Very well, I was feeling the alcohol, too.
"We should fuck." Hollie gripped my jaw and laughed when our gazes wobbled. "Maybe not. I think I'm feeling sick."
Ah hell. Fresh air was in order.
"You were not going to let me get drunk," she admonished. "Bad Frenchman. Très naughty."
"You had two drinks."
"Two? It was more like..." She held up three fingers, eyes crossed, and she readjusted to add her other hand with—I wasn't sure how many fingers that was. "Fingers?" A silly grin curled her lips. "I like it when you put your fingers in me, lover boy."
"I can do that right now. Move closer. Open your legs for me, woman."
"Wait. Where's the lady's room?"
"You want to fuck here in the bar? Oui!"
I tugged her out of the booth, but the hand I grabbed wasn't moving. Hollie jerked me to the edge of the dance floor before I could spy the bathroom. I wobbled, but did a double step skip, landing with a jump and a splay of arms before my lover.
"Just me," Hollie stated with an admonishing jab of her finger to my chest. "I need to puke."
Eloquence had gotten lost in that last goblet of champagne. I pushed her toward the dance floor. "That way."
***
I didn't puke. But man, I'd needed an escape from the claustrophobic crowd. And that music! I was so over funky pop tunes overlaid with bass-heavy rap riffs. I'd meandered, zigzagging like a pinball between dancing couples, to the ladies' room. Only, the bathroom had been clouded with cigarette smoke, and I'm sure there had been a couple fucking in the far stall. Hell, it could have been a threesome for the number of shoes I'd counted beneath the metal divider.
Jean-Louis had been waiting outside the bathroom door to whisk me outside and head for home. Good call.
The Métro car was packed. And my head was spinning right round, baby, right round. Like a record, baby... Yikes! The nightclub's techno beat still clanged about in my head and hips. I didn't think I was standing still. It's hard to tell when the people all around me were bobbling as if dancing in a club. I clung to the steel pole as if to let go would send me hurtling into outer space where my head would implode from the loss of atmospheric pressure.
Actually, that might feel good right about now. An implosion would relieve the dizzy spinning up in this crazy drunk chick's cranium.
I felt Jean-Louis's hand slide up my thigh and under my skirt. I hoped it was his hand. If the hand in question belonged to someone else...
Oh, mercy, I did not feel good. Check, please?
I shifted my hip backward, banging the man behind me, whom I hoped was my guy. He smelled like my guy, only with a distinct tinge of whiskey. We hadn't drank whiskey. That I know of.
Ugg. Thinking about whiskey stirred my gut in an unpleasant roil.
"Not now," I muttered. The hand glided between my legs from behind. "Jean-Louis!"
He pressed his body against mine, resting his chin on my shoulder. Just focusing long enough to make eye contact with him hurt my brain, or maybe I was too sensitive and not in the mood.
"I must touch you," he pouted. "I cannot stop."
"Not with everyone so close," I whispered, sure I was screaming.
In fact, the guy immediately before me, clinging to another steel pole, eyed me lasciviously. I shook my hips in an attempt to dissuade Jean-Louis's intent pursuits. He only leaned in tighter, nuzzling his mouth against my neck. His fingers tweaked at my pussy.
"You are so beautiful," he singsonged in a drunken melody so out of tune with my spinning head. "Let's do it now."
"No!"
The car rolled to a halt, and the doors opened. I tore away from the handsy man and wobbled out onto the landing. The chilled air brewed an awful mix of urine and body odor, and I gagged to keep down my stomach. When I turned, I landed in Jean-Louis's arms. I pushed him away and staggered toward the exit stairway. "Not now!"
If the man wanted to get some, he'd have to wait until we returned to the privacy of my apartment. What was it with him and his odd fetish for public sex?
"You jilt me!" he called in drunken English that was only sad now. But no more sad than the two of us, so wasted we could barely walk a straight line. "My lover she is fickle!"
He followed me up the stairs as younger couples dodged around us chattering and having a good time. The kind of dancing and drinking we'd just imbibed should only be allowed for the under twenty set. I was getting old.
