“Yeah, I really fucking am. And they will too,” I nod toward Dominic’s room. “Mark my words. They were born for this.”
Sitting in the high back chair in front of a roaring fire, fingers hovering above the keyboard of my laptop, I get lost in the memory of that night around the campfire, the night I unearthed my plans. Less than a week later, I was hugging my baby brother tightly to me, fighting tears as he struggled to free himself from my grip. I’d embarrassed him publicly with my emotions. The memory of that has me tightening my grip on the velvet arms of the chair. I come to when Beau pops to life at my feet, ears perking before he lays his jaw back to rest on his paws. It’s when he lifts again that I hear a faint, pained mewl coming from the bedroom. Chest lurching, I close my eyes and curse, her agonized whimper growing louder as I close my laptop and jump to my feet. Beau stalks next to me as we rush toward the bedroom. Once inside, I click on her lamp and gaze down to see her face twisted, forehead covered in sweat, and her arm jerking at her side. A dream or a nightmare? Either way, I can’t stand the state she’s in. When we were together before, she would wake me with her subtle movements or light laughter, and I would watch her, curious as to what she was dreaming about and anticipate hearing about it in the morning. It was a much different situation than now, and these dreams are far different as well.
It’s when a sob bursts from her that I clench my fists, determined to take the burden away.
I did this. I will undo this.
Sidling up on the edge of the bed, I lean over and kiss her temple, and she barely rouses before sinking back into her dream state.
“Dis-moi contre qui me battre, et je me battrai jusqu’à ce qu’ils disparaissent.” Tell me who to fight. I will fight until they all go away. It’s when tears start to coat her cheeks that I gently lift her to my chest, her arms limp at her sides.
“Dis-moi comment réparer cela. Dis-moi, mon amour. Je ferai n’importe quoi.” Tell me how to fix this. Tell me, my love. I’ll do anything. Another sob escapes her as she comes to, and I hold her tightly to me to try and keep her grounded.
“Ce n’est qu’un rêve, Trésor. Je suis là. Je suis là.” Just a dream, treasure. I’m here. I’m here.
My name spills in a guttural cry from her lips as my chest caves in, and sobs begin to pour out of her, her body shaking as tears glide down her cheeks. I kiss them away one by one as she tries to speak but cries instead, clinging to me.
“It’s okay, Cecelia. It’s okay.” Silent cries wrack her body as she claws my back, and I kiss her face, her lips, her nose, her temple before lowering my mouth to her ear.
“I’m here.” I can’t promise her nothing bad will happen or that no monsters are lurking in the shadows because there are. I can only try to protect her from them and from the damage the dormant monster inside of me can cause her. Finally coming to, she tenses and sniffles, gathering herself, and I release her, her swollen eyes lifting to mine.
“Tell me.”
“Not now,” she rasps out, gaze dropping. “I guess I woke you?”
“No, I was in the living room, on my laptop.”
“You can’t sleep?”
“I’m still a little jet lagged. You sure you don’t want to tell me?”
“It was just a dream.” That statement and her posture strips all the intimacy out of the moment. Her guard is back up and firmly in place. I try to crowd her a little to keep her close to me, in hopes of a confession, but release her when she pulls away, shifts around me, and stands. “I’m fine.”
I grab her hand before she can fully retreat. “Don’t lie to me.”
She tenses before glancing over her shoulder down to where I sit on the edge of the bed. Resentment. It’s so clear, her voice frigid when she speaks. “That’s a bold request.”
“I’m aware.”
“You want honesty?” She pulls her hand away. “I’ve been through years of these dreams without you.”
That statement, along with the firm echo of the bathroom door shutting behind her lets me know exactly where I stand.
She doesn’t need me, but that much I knew. She’s become her own woman, independent, fiercely so, and so much fucking stronger. She doesn’t need me, and that’s a fact I’ll have to live with and respect her for.
I just need to make her want me again.
Her face is clear when she emerges minutes later, posture stoic when her eyes lift to mine.
Challenge.
My fighter.
