Orchid Club

by Lila Dubois

  “Eggs,” she replied, not looking at him. “Eggs and coffee.”

  “I’ll argue with you after I puke.”

  When he closed the bathroom door, the guilt had faded and Vivienne was smiling. She requested the front desk send up a box of paracetamol and a first aid kit for her foot. They started to tell her they had a small shop where she could buy those items herself, but she let them know in no uncertain terms that they would bring them to the room. They agreed, and then the operator directed her to room service. She placed an order, adding some croissants and jam because Solomon liked them.

  Had liked croissants. He had liked them five years ago. She didn’t know him anymore. He was a stranger.

  But he didn’t feel like a stranger. He felt familiar and safe.

  Merde.

  Vivienne flopped face down on the bed, hoping the paracetamol would arrive soon. She’d get something for the headache, some coffee, and then…

  And then what?

  She raised her head. Maybe she should leave now, avoid an even more awkward conversation. There were several problems with that. The first was that she’d left all her clothes in the bathroom, where Solomon currently was. The shower was on, so perhaps she could sneak in and grab them while he was occupied by the water. But that wasn’t the only problem. Even if she had clothes, she didn’t have shoes or her purse, which meant no phone, keys, or money. That actually wasn’t such a terrible problem. She knew her assistant’s number by heart, and Aldric could bring her shoes, order her a car, and the concierge at her building could let her into her apartment.

  The third, and most insurmountable, problem was that she didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay here and see what would happen when he walked out of the bathroom.

  She’d never considered herself a fool, but in this moment she was the greatest fool in the world.

  There was a discreet knock, and she hauled herself off the bed and limped to the door. An angel stood in the hall holding a box of paracetamol and a small first aid kit. He’d brought up a bottle of water too, proving that service at the Ritz Paris was as good as its reputation.

  She popped two pills out of the blister pack and swallowed them. A second later the bathroom door opened, and Solomon stuck his wet head out. “Did I hear a knock?”

  She held up the box of drugs, and Solomon made a pitiful noise. Without thinking about it she popped out two more pills and held them out. Solomon opened his mouth and she placed them on his tongue, then handed him the bottle of water. He chugged, passed it back, and then disappeared back into the bathroom.

  Vivienne blinked.

  How many times had they done that for one another in the years they’d been together? Feeding each other a bite of food, or placing medicine into the other’s mouth when their hands were busy or otherwise occupied.

  Vivienne rubbed her sternum, as if she could rub away the ache in her heart. She should have felt nothing, and if she couldn’t bring herself to feel nothing, she should feel disdain. Hate. And yet…

  She was such a fool.

  Chapter 6

  Solomon tried to pull on a robe, but the damn thing was too tight across his shoulders. He tossed it to the floor in disgust, where it landed on top of her discarded clothing. Last night was fuzzy, especially toward the end, but he remembered what she’d looked like—like sex and power.

  Solomon put a towel around his waist and, feeling strangely modest, slung a second towel around his neck so it dangled down and covered his bare chest.

  He rinsed his mouth, wished his toothbrush was in here and not in his luggage, and finger-combed his hair. He felt better after the shower, and the paracetamol she’d given him was starting to kick in.

  Goddamn it, after all this time they should have been strangers, but with their guards down thanks to the hangover, they’d been in sync.

  It didn’t mean anything. It was just the result of the hangover. They were both in survival mode, and that could make strange bedfellows.

  Bed. He hadn’t slept on the bed, he’d slept on the couch, which explained why his back hurt and he’d woken up with his legs partially numb from being draped over the arm of the small sofa.

  He was stalling leaving the bathroom, like a coward. Solomon shoved his still-damp hair back from his face and gathered himself. Time to leave this place and face reality.

  Vivienne was lying facedown on the bed, looking as grim as he felt. Solomon couldn’t help himself—he smiled.

  She must have heard the bathroom door open, because she stirred, starting to sit up. He wiped the smile off his face, mentally preparing himself to continue their barb-laced banter, which was the last thing he remembered from last night.

  He was saved by a knock on the door. Vivienne sat up, holding the robe closed over her breasts. With her hair wet and her face free of makeup, she looked vulnerable. Soft. In need of protection.

  Solomon stomped over to the door and flung it open. The room service waiter wasn’t fazed by a half-naked, six-foot-two guy answering the door. The fact that the man had probably seen weirder made Solomon feel slightly better.

  The server murmured something polite in French, then carried in a heavily laden tray, setting it on the low coffee table in front of the sofa.

  Vivienne rose with grace, wincing a little as she stepped into a beam of direct sunlight that snuck in through a break in the sheer curtains that covered the windows. She limped over to the couch.

  Why was she limping? There was the hint of a memory, but trying to capture it made his brain throb, so he gave up.

  When the waiter asked if they’d like him to pour the coffee, she replied, taking over the niceties and thanking the man, who bowed his way out of the room.

  Vivienne sank down onto the couch and picked up a steaming cup of coffee. She closed her eyes and took a sip, relaxing deeper into the cushions.

  Solomon’s stomach heaved at the smell of eggs, but he knew he needed to eat something. There were croissants. Damn it, he loved croissants with jam.