Frigid air blasted me in the face and sent a welcome shiver from my neck out my sleeves and down to my toes. It momentarily erased the need to toss my cookies. I inhaled and turned left. My apartment was five blocks away. A virtual trek across the desert, vast barren landscapes, and the Arctic tundra all rolled into one.
I could do this.
The world swirled and I wobbled. A step plunged my Louboutins into slush and the cold water oozed under my arches. Something hard crashed up against my side. The something smelled like whiskey. Groping hands embraced me and tweaked my nipple. Jean-Louis pulled me in for a kiss.
I didn't want this. I couldn't do romance now. And I most certainly did not want to have sex when my only goal was to hang my head over the toilet.
"Why not?" he called as I staggered onward. "Just right here. I am wearing my long coat!"
Again I was captured, crushed against a limestone wall laced with winter-dried vines. His hands deftly slipped up under my skirt, and my thighs, which were too weak to care about pleasure, quivered.
"Jean-Louis, you are being a monster." I shoved him away and he stumbled backward.
The man couldn't be as wasted as I, but his steps angled and he caught his back against a street pole. If I ever drank champagne again, would somebody please murder me to put me out of my misery?
I stuck out my tongue at him. He gestured at me dismissively and gave me that thrust of his nose that indicated I was being a poor sport, then walked on ahead, calling back that I was a poor lover. Or maybe he said mean lover. I was in no condition to interpret his French right now.
The asshole wanted to get it on? Fuck this. I'd show him how mean I could be.
Pulling open my coat, I struggled with the wrap sash that secured the dress across my stomach. Meanwhile, icy snow melted into my shoes and soaked my feet. I shouldn't have worn the Louboutins. Why hadn't I gone with the boots? I slipped on some wet snow and flailed wildly. The bastard didn't even turn around to notice I had almost gone down in a graceless sprawl.
A group of men strolled past me, and when they were clear, I tugged down the coat and let it drop. The dress clung because the jersey was like that. I struggled with the tie across my waist. My fingers weren't doing what I needed them to do.
Bed. I needed bed.
After I puked.
But foremost? I needed the Frenchman to be kind to this drunken sot whose head spun so wildly I wanted to wrap myself about the nearest tree trunk and cling until the storm had passed.
Peeling open the dress, I called out to him, "You want this, Monsieur Eiffel?"
Jean-Louis swung around. "What are you doing?"
The chill air tightened my bare nipples. I immediately regretted my hasty decision to show him who was boss. Who was I kidding? I felt the bile rise in my throat. Hoots and a whistle from behind me riddled a sharp heat up the back of my spine.
Jean-Louis rushed toward me. Yet from behind, I felt a hand clutch my arm.
"I will take what you are offering," said a male voice that was not the Frenchman I knew and loved.
The stranger jerked me around. I staggered and landed my palms against his chest. My bare breast brushed his coat sleeve. Pushing to get away, I felt hot tears spill down my cheeks.
"Unhand her!"
"You don't want her? She says I can have her!"
I managed to kick the man's shin. He laughed, as did his cohorts, who gathered close by. I couldn't see beyond the man's leering gaze, which was fixed to my chest. I hadn't worn a bra or panties beneath the dress tonight. Only th
igh-high stockings.
Grabbed from behind, I was torn out of the stranger's grip and flung to the side. Jean-Louis's fist soared past my face as I stumbled toward the ground and the heap that I saw was my coat. I heard the crunch of fist connecting with nose. The men watching all groaned suddenly, then cheered.
"Elle est tout a fait fou," Jean-Louis growled at the pack. "Allez! Leave her be. Foutre!"
I knew what those words meant. No, I didn't. Maybe? God, I was cold. And pissed off.
"I am so tired of your French!" I shouted to the world, because I wanted everyone to hear me. "I will never learn it. I don't want to. What kind of stupid language makes you learn if a word is a male or female before you can speak it? It's stupid! Fucking stupid!"
Clutched from behind and pulled upright, I felt the warmth of my coat hug against my back. Jean-Louis struggled to pull the sleeve up my arm. All I wanted to do was push him away. Staggering, I slipped and fell completely into his sure grasp. And so I relented, desiring warmth more than distance.