She’s daring me to press her, but tonight I won’t. Fisting my T-shirt, I pull it over my head and toss it to the floor. Her gaze drops when I push off my sweatpants and step out of them. We haven’t been intimate in months, in truth, years, because of the way I took her the last time in my gin-infused rage, something I’ll never forgive myself for. There’s nothing I want more than to erase that as the last time I had her, replace that memory, replace the lingering sound of her anguished cries with moans of pleasure. But even if she were free of those head-to-foot fucking flannel pajamas, I wouldn’t take her. Not with the cautious hesitation in her eyes, the fear. It doesn’t stop me from needing her or growing hard at the sight of the beautifully structured equal she’s grown into. She bristles when I walk over to where she stands, angry, emotionally confused, tormented by a past I can’t change and mistakes I can’t erase.
“I don’t know how this goes either,” I breathe. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take, or what words to say, or what moves to make. I have no plans, Cecelia, none.” I grip her hand and lead her back to bed. She lays with her back to me, wordless, and I pull her into my chest, my arms wrapped around her.
Her scent, the comfort of knowing she’s safe, eases some of the blow of her cries. I wait, hope for her explanation, hope that I wasn’t the cause of her tears, but nothing comes.
Time. My goddamned enemy, an invisible force I’ve never been able to defeat. Seconds to save my brother, now years between me and the woman I love, all due to my judgments, my mistakes. And it’s time that rears its ugly head at me now, mocking me, the main reason for the barrier between us.
She’s lived so much life without me.
The irony? I have to make peace with my nemesis because it’s the only thing that can heal us.
“Ce rêve dans lequel nous sommes tous les deux. Emmène-moi avec toi.” This dream we go into together. Take me with you.
She grips my hand, the one palming her stomach, and not long after, she drifts away and takes me with her.
I wake up alone.
Age Eighteen
The heavy knock on my door followed by, “Come on, King, I know you’re in there,” has me closing my book with a groan. There’s only one person who knows the address of my room in the hostel.
Opening the door an inch, I’m met with a mega-watt smile. As usual, he’s impeccably dressed, as if he just stepped out of a men’s magazine into the real world. Yet there’s nothing real world about him, and I envy him that.
“Yep, just as I thought, it’s our last night, and you’re intent on fucking wasting it, let me guess, reading? You’d be worthless to me if every girl at school didn’t want a piece of you. As it happens, I’m in need of my wingman tonight.” It’s a lie. He’s notorious for his reputation with the coeds and the attention he draws with his personality and antics. Even I took an immediate liking to him, despite my best efforts to steer clear. He’s the attention-seeking opposite of me. From beneath his expensive-looking trench, he produces a small bottle of gin and lifts it to my line of sight. “Just once, I’d love to wipe that scowl off your face. Get dressed, and I’ll do my best.”
“I’m busy.”
“Bullshit, you’re just as bored as I am. You’ve got one minute before I start singing fucking Christmas carols in soprano, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll do much, much worse.”
Annoyed, but knowing he’ll back up his threat, I step away from the door, ignoring his smug victory smirk as he closes it behind him. Moving toward the rack sitt
ing in the middle of the room, I pick through my clothes and pull off my best button-down. Due to the insanely tight budget I’m on from opting for a single room, I’m practically living on air at this point. New clothes are a luxury I can’t afford for the foreseeable future, and the last time I switched a sales tag on the full price sweater I wanted, I almost got caught. Paris is a city full of expert thieves, and since that day, I’ve been a keen observer of those I’ve come across. My higher learning extended beyond my studies to a more skilled sleight of hand.
Preston glances around the room and then back to me, and I’m thankful when I don’t see an ounce of pity in his eyes. I would despise him for it.
“It’s dreary.” Honesty. It’s one of the things I appreciate most about him, and I agree with him. There’s nothing but a single bed in my room, the provided free-standing clothes rack, and a small desk with a built-in lamp I purchased and hauled ten blocks from a street sale.
“A man of little means. I like it.”
