kidding. Some of us still have limits on fooling around with another man’s wife.”

  “You’re a jokester aren’t you, Tucker?”

  “Not always.”

  “I think it’s how you said it that makes the difference.”

  “How I said what?”

  “You said, when it comes to fooling with another man’s wife.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, you could’ve said, ‘fooling with a married woman’, but you didn’t. You phrased it in personal terms - ‘another man’s wife’. Your emphasis was on the husband, not the woman. Your concern is doing the husband wrong. By doing that you’ve made it more personal, more wrong than fooling with a married woman. A world of difference Tucker. That tiny bit of phraseology tells me that you take this seriously.”

  “Wow. I would’ve never picked up on that but you might be giving me more credit than I’m due.”

  “So, what about fooling around with someone’s girlfriend or boyfriend?” she asks.

  “Boyfriends yes, I have limits.”

  She laughs. “And girlfriends?”

  “Girlfriends are not wives. I draw the line at married women. Actually, women married to men with guns. If someone's girlfriend wants to make herself available, that's her business. Just don’t give my name to your boyfriend.”

  “Going out on your girlfriend is not a problem?”

  “You mean Ebba?”

  “She's your girlfriend isn't she?”

  “Never seen the woman before in my life. Met her for the first time going through security.”

  “What?”

  “Okay, I confess.”

  “To what?”

  “I don’t know, I thought women like men who confessed. It’s a pickup line. Did it work?”

  “Uh . . . ”

  “We date other people. Does that make her a girlfriend?”

  “How does she see it?”

  “However it suits her in the moment would be my guess.”

  “Then you’re her boyfriend. At least on this trip.”

  “But she’s not on this trip. This trip is now our trip. Does that count?”

  “Good point. You might’ve found a loophole.”

  “So we’re free to fool around?”

  “Free? Pshaw. Nothing's free, Tucker.”

  four

  22:23 Hours, Saturday, 30 August.

  JFK International Airport, New York.

  Still . . .

  The possibilities. My brain’s overwhelmed with a rush of possibilities and the scene where a man and woman - two strangers - find themselves, by pure happenstance, alone together. The world's at war, bombs are dropping, and they know they're going to die any minute; when, without a word between them, they begin tearing each other's clothes off and make love with abandon because it’ll be the last thing they’ll ever do.

  Gazing at Monica, I can only think, if this was Troy, she'd surely be Helen, and we'd all be going to war. Ah, to be her Paris . . .

  Paris? Hmm.

  Yeah, Air France is startin' to sparkle. There’s one thing though. A six-hour flight is not enough. Six hours and we’re nearly face-to-face with that dilemma again - the one who flew off a little while ago. No, we’ve somehow got to push that dilemma off even farther and . . . hmm . . . Maybe there’s a way.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

  “I'm not scaring you away am I, Tucker?”

  “No, but there’s still time.”

  She laughs and I turn and walk out to the concourse and down to the departure's board to check on an idea that’s percolating.

  What we need is something to put us together and make us a couple and I think I know just the thing. May as well run it up the flagpole. Let’s face it. She knows what I want, and she knows I know she knows, so there’s no skirting it.

  I’m pretty sure she’s game and wants the same thing. She wouldn’t be hanging in here this long if she didn’t. At least, that’s what I’m counting on. I could be wrong but I doubt it, my instincts are usually pretty right on.

  Thing is, you’ve got to give a woman a reason to go along, a good reason. It’s got to be appealing, and not simply a romp in the sack, which of course is the end game but you’ve gotta dress it up.

  When I return to the bar, she's sitting expectantly atop her barstool with a killer smile hitting me like a brain freeze, and suddenly I’m a child drawn to the enchanting colors and captivating music of Monica the carousel; every fiber within me awakening to the simple joy of being near her and alive.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Huh?”

  “Snap out of it, Tucker, where’d you go?”

  “Oh. Yeah,” stalling to right myself, shaking off this weird thing she does to me.

  “Okay . . . uh . . . Oh yeah. I was thinking maybe we could make something out of this little setback with the Barcelona flight, you know . . . turn it into a real adventure. That is if you're game of course,” I say regrouping my nearly misplaced enthusiasm.

  “Uh huh,” she says eyeing me warily, “and you’re thinking what exactly?” Her eyebrow cocked with the practiced suspicion of females.

  I didn’t hear no, so I proceed forward.

  “Always wanted to take a train across Europe, you know, like the Orient Express or something. Like in the old movies. Seems like such a cool thing to do - riding the rails, watching the countryside pass by from a seat in first-class, washing down a rare steak with an even rarer scotch. Totally enjoying the whole experience.

  Still don’t hear no.

  “Anywhoo. I walked down the concourse to check the departure's board, and I noticed an American Airlines flight leaving for London at 12:30.

  “So I’m thinking . . . If we were to catch that flight, we can, from London, take the Eurostar through the Chunnel to Paris and from Paris catch another train down to Barcelona. See the French countryside the whole way down and cross over into Spain through the Pyrenees. Now how cool would that be? We might lose a day or so,” I keep selling, “but it’d be a lot more fun than hassling with a connecting flight in Paris. Sooo whaddya think?” offering up my best smile. “You up for an adventure like that?”