"You called me crazy in the head," I protested as he tugged me down the sidewalk. "See! I do know French! Canard!" The coat flapped open. He stopped and tugged it closed then pulled the ties tightly. "I am not crazy!"
"You are crazy drunk!"
"So are you. Let me go!"
I struggled to release myself from his firm grasp, but couldn't win. Performing a sort of run-walk alongside his swift pace, we quickly gained our neighborhood. By the time we reached my building's front door, I couldn't move another inch. Cold, tired, and feeling as if my next step would result in a technicolor yawn, I shivered.
Jean-Louis swept me into his arms. The concierge was not on duty. Probably out partying. I hoped he was a kinder drunk than my lover was. For his wife's sake.
I don't remember the flight up three stairs or Jean-Louis searching for the apartment key in my coat pocket. The next time my eyelids fluttered open I was falling onto my bed, back first, arms splayed. My coat was still on, but my dress—oddly—hung wide open.
When had I torn open my dress? My shoes were still on my feet. The bows drooped and one bow was pulled free, the end of the black velvet ribbon crushed and soggy. They would drip wet all over the bed...
Who cared? The pillow felt like a warm cloud and so I turned my face into the cozy refuge.
"I am sorry, mon abeille," whispered against my ear. Whiskey, sable, and spice filled my immediate sensory range. "I am a cad. I will go home and see you tomorrow."
As he stood, I managed to grip some part of shirt or sleeve. "No. Don't leave me. Please. Stay with me."
"Very well. Over...there."
He stumbled across a pile of clothing and landed on the big easy chair by the window. I'd once sat naked in that chair and jilled off for his pleasure as he'd watched from his bedroom window across the street.
And now....
And now. What had we done?
Chapter Fifteen
I woke with a start. My body slid down in the chair. Back muscles spasmed painfully. I caught myself by gripping the chair arms before landing on the floor. Merde, I was in pain. And it wasn't my head. I could sleep off any drunk. But I usually did it prone and in bed.
Why I'd chosen to sleep in the chair last night was beyond me. I'd pay for it the rest of the day. Carefully, I stood and eased my spine this way and that to work at the tightened and kinked muscles stretching across my back. I wanted to twist my head side to side but my neck protested.
When had I become a decrepit old man?
I eyed the bed. Dirt spotted the end of the white comforter, and the sheets were mangled as if they had lost a fight. Hollie wasn't in bed.
I checked my watch. Eleven a.m.
"Fuck." I needed eggs, toast, and lots of orange juice. And a double espresso.
Wandering into the living room that was too bright by far for a chill January morning, I found Hollie sitting on the velvet chaise, barefoot, the yellow robe wrapped loosely about her body, her head bowed over the glass of fizzy water on the coffee table before her.
Last night returned to me in a horribly clear flashback. We had drunk far too much and the dancing to mix it all up inside hadn't helped. Sometime after the last bottle of champagne I had decided that a couple shots of whiskey would hit the spot. Idiot. I had manhandled Hollie on the Métro. I rarely got so wasted I treated a woman with such disregard. My drunk asshole self had risen up.
Yes, I had one of those. Didn't we all?
But that I had continued to prod at her and had been the one to press her to such an action as to strip on the sidewalk killed me. A stranger had grabbed her. Could have raped her. Because I had been an asshole.
I studied my bruised knuckles. Even half out of my gourd I'd delivered a powerful punch to the assailant. He'd gone down, and his friends had wisely carried him away, with apologies. The evening should have never gotten so out-of-hand.
Now I rushed to Hollie and knelt before her legs. I wanted to prostrate myself and lay there for eternity to atone for my cruelty. I laid my head on her knees and reached up to clasp around her hips.
"I'm so sorry," I said.
Her fingers worked in my hair. The touch was too gentle, too comforting.
"I was an animal. So cruel. Please forgive me?"
"We were both wasted," she whispered, as if to speak any louder would split open her skull.
I could relate.
"It's over, Jean-Louis."
What? No. That was too final...