Buttoning the shirt, I move to grab my worn patent-leather shoes from beneath the bed as Preston sets the gin on my desk before walking over and thumbing through my clothes, looking for something better suited. When he inevitably comes up empty, he turns to me, his eyes looking me over as I tie my shoes. “It’s freezing out, man. Grab your jacket. Better yet, I have a spare in the car. Take mine.” He slides out of it and walks it over to me. Instead of arguing with him, which is fucking futile most of the time, I push my arms into it as he holds it out for me. The fit is perfect.
“Admit it. You’re going to miss me, King.”
“What is there to miss? You’re a loud, obnoxious, overbearing, ridiculous person.”
“Ah, buddy, I feel the same way about you.”
Grinning, he retrieves the gin from my desk, uncorks the bottle, and takes a sip before thrusting it toward me. I accept the offered bottle, gulping down a shot of the ice-cold liquor before posing the dreaded question.
“Where are we going?”
“To paint the town.”
“I’m not feeling that idea.”
“You’re not feeling anything yet. Take another drink.”
Gulping back another sip, I hand it back to him before leading him out of my room.
“Your lock broken or something?” He keeps his gaze on my fast-working fingers. It’s then I realize I’m on my third turn, an overpowering need surging up to re-start my count. Instead, I pull my keys out and pocket them in his jacket. I can’t help but run my fingers along the expensive lining. “Old habit,” I shrug. “It was my lock back home that had issues.”
Accepting my excuse, we start down the hall to make our way out of the hostel. Once outside, he leads me just past the entrance to an idling blacked-out limousine just as his driver hops out to open the door for us.
“Why gin?” I ask him, sliding into the leather seat.
“Brown liquor brings out the worst in men,” he takes the seat opposite of me. “That’s what my dad says, well, what he used to say.”
Like me, Preston is an orphan. His dad was a congressman who died of a heart attack relatively young. His mother followed shortly after a double mastectomy couldn’t save her. The difference between us is that he was fed from a platinum spoon and is the benefactor of not only his deceased parents’ fortune but the generations before them. Old money in abundance. He’ll never have to work a day in his life, which makes him aimless, and from what I’ve gathered, a little reckless. Newly nineteen, he embodies the realization of the American dream. Yet because he is the way he is, I can’t hate him for it. He doesn’t treat me like a charity case, but through small gestures and shared stories, I can feel his empathy, and it grates on me at times. Even when you do your best to mask poverty, it can be painfully obvious.
“I was shipped to France on the advice of my tutor and educational planner to broaden my horizons and get some world experience. My semester’s over, man. I’m going home tomorrow completely unsatisfied with the size of my horizons.” His grin indicates his intent before he puts words to it. “We’re going to change that tonight.”
“What could possibly go wrong?”
He taps his finger along the leather seat next to him, and I still my own fingers as he graces me with another smug smirk.
“Fuck off,” I grumble.
“Let’s get you relaxed.” He grabs the spare trench on the seat next to him, leaving no doubt he brought the one I’m wearing for me. He pulls a silver case from one of the inside pockets, opens it, and plucks a joint from it before sparking it up.
“We’ll start with dinner,” he says on an exhale as we pull away from the curb, “a minimum of five courses. We’re going to have a gentlemen’s night.” He pulls a tie from another pocket and tosses it on my lap. “There’s a dress code.”
Thumbing the silk, I nod and stare down at it as heat creeps up my neck.
“I—”
“Say no more, my friend.” In seconds, Preston manipulates the necktie with sure hands into an adjustable noose before tossing it back to me.
Hooking it around my neck, I pull it tight at the base of my throat and glance over at him. He gives me a sharp nod of approval. It’s both humbling and humiliating how much I presume to know and how much I’m reminded daily of just how much I have to learn. Spending time with guys like Preston reiterates that for me, which at times can be infuriating. Knowledge is power and key, but so is experience.
