Dreaming of You in Paris
Taylor and I sit high on Cherry Cliff, lying on top of a thick black quilt. The neck of the Jack bottle hangs loose from my slack grip. I’m not faded exactly. I have a nice buzz going. Taylor is good company. She never talks about herself. She never whines. She always listens to everything I have to say, even if it’s a bunch of mumbling bullshit.
I love this fucking girl.
Her fingers find mine, plucking the bottle free. She sets it by her side and interlocks our fingers. My gaze drops down to our entwined hands, a sudden calm taking over me. Taylor makes me feel like a winner, even though I’m a fucking disaster, a fucking loser with a capital L.
“Do you believe he wanted us together?” she asks, her shimmering eyes aimed at the glittering stars in the dark blue velvet sky.
“I do, in a way, believe Tyler wanted us together. He wouldn’t mind that much as long as you took very good care of me.” I give her a teasing smile and she touches my cheek. Taylor and I have grown close since Rex’s birthday party.
We are ever hardly apart.
It’s like she’s part of me now.
“Hero, I really want you to be my first,” she declares softly.
The heat of my blush creeps up my neck. It seems Taylor is the only one that can make me blush these days. “Okay.”
Her expression is momentarily stunned, her mouth hanging wide-open and her eyes bugging out. “That’s it? Okay?”
“I’m not going to ask you if you’re sure so you can change your mind,” I say, hurriedly unbuttoning my jeans. “I’m going to destroy your virginity up here with the twinkling stars as our background and I’m not going to stop till you come at least twice. I can show you how good coming feels.” I nod my head, sure of myself. “Yeah, you’re going to fucking love this.”
I wake with a sudden jolt. I’ve been having this same fucking dream for the past six months. I took Taylor’s virginity over three years ago, but she still haunts me. She haunts me every fucking night. I don’t have a clue at what this means. Taylor avoids me with eager persistence. She never returns my calls or emails and she definitely doesn’t want to meet in person. I haven’t spoken to her in years.
But it’s all my fault.
I fucked her over.
I destroyed her trust.
I shattered her trust in me.
And I’m the one to blame.
Closing my eyes, I try to slow my erratic heart rate. The massive hangover has my head jumping, like my brain is having a rave party. I have a show later tonight and I’m still drunk and high.
Fucking Paris.
***
McDonald’s. Out of all the five star dining restaurants in Paris I choose McDonald’s. I am what the French call a Stupide Américain. Two weeks in Paris and I’m already homesick. Eating at a McDonald’s is the closest thing to American food in France. Everything else is too decadent and rich in flavor. This does nothing for my taste buds when my cuisine usually involves Doritos dipped in ranch dressing. I’m used to eating junk and Paris has less of it, which is a pity because I’m going through one hell of a detoxification process and not only of sugar and carbohydrates.
Tossing a few fries around on my tray, I glance up. There is a vociferous group of loud fuckers around my age and they’re harassing someone who appears to be an outcast of sorts. I’ll call him Curly because this dude has a head full of thick, dark curls. They’re all model-looking and even dress in designer attire like models. These guys must be from another agency. I’ve never seen them before. They are all too visually striking to be regular Joes.
The blonde leader dumps Curly’s milkshake on his tray and the rest of them stick their hands in the splattered milkshake, laughing while licking the dripping stickiness from their fingers. Curly simply wraps his gray cashmere scarf around his neck with casual indifference that makes me grin and he then rises to order something else.
Fries.
He orders fries.
But Blondie gets up and snatches his fires from his hands and dumps them on the poor guy’s head. The small crowd erupts in uncontrollable laughter. Blondie smirks at him and thumps his nose. Curly grins, puckering his lips while making a series of kissing noises. This upsets Blondie and he grabs the guy by his coat labels.
Before I can’t comprehend any further, I slam Blondie into the wall and press the side of my forearm into his throat, crushing his windpipes. He struggles to breathe and his green-blue eyes expand. Blondie is terrified. His hands involuntarily reach up and grip and claw at my arm, beckoning for release.
Staring into his eyes, I watch them water while I enjoy the sight of him experiencing the delicate balance of his life in my hands. How easy it is to crush this guy. His eyes grow larger with every inch I move closer. I’m so close to him. Our noses are touching. A wide smile takes over my face and I free him. He wraps his hands around his redden throat and wheezes, coughing. The guys behind us do nothing.
My eyes land on the victim of all this mockery. Curly holds my gaze steady for a mere second or so and, this is the first time I really notice his face. God, he’s beauteous in such an angelic way. He has graceful arches, elegant angles, and apparently a face and body carved from a sculptor’s chisel. His hazel-brown eyes communicate gratitude without him verbalizing anything.
He’s beautiful.
Whoa.
Wait.
I don’t think I’ve ever admitted another guy was beautiful before, well, except Tyler. Tyler was beyond beautiful. But never have I felt such attraction towards another male after or before Tyler. I thought I was just attracted to Tyler because he was…Tyler.
He blinks at me, his dark lashes fluttering like raven wings and then he walks past me and the now quieted group without speaking. Only when he leaves out the doors do I break out of this weird trance.
Why does it feel like I’ve been sucker punched in the stomach?
I follow him without looking back. Curly leans his back against the building with a cigarette pressed hard between his quivering lips and a red lighter in his hands. But his trembling fingers fail to set the ignition.
Placing my hands around his, I ignite the flame on the lighter and hold his shaky limbs steady as I guide the flame towards his mouth to light his cigarette.
He inhales and I release his hands. Curly stares at me with enigmatic eyes. This feels like it goes on forever but in actuality it’s probably a little less the five seconds. His eyes transform into a curious dark brown as they travel the length of my body. Curly glances at my shoes and smiles. “Nice boots.”
