The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (59 page)

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 of 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."

I let her escape from my self-imposed desperation.  She wandered into the bathroom and slammed the door.  I felt that rejection tear through my heart.  As I'd felt it once before when I'd learned my wife had been unfaithful, had never really loved me.

My throat dried.  I tried to swallow, to make sense of this argument.  The shoes.  Her plead for me to leave.  The whiskey.  Why had I drank whiskey?  And why had I been such a bastard to her on the Métro?

Give her time.  It will be better later.

I hoped for that.  But as I left Hollie's apartment and wandered down the stairs I had the worst feeling this could be the last time I stood in this building.  And perhaps I'd have to keep my bedroom curtains drawn from now on.

***

I cried so much while soaking in the bathtub I wondered if the tub water would overflow with my tears and spill onto the bathroom floor.  I sat there, a disgruntled mermaid, until the water grew cold and I began to shiver.  I hadn't washed my face, I realized, when I stood before the mirror and saw the black shadows under my eyes from last night's smudged eyeliner.

What a mess.  Why had I gotten so drunk?  And had I just broke up with my fabulous French lover?

"Fuck."

I shook my head at the crazy lady in the mirror and wandered out to the bedroom.  Landing on the bed face first, I lay there through the afternoon, drowsing and not caring that my stomach rumbled for food.

At one point I peered over the edge of my pity boat and spied the damaged Louboutins. 

"Double fuck."

Chapter Sixteen

I don't know what the hell had happened with Hollie yesterday morning.  I'd given her the space she'd asked for all day.  Had resisted calling her in the evening.  Had even resisted standing before my bedroom window to wait for her to appear like the goddess behind glass that she was.

We had not broken up.  No, it had been the hangover talking. 

That was my hope.

In the bedroom I picked up the copy of
The Three Musketeers
from my dresser and pressed the cover to my nose.  Smelled old.  But the faintest hint of vanilla had been imbued within the cover fibers.  Or was I imagining Hollie's scent? 

I needed to smell her, to feel her, to kiss her and hold her tightly. 

Setting the book aside, I pulled out my mobile, sat on the end of the bed, and dialed Hollie's number.  Glancing out the window, I could see clearly into her bedroom, but she wasn't in there.  Until I saw her run out from the bathroom and toward the kitchen. 

The phone picked up.  "Oh.  Jean-Louis."

Really?  That's how she answered the phone after the argument we'd had?  A lackluster
oh
? 

Was this the right thing to do?  Should I have waited for her to call me?  What the hell was I doing?  Why were my hands clammy?  Would I ever get a relationship right?

"It was a mistake," I started, but then realized I wasn't sure what to say.  How to smooth over her fears that the relationship had gone sour over one bad night?  "Hollie?"

Her breath hushed over the phone line.  "Can you give me some space?"

Ah, fuck me.  Space?  What was that about? 
Merde
, I'd screwed this up.  What an idiot.  This relationship was real to me, so valuable.  Yet, did I know what a real relationship even looked like? 

"Hollie, you can't be serious.  One minute we are in love and the next you are pushing me away?"

"Jean-Louis, please, give me this.  I think I need a few days.  I love you.  I really do.  I know that I do.  I'm just..." 

Her pause killed me.  One breath, then another.  I wanted those breaths on my mouth, at my throat, against my chest.  She was right across the street.  We shouldn't be doing this over the phone.

"I'll give you a call in a few days."

The connection clicked off and I must have sat there for long minutes staring at the display, at Hollie's tiny avatar, her happy smile and bright blue eyes.  I had done nothing—nothing—to deserve this treatment.