  Sitting on the couch, as far from Vivienne as he could, Solomon tucked into the food, eating a whole croissant and chugging a bottle of water in a matter of minutes. He sat back and waited to see if that was going to stay in his stomach. Vivienne finished half a cup of coffee and picked up one of the omelets.

  She’ll take little tiny bites, and chew each one until it’s mush.

  Vivienne used her fork to divide the omelet in half down the middle, exposing the herbed cheese inside, and then cut off a tiny piece, placing it in her mouth as she began to chew slowly.

  Solomon picked up his cup of coffee and stared into it.

  For the next half an hour they ate and drank in silence that became increasingly strained. Solomon ate another croissant and the second omelet, while Vivienne nibbled down a quarter of her own.

  Solomon sat back, slumping so he could rest his head on the back of the couch. He felt better than he had, but not exactly great.

  “No one tells you that as you get older, you cannot drink to excess without paying a very high price.” Her wry comment broke the silence and dispelled some of the tension.

  Solomon stared at the ceiling and snorted. “Just another perk of getting old.”

  Vivienne turned, reaching for something on the desk positioned against the back of the couch. It was a small first aid kit. She propped her right ankle on her left knee—tucking the robe around her thighs as she did—and bent to the side to look at the bottom of her foot.

  “Fuck,” Solomon said when he caught sight of the cut. “When did that happen?”

  “I think I broke the bottle of whiskey.” She opened the kit and poked at the contents.

  “Here.” Solomon found a packet of antibiotic ointment in the kit and passed it to her. “Now that you say that, it’s ringing some bells. How many shots did we do?”

  She squeezed some thick ointment out onto the cut. “Four, I think? I’d had several drinks prior.”

  “Same.” He found a large Band-Aid an
d opened it before passing it over.

  “It was not our finest hour.” She was trying to figure out the right angle to apply the bandage.

  “No, but we’ve had worse.” He took the bandage back, peeled off the backing, and centered the white pad over the cut. He smoothed down the sticky part. Her toes curled as he pressed on the ticklish parts of her sole.

  It felt so good to touch her. He paused once the bandage was firmly in place, then swiped his thumb over the ball of her foot. He heard her take a deep breath, and the air around them seemed to go still.

  Solomon knew he should stop, but he kept stroking her, his fingers moving from the sole of her foot to the top, then up her ankle.

  Vivienne made a small noise he couldn’t interpret—regret?—and laid her hands on his, stopping his progress. Solomon was grateful; he wasn’t sure if he’d have been able to stop on his own.

  “We have had worse,” she said softly. “We have done worse to one another.”

  The memories were right there, struggling to rise up and remind him just how good, and bad, it had been.

  She inhaled deep, and the robe shifted enough that he could see a narrow sliver of milky breast. “There’s something I need to say to you.”

  “Don’t,” he warned. He didn’t know what she was going to say, but he knew that this was an emotionally dangerous situation. They were both hurting and tired, which meant their defenses were down. The midmorning light seemed to cocoon them in a honeyed intimacy that made it far too easy to do and say things he was sure they would both regret.

  She ignored his warning. Her hand reached out, grazing the damp hair at his temple, then sliding down his cheek. “I’m sorry, Solomon.” She touched the corner of his mouth, where the scar met his lips.

  He closed his eyes. It took everything he had not to lay his head in her palm.

  “What are we doing?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “We’re bad for each other.”

  “No,” she said slowly. “We were always very good together. Until we weren’t.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” His tone was harsher than he’d meant, and she dropped her hand from his face.

  The loss of her touch felt like a physical punch in the gut, but he knew it was a good thing.

  Vivienne picked up her coffee, rolling the cup between her palms. “It seems to be a morning for speaking plainly.”

  “You know that’s how I like it.”

  “And maybe it’s a morning for saying things, true things, we might not otherwise say.”

  “Meaning we’re still too hungover to have our boxing gloves on.”

  She smiled and for a moment, with the light haloing her hair, looked so young. Looked like the college girl he’d first met. “Last night was certainly a battle,” she agreed.

  “That turned into a drink-off.”

  “Whiskey shots.” She made a pained noise and he laughed.

  Laughing made his headache surge back to life. He pressed his hands against the sides of his head, hoping to counteract the throbbing.

  “Why did you come to Paris?” she asked.

  “I think I said this last night, but to talk to James Nolen.”

  “You had to see him in person?”

  “He would have hung up on me otherwise.”

  “So you came to Paris.”

  “God help me, I did. I hate Paris.”

  She snorted. “No one hates Paris.”

  “I hate Paris,” he assured her.

  “No, you hate me.”

  Solomon closed his eyes. Her words had been matter-of-fact, but he still felt like she’d knifed him. “And you hate me,” he countered.

  Vivienne sighed. “Truth?”

  No. The truth was a terrible, dangerous thing.

  “That is the truth. We hate each other.”

  “I don’t hate you. I did, because I was hurt. Because I felt guilty, and because you left me.”

  “You didn’t give me much of a choice, Vivi.”