He’s American.
Too captivated by whatever is happening, I don’t respond.
He sighs dramatically and pinches the burning cherry off his cigarette with his fingers without even the merest of winces. “I shouldn’t be smoking. Ice. She’s going to kick my ass when she smells it on me.” He swiftly moves the cigarette between his fingers at an impressive speed. I’ve seen magicians do that trick with quarters. Curly looks down at the cancer stick he effortlessly weaves through his knuckles and his smile broadens. “You want to know something?” He doesn’t give time to reply. “I can take a shower and wash my clothes before Ice ever finds out.” He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep inhale, leaning his head on the brick wall behind him. “But I’m not. I need a good beating. It’s been awhile, you know?” Curly opens his eyes. The only thing I can do is hold his inquisitive gaze.
Who is this man-boy?
He’s inscrutable.
And who is this Ice girl?
Curly carefully places the used cigarette back within a carton full of them in such a precise manner, as if the carton of smokes might detonate and then slips the packet back in his jean pocket. He pushes himself off the brick wall and steps towards me. Only when we’re face-to-face do I notice the assortment of cinnamon-colored freckles scattered on his face. They’re tiny and mainly below his hazel-brown eyes and sprinkled across the bridge of his nose and cheeks.
They look edible enough to lick.
His brows furrow as he studies my face.
“You probably didn’t understand a word I’ve said, which I’m thankful for, honestly. What are you? You don’t look French. Swedish? You look Swedish or maybe Danish. But not French. You’re too pale to be French. You’re tall, and your eyes are scary beautiful. They’re the fiercest shade of blue I’ve ever seen.” He leans in close to study the color of my eyes. “Glacial blue.” His sweet breath whispers across my skin and under the scent of tobacco vanilla is present. He was drinking a vanilla milkshake before the assholes dumped it out on his tray. He nervously chews at his pulp bottom lip as his eyes narrow in on mine.
I wonder what’s going through his head right now.
“Well, anyway, merci. I’m glad you helped me out back there. Russia is a dickhead, you know? Well I guess you don’t.” He laughs at what he says. A strange emotion surges through me. His laughter affects me more than his unfathomable gaze.
This guy has triggered something in me that was long forgotten. What the hell is going on with me?
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
A black, sleek Mercedes van pulls up by the curb. “Benjamin comes to collect the damned to bring us back to the House of Horrors.” He stomps the toe of his leather riding boot against the sidewalk.
A thin dark-skinned man, flamboyantly dressed in an all black ensemble sashays towards us. He wears round-shaped sunglasses that are also black. His frilly shirt is over packed with dainty ruffles. His pants are skin-tight and made of some kind of shiny material that resembles glittery latex and he wears very high heels. This costume is something that Lady Gaga would wear. “You’ve found one, Alex.” This man isn’t American. I think he’s English.
“Benjamin—”
“He’s perfect. Absolute perfection,” Benjamin murmurs, stepping directly between us. He looks up at me in utter awe while slipping off his black laced gloves. His slender fingers covetously clutch my chin, turning my face at different angles as if making sure I am worth the value of his praise.
He’s appraising me.
Why though?
“Lady J will be delighted to have him, Alex. Where on earth did you discover exquisite beauty of his caliber?”
Pulling my face away, I scowl at him. Benjamin’s brown eyes bulge. I don’t think he’s used to rejection. Alex chortles and I note that he has dimples in both cheeks. They indent his cheeks deep when she smiles.
He’s cute.
My heart flutters a little.
“My, my, my, he has a temper.” Benjamin raises his sunglasses, pushing them behind his ears. He beams at me. “Perfect.”
“You’re miss informed, Ben. He’s not a new trophy to obtain and to be added to the collection. He’s my friend.”
“You have no friends, Alex,” Benjamin says, never taking his eyes from mine. He says it without the slightest hint of irony or amusement. I find this strange.
Why wouldn’t a kind guy like Alex have friends?
“Such a pity. He would be an excellent addition to our ‘collection’ as you so call it.” Benjamin sighs dramatically, dismissively patting Alex on his cheek. “Go on and tell him goodbye. Lady J would be outraged if she was aware of your error of judgment, which she will not be because I’m too fond of our outings and I will be devastated if we no longer had them. We’re only in Paris until Friday.” He gives me a small smile before entering McDonald’s.
“Well, um…” Red tings his cheeks and he stomps the tiptoe of his boot against the sidewalk again. Is he blushing because of me? He holds his hand out and I shake it. “This is goodbye. Thanks again for saving me back there. You didn’t have to do that. Again, you probably have no idea what I’m saying.” Staring down at his hand in mine, I notice that his hand is a little smaller and his skin is a rich olive brown color. On a playful impulse, my thumb runs across the skin of his wrist.
He tenses, his breath caught in his throat.
Alex shakes his hand free and leisurely throws on his hood, giving me an enigmatic look. I wink at him and his sculpted lips break out into a brilliant smile before he gets in the van.
Benjamin struts back out with the same group of sulking guys behind him. He digs in his shirt pocket and hands me a thick black textured soft as cream card with elegant gold embossed numbers across it. It has a number boldly printed on the front and nothing else.
“Please call if you change your mind,” he says, patting my cheek in the same fond but dismissive manner he patted Alex cheek with.
I watch as the sleek van quietly disappears from the curb.
My eyes drop back down to the expensive card in my hand and I smile.
I think I’m going to enjoy my stay in Paris after all.
For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Hero Knight and I’m a liar with a story to tell.
Wait until you read my side of things.
Pure Clarity (Web of Deception #3)
Coming Soon