Preston has that advantage. He had a mentor in his father until he was sixteen. I wasn’t so lucky. The idea that Roman Horner walks around freely, just as privileged, while I agonize over a necktie has my blood boiling. When the time comes, I don’t ever want him to have any advantage. For now, while my resentment grows, I’m an observer, but one day, I won’t be. That day is what keeps me aware, eager to learn as much as I can. Roman has the advantage of knowledge, age, and experience, and there’s only so much I can gain from a book. But more than that, like Roman, Preston seems to already know who he is.
“For once, King, I want you to let me be in charge. I’m not letting you waste another second of our youth.”
He’s full of shit with that statement, and we both know it. Preston came in on a tidal wave, with his unavoidable personality, grabbed my hand and took me with him for most of his ride this semester at prep. We’ve been a force to be reckoned with for the last couple of months, mostly due to the attention of our skirted coeds, which only made us more noticeable and got us into a few fights, mostly his, because he loves a challenge.
For some reason, I trust him, and I trust myself with him. He doesn’t have that edgy look in his eye, he’s into this purely for sport, not self-destruction, and that appeals to me. Nothing pleases me more than pushing the limits of what I can get away with.
The few times I’ve turned down his invitations were to study to maintain my GPA or because I had to fly back home. But we more than made up for lost time with matching hangovers. His is the easiest and most low maintenance relationship I’ve ever had. With him, I’ve allowed myself a freedom I’ll never have back home. And I know for a fact that once he’s gone, I’ll go back to my reclusive ways.
“Last night, King,” he says, plucking two rocks glasses from the stocked bar and dividing the rest of the gin between them. “Let’s make it count.”
He extends one glass to me, and I clink with him.
For the last few weeks, I’ve been…off. Though my grades are stellar, my high GPA is no guarantee, and I’m going to have to push myself to be ready for the entrance exam to HEC next fall. It’s all up in the air at this point as my efforts to find old contacts of my parents for help and guidance have proven to be fruitless. My birth father seems to have ruined my chances with his past behavior. No one wants to deal with Abijah Baran’s son. My list is almost exhausted at this point. With each door that gets slammed in my face, the more I’m beginning to think my presence here is a mistake. An expensive mistake. I’m getting nowhere, and between the stress of worrying abo
ut my brother, his safety, and our dwindling finances, while making no progress here, I need all the escape I can get.
“I’m in.”
Luniz raps “I Got 5 On It,” as heavy bass thunders at my feet. Angelic-blonde hair blocks my vision, tickling my nose before a heart-shaped ass takes up the rest of my line of sight.
“Tu me vexes.” You’re hurting my feelings.
Attention fully drawn back where intended, I’m rewarded with the upturn of her full, bright pink painted lips. “Te voilà.” There you are.
“Pardonne-moi.” Forgive me. Tracking her movements with appreciation, I tuck one of the bills into the string of her thong.
“On ne touche pas.” No touching.
“Pardon.” I lift my hands as the bouncer standing guard next to our booth steps forward with a look of warning. In my defense, her pole and elevated stage sit barely a foot from our table, making it prime real estate, and for me, a good excuse to take a closer look.
“Est-ce ta première fois dans un endroit comme celui-ci?” Is this your first time in a place like this?
Neck heating from transparency, I decide there’s no point in lying. “Oui.”
“Ah, mais un homme comme toi ne devrait pas avoir besoin d’être ici.” Ah, but a man who looks like you shouldn’t need to be at a place like this.
Her voice is pure sex, her body an offering, but I do my best to keep my wits about me, despite the quarter gallon mix of wine and gin coursing through my veins. But she’s dead-on in her assessment. I’ve never been to a place like this, and even I know this club is as upscale and exclusive as they come. And since we strolled in just past midnight, bellies full of the finest French cuisine and expensive wine—that I immediately acquired a taste for—we’ve gained the attention of a majority of the dancers, especially since Preston has no shortage of money and has been so generous with it. The woman intent on breaking my concentration gently sways her hips in a deliberate taunt as I avert my gaze back to the man sitting in VIP. It’s clear he’s not a first-time patron. The section where he’s taken up residence is just across from our booth, elevated just a few short steps above the main floor to make sure we know our place in the food chain.
The Finish Line Page 8