"Let's put last night in our past," she said. "We both did things we regret."
"But if it hadn't been for my actions you would have never—"
When I looked up she pressed a finger to my lips. Normally I would have licked that finger and sucked it into my mouth. Oh, my aching back. Ah, my idiot self.
"Thank you for staying with me last night," she said softly. She tapped my bruised knuckles. "And thank you for the rescue."
I would have never the need to rescue her if I hadn't— Fine. I couldn't change what happened last night. Indeed, we had done things worthy of regret.
"My head is still spinning," she offered. "You want some ginger ale?"
I shook my head. "I don't have a hangover."
"Bastard."
I managed a chuckle. "Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I may never get this kink out of my back after sleeping on the chair."
"I feel minimally better." She sighed and again stroked my hair, sending good shivers over my scalp. "Let's never drink so much again."
"I can agree to that."
The phone in my front pants pocket jingled. I ignored it as I leaned in to kiss Hollie's cheek. She smelled like vanilla and booze. "Want me to run you a hot bath?"
Again the phone jingled.
"Sounds like what the doctor ordered. But I can do it."
"I will do it for you," I offered. "You sit and relax."
"Answer your phone first."
I sat back on my haunches and checked the phone. It had rang through and a text message showed. From my wife. She was returning in a few weeks and would bring the divorce papers to me. Signed.
"Important?" Hollie asked.
"Uh, yes. My wife," I provided. "She'll be signing the papers soon."
"Soon." Hollie chuckled and shook her head. "I've heard that one before. You know, maybe this thing has run its course." She stood and stepped around me. Strolling to the window, she then turned to eye me through a messy spill of chestnut hair. "You and I? We've had a great time, but..."
"But?" I muttered to myself. What was she saying? This wasn't going to be a kiss-off. It couldn't be. "It was one mistake," I said, standing and following her into the kitchen. "A big mistake, yes, but we were not in our heads last night."
"You said you wouldn't let me get drunk." She set the glass in the sink and strode toward the bedroom.
I raced around to meet her before the bed and gripped her by the shoulders. Fuck, my back hurt like a mother. She pushed my chest and struggled out o
f the desperate grasp.
"Hollie? You are hung over. I will let you be alone and return later when you are feeling better."
"I think we need a break from one another," she said.
The words hung in the air like stale laundry on the line.
"No." In my mind I had screamed that softly-spoken word. "I think you are out of your head still. It's not over. It can't be over. I love you."
"I thought I loved you."
She tugged the robe opening tightly across her chest, her eyes wandering away from mine. My heartbeats stopped. I couldn't breathe. Such words were not coming from her mouth.
After a sigh she said, "Everything happens for a reason."
My jaw dropped open. Words escaped me.
"I don't know, Jean-Louis. Don't make this so difficult. I mean, come on. You have a wife."
"That didn't stop you from jumping into this relationship. From fucking me. From letting me fuck you!"
I fisted a hand and shook my head. That was no way to derail her sudden need to jump ship. If I was smart, I'd leave and do as I'd said. Return later when we had recovered from our ridiculous drunken binge.
But I couldn't walk out on her. She meant more to me than a sudden surrender in hopes to appease.
"Leave," she muttered.
"No." I crossed my arms. "This is you and your silly ideas about romance. Didn't you tell me you and your friend only date men for a month then dump them? I am not so disposable!"
Wincing, she rubbed a finger along her brow. Her gaze fell to the floor beside of the bed. "My shoes are destroyed," she said with disbelief.
"I will buy you a new pair. I will buy you twenty pairs!"
"That's not the point! Jean-Louis, I stripped in the middle of Paris last night and was manhandled by a stranger."
I pulled her into an embrace and thought that if only I could hold her long and firmly enough I could make it all go away. Reverse last night, and instead make it an evening we'd decided to spend at home, making love to celebrate the new year.
I didn't want to begin the year with a fight. Or worse, a breakup.
"Jean-Louis, just go," she whispered. Her arms strained against my chest. That she wanted to push me away stabbed at my heart. It was a rebuff I could not afford after losing Pierre. "Please."
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 41