  “Chunneling . . . hmm . . . sounds interesting. Hmm . . . never gone down through France that way,” she says giving the idea enough consideration it sounds like a yes to me. My heart’s thumping.

  “It'll be fun,” I prod. “You do like adventures don’t you?”

  She turns her kryptonite greens on me, duly assessing my little challenge without suggesting she's easy. “Okay, sure, why not?”

  Whoa, I'm knocked over and I’m doing all I can to maintain some semblance of nonchalance. Hey, am I a salesman or what? The gods are with me tonight. This girl's game and I'm about to become the guy who makes every guy's fantasy come true; two ships in the night and all.

  In a poor attempt at hiding my shock, my international, debonair and dashing self blurts out, “Really?”

  “Sure,” she says pausing, “Hey, wait a minute. This isn’t some sort of trick is it Blue? You're not thinking this might be your little opportunity to . . . ”

  “To what? Get laid?”

  “Yeah, that,” like she's seeing right through me which of course she is.

  “Pshaw,” I ignore and check my watch. “We should head up to the Ame
rican counter and see if they have seats.”

  “You didn't answer my question,” the little terrier refusing to let go.

  “Didn't I tell you I’m a priest? What do you want me to say, no?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I could but you're a woman so you wouldn't believe me anyway. Let me put it this way. Guys don't say no. That's for girls.”

  A second passes before she rights herself.

  “Yeah, right. Well, watch yourself, mister.” She pauses, looking me over for the trick. “So, what are you waiting for? Let's go,” like now it's her idea.

  We drain the remains of our drinks, and I drop enough cash on the bar to cover the tab plus a healthy tip for my good luck and with rolling bags in hand I step aside and offer a polite 'ladies first,' being the gentleman I am, and fall in behind. A little chivalry never fails. More important; it gives me a few moments to admire the sway and curve of her hips.

  Like a Geisha in tow, I would gladly follow her all the way to the American counter, but that would only reveal me for the lech that I am. So I pick up the step until we're a couple and take her hand in mine. Her head turns. She smiles and surprises me with a peck to my cheek. My heart does a giddyup.

  We must look like two kids skipping down the concourse as giddy as we are, talking up the whole crazy idea and how no one would ever guess we'd be taking such a bizarre detour.

  “We'll tell 'em, we missed the Air France, that we got bumped again and in our panic grabbed the last two seats on the American to London to get across the pond. Then, we’d figure something out, and we did - we took the train,” I offer up with a snicker and a grin.

  Monica comes back with, “Sounds perfectly believable to me. By the time we get to London, they'll already be in Barcelona fast asleep. Can we wait until Paris before we call them?”

  “I don’t think there’re phones in England anyhow.”

  “Should they ask, we'll say we didn't want to wake you,” she says without skipping a beat she’d heard anything I say.

  Damn, I am liking this woman.

  She pulls her cell out, inspects it and says, “I’m low on battery. By the time we arrive it’ll probably be dead and I doubt there’ll be an opportunity to charge it along the way.”

  “Probably not. I don’t think Paris has electricity yet either.”

  “Isn’t that what the Eiffel tower’s for?”

  “Radios,” I say, “it’s a big antenna.”

  “Oh yeah. Don’t remember Terry packing her walkie-talkie so I guess radio’s out.”

  I stop and say, “I like how you think.”

  “Are you coming on to me, Blue?”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  ***

  It's nearly eleven o'clock, and a lone ticket agent mans an otherwise empty American counter when we walk up, perfectly disguised as a couple, and explain we didn't make the Barcelona flight earlier.

  “We were slated for business class and would like the same for London if you have availability,” Monica says giving me the you-gotta-be-specific-with-these-people wink-in-the-know.

  I nod impressed.

  The agent punches a few keys on her computer and says, “Your luck's changed. Got two together on the last row in business, and you're the only standbys.”

  “Great,” Monica says and we hand over our passports. A few more keystrokes and we're holding two new boarding passes - one for seat 6-A, the other, 6-B.

  “By the way,” the agent says, “I should tell you Gatwick has a new arrival's suite for Business Elite passengers where you can freshen up with a shower and change clothes. See any American agent, and they'll direct you to it. Your flight will begin boarding at Gate E-10 in about forty-five minutes,” she says with a smile. “Have a nice flight.”

  We thanked her for the information and make our way back down the concourse to E-10 stopping by a newsstand along the way to arm up on gum and mints.

  Another quick stop by the men's room and I put in a call to Speed. He doesn't pick up, and it goes to voicemail.

  “Hey Mike, sorry for the sudden good-bye-Lucille buddy. There’s been a development, and it’s turned into . . . how can I put this. The Promised Land brother! I met a chick at the bar, and we're now about to catch a flight to London and then train down through France to Barcelona. Can you believe it! Lady luck’s smiling on me after all. Hey, don't forget I'll be out of touch on this trip. Like I told you earlier, my Verizon service means no service in Europe, so I'll give you a thorough debriefing when I return in a couple of weeks.