  She held up both hands, palms out. “I don’t want to talk about the past. I just want you to know that I don’t…hate you.”

  “Hate would be easier.”

  “That is true.”

  Solomon needed to move, needed to feel like he was in control of the situation, even though he objectively knew he was not. He pushed off the couch and started pacing in front of the fireplace. Vivienne set down her cup of coffee and picked up a bottle of water.

  “You should get some antibiotics,” he said as he walked. “In case your foot gets infected.”

  “I can take care of myself.” Her words were stiff, defensive.

  Solomon felt his back teeth grind together. “I know that.”

  “Because,” she went on, “you made it very clear you didn’t want to take care of me.”

  Solomon’s hands curled into fists. “The last time we had this fight I ended up bleeding, so fuck you, I’m not doing this.” Vivienne Deschamps was the only person on earth who could make him feel like this—tender and melancholy one moment, homicidal the next.

  Vivienne’s head came up. “I didn’t start the conversation, you did.”

  The détente was, apparently, at an end. Solomon kept pacing and didn’t respond. He was slowly reassembling his emotional armor. Shit had gotten way too real there for a few minutes.

  “Last night was a mistake.” She spoke calmly, and that just pissed him off. Good. Anger was a key element of his personal armor.

  “Damn right it was.”

  “There is no need to raise your voice and try to intimidate me.” She gestured at him as he paced.

  “No.” He stopped and leveled an accusing finger at her. “You don’t get to make me feel like a barbarian.”

  She stiffened. “That is not what I said.”

  “It’s what you meant.”

  Vivienne twisted, reaching for the phone. “I’ll call my assistant. Once he’s here with clothes and shoes, I will go.”

  He snorted. “Right. You have to keep up appearances. It wouldn’t do for the president of CRD Beauvalot to be seen with a hair out of place.”

  “You want me to limp through the hotel barefoot and wearing nothing but a robe? Perhaps weeping?” She looked at him pityingly. The look said you’re not worth it.

  You don’t matter.

  You’re nothing to me.

  Solomon saw red. Maybe he’d been wrong before. Maybe he really did hate her.

  “I don’t want you to do anything, Vivienne.” He raised his chin, purposefully staring down at her. He was hurting, because that look had managed to cut through his half-built defenses and wound him. “I don’t want you.”

  The phone receiver, which Vivienne had lifted, clattered back into place as she whirled to face him. “How mature, Solomon. Next will you tell me you think I’m ugly? Like a schoolyard bully?”

  The fact that she was right, and his comment had been both petty and immature, didn’t matter. “Do you still need literally everyone you meet to think you’re the prettiest girl in the room?”

  “I never needed that.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I only really cared what you thought.”

  Solomon rocked back on his heels, as if the words were a physical force, and shame at how he’d been lashing out made his cheeks heat.

  Vivienne closed her eyes and sagged. “Ah, I ruined it. It was such a good fight.”

  Solomon leaned back, propping his shoulders on the cold mantle. “I was getting ready to storm out of here.”

  “Is that the only way this can end?” she asked quietly. “If we hurt one another, say unforgivable things?”

  “It’s the easiest way.”

  “Why?” Vivienne looked up, and she once more seemed soft, vulnerable.

  His turn to speak some hard truths. “Because despite all the shit between us, there’s still chemistry.”

  She touched her throat with the tips of her fingers. He had a sudden, vivid m
emory of gripping her there, forcing her chin up in preparation for claiming her mouth in a kiss.

  It had felt good to hold her again, to touch her in that possessive way that had once been his right.

  Vivienne pulled her legs up onto the couch, wrapping one arm around them. She looked both weary and defeated.

  He stopped pacing and sat, looking at her. Hungover was one thing—a sort of surface vulnerability that would be gone with time. A self-inflicted wound.

  But this…this was something different. Deeper.

  Vivienne was a force of nature. There were plenty of men and women who would have started crying if he’d talked to them the way he’d talked to her last night. She’d given as good as she got.

  Until now. Until they both said something too real, and all her walls fell.

  This was the Vivienne that, even in all the years they’d been together, she’d mostly kept hidden unless they were in a BDSM scene. The raw core of her.

  Maybe he was wrong. It had been five years since he’d seen her and people changed. He couldn’t even put his finger on exactly what it was about her in this moment that was causing his protective and Dom instincts to go on high alert. Maybe it was the set of her shoulders, the angle of her chin. The way she pulled her knees in tight to her chest, or the slight tremble of her lips.

  “Damn it, Vivi,” he whispered.

  She blinked hard a few times, blinking away the tears that had hovered on her lower lashes. “I can’t do any more repartee.”

  Solomon kept looking at her, hating that he knew her so well. “You needed to scene last night.”

  She turned her face away. He could still see the curve of her cheek. Was her chin quivering?

  Damn, damn, damn.

  “You needed release,” he said.

  “I needed to escape for a little while.” He almost couldn’t hear the words, she was speaking so softly. He reached for her, but a moment before his hand closed over her shoulder she exhaled forcefully, visibly gathering herself and facing forward so she was no longer turned away from him, but also not looking at him. “I know you don’t think I am really submissive, but—”

  “I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right.”