  “Take it easy brother-man and in the meantime, onward and upward pussy soldiers because ours is a noble cause!” I sing and it doesn't have quite the ring it usually does. Doesn’t fit with the woman I’m gonna be marrying. Must be that ole love voodoo twisting me up.

  Coming out of the men's room I nearly shit a . . . Nevermind . . . when I nearly run into Monica standing against the wall. Jesus, I hope she didn't hear me. You don’t think she’s out here eavesdropping on the men’s room do you?

  Naw. No way. Men? In the bathroom, talking? This ain’t the ladies. She’d be wasting her time over here.

  Now the ladies . . . prob’ly lots of juicy stuff going on with them. I asked a girl once why they took so long. She said that’s where they do coke. Asked another, another time why they always went in pairs and she said, for group sex.

  Think they were fucking with me, these girls?

  She throws me a smile, and I catch it.

  Whew, guess she didn't hear anything after all.

  “So, what brought you around to go with this adventure?” I ask flushing my mind of all the other stuff.

  “Guess I drank till you got cute.”

  five

  00:30 Hours, Sunday, 31 August.

  36,000 feet above the Atlantic.

  At first glance, seats 6-A and B didn't strike me as the best seats in the cabin being the last seats, but as it turns out in the clarifying light of my more base intentions, they couldn't’ve been better.

  Despite being right across from the galley, privacy was what the moment called for, and for that, these seats were the best in the house, completely out of the line of sight of everyone other than the occasional flight attendant bopping in and out, and she was so busy making sure everyone had whatever they needed - this is business class after all - she barely took notice of the two of us cuddled up under a blanket playing patty cake.

  Yep, that's what we were doing all right.

  When the flight attendant finally does come over I tell her we'd just gotten married and are off to honeymoon in Barcelona. Yep, flying to London, then training down through France to Barcelona. Thought it might be best to give her fair warning so she wouldn’t be surprised by anything going on back here in the cheap seats. What was Evelyn-the-flight-attendant’s response? Nothing and everything. She drew the curtain across the aisle blocking off steerage behind us then brought us a bottle of Dom to celebrate our mid-life consummation.

  “You are inventive Mr. Blue,” Monica says.

  “Might notch up the service a bit.”

  “Which service?” And Nanette’s words, ‘and you haven’t even been serviced yet’ flashes across my mind like a reader board.

  ***

  By the time dinner arrives, it was a good thing, because our little ménage à trois with Dom and we're well on our way to smashed and in dire need of something to stabilize the plane. Two rare filets did quite nicely but with this particular dinner my epicuriously talented traveling companion not only taught me mignon in middle French means love, but she demonstrated the proper way to make love to a filet.

  And let me tell you it was epicurean foreplay at its finest. So provocative and sensual, I could’ve destroyed every smoke detector in every lavatory on the plane to smoke a cigarette afterwards and it would have been worth it had I only been a smoker.

  On her final swallow, I was so mesmerized watching the little lump of meat making its way down her throat like a tiny mouse doing ba
ckstrokes beneath a surface of pure white cream; I wanted to be the little creature.

  When I started applauding her performance she flashed her Kryptonites at me with enough heat to peel skin, so I quickly capped my enthusiasm, and Evelyn began removing our dinner plates.

  I can’t honestly say Evelyn witnessed the show, I have no idea, but as soon as the plates were cleared Monica came out of her seat with such a start, going for the lavatory, you’d've thought I’d told her she was the prettiest black woman I’d ever met, and she had to go check the mirror for herself.

  You moron, applauding? Stupid thing to do. Probably blew whatever chance you might've had for a little post dessert coital-ing, I chide myself. This woman is not some barfly pick up. Show some respect for crying out loud! Treat her like your mother. Wait . . . Okay, not like Mom. You know what I mean. Treat her like a princess.

  When the lavatory door opens, and she's coming back down the aisle, I rise out of my seat to allow her in, whispering, “Sorry if I upset you.” She slides through and into her seat returning a, don't-be silly. Then, to my utter amazement, she pulls the blanket around us both, and the next thing I know, her hands are fumbling with the ring and hook buckle of my belt.

  Whoa, Kee Mo Sabi!

  I started to stop her, but thought the better of it and instead offered, “May I help you, Miss?”

  She shot out her index finger with a reeling motion for me to continue and of course, compliance being my better nature . . .

  The impatient digit starts up again with don't stop, keep going, and I raise my butt off the seat before settling back with a little teepee springing into the blanket.

  Oops.

  Her Irish greens jump with humorous alarm at first, then morph into the hungry, naughty-girl we guys love so much, and my teepee stands a little prouder.

  Drawing closer, nearly nose-to-nose, my reflection expands across those dilating black pools of pupil pushing aside their emerald rings, inviting me in. My eyes close and my mouth parts like the Red Sea, for the expectant kiss, but she comes up short and hovers while her hand reconnoiters.