You Turn

by Marion Croslydon

  “Thanks for the invitation, cousin.” Charlie gives the VIP crowd the once-over, while her hips start gyrating with the music. I wish I shared her sense of rhythm, but I’m too aware of my long, gangly legs for that. “I’ve been trying to drag you to Le Duke for weeks, and suddenly, not only are you the one getting me there, but you also have free access to the VIP room.” Her eyebrows rise into a what-the-hell-happened? arch.

  “I know the owner.”

  She chokes on her bubbly, but recovers quickly. “Eleanor Carrington, who would have thought you would mix in such exulted circles? I wasn’t even sure you’d ever been to a nightclub before coming to Paris.”

  Charlie isn’t being mean, but her comment bites me.

  “Lenor has a dark side too,” Pierre cuts in as he pulls me closer to his side, his fingers now caressing my hip. I let him, as a silent thank-you for his belief in my naughty creds.

  “Zachary Murdoch owns the place. You met him at the hosp—”

  “Seriously?” Charlie stops dancing and zeroes in on me. “The guy with those killer green eyes is the mastermind behind Le Duke? So, in addition to saving lives and making my brain drop into my panties, he also throws the best parties in Paris? He was looking after you as if you were milk warming up on the stove.”

  “Who’s this guy?” Pierre asks, smirking.

  “Champagne?” A sculpted blonde inserts herself into our trio with a magnum of Taittinger in her hands. In my book, that makes her an instant friend.

  I hold out my flute for a top-off, “Yes, please.”

  She proceeds to fill Charlie and Pierre’s glasses too. The girl is taller than me—a fact rare enough for me to notice. My eyes travel down her body: She’s not wearing heels, but instead has on a pair of silvery gladiators with laces winding up her shapely legs. Her dress is short and tight, but doesn’t make her look slutty. Her platinum hair is short-cropped but sexy. The woman is a stunner.

  If I have any doubts, Pierre, drowning her under the full strength of his sultriness, would convince me. “Where are you from?” he asks, because the girl’s French is strongly accented.

  “Sweden. My English is better than my French. I’m still learning.”

  “And what’s a beautiful Swedish girl like you doing in Paris?” he forges on.

  Seriously? To my credit, Pierre never used lame lines like that on me. My no-strings-attached policy encompasses some minimum standards.

  “I worked for the guy who owns this place in his club in Stockholm. Not as big as here though.”

  So Zachary has transferred this Victoria-Secret-model wannabe from the North Pole to France. She must either be an outstanding waitress, or she’s doing slightly more than waiting on Zachary’s clients. Maybe she’s waiting on—

  Shut up, Lenor!

  “Lenor is one of Zachary’s friends from America,” Charlie advertises, as if I belonged in the President’s inner circle. My father does. I do not.

  The waitress’s smile freezes and she focuses her attention on me. I fidget again under her gaze, as I’ve done when Pierre covered me with his delicate, Frenchie paws.

  “So you’re the girl,” she states.

  The D.J. chooses that moment to put on Charlie’s summer anthem. Something about going out and getting lucky.

  She squeals again and lifts up her arms, her Champagne threatening to tip over. Her hip-swerving starts once again. The Swedish girl’s eyes linger on me for a couple of seconds then she waves at us, wishing us to have fun. She moves to the two girls who were ogling Pierre earlier and serve them gallons more of Champagne.

  I barely have time for more of my own Champagne before Pierre drags me onto the dance floor, a small raised platform. The VIP room must have been a private theater for the townhouse’s previous owners. Centuries ago. The spotlights blind me and I navigate through the undulating bodies, pressing myself tightly against Pierre.

  It’s either the alcohol kicking in, or the sensual way Pierre places himself behind me, making my body match his moves, but I let the music win me over. I stare directly up into the flashing spotlights and let myself go.

  I let the pounding of the music dictate the pounding of my heart. It doesn’t happen often, but Zach’s place with all its quirky, old-world charm makes me feel safe.

  Zach.

  Zach now standing next to me, taking hold of my hand. Zach tearing me out of Pierre’s arms. Zach leading me down the steps and into one of the dark, cushioned alcoves. Zach making me sit next to him on the soft corner seat. A table fills most of the space between us and I struggle to nudge my clumsy legs around it.

  The sudden move causes the world to blur.

  “Too much champagne, Duchess?” His fingers have sneaked around the nape of my neck, my skin tingling under his touch.

  “Not at all. I was having fun. Am I right to assume it’s what these establishments are for?”

  Zachary lets out a low-pitched chuckle and rewards me with a smile. “My staff failed to tell me you had arrived. Otherwise I’d have come right away.”

  I try not to notice the way the tip of his shirt collar tickles his chiseled jaw with its hint of stubble. “I’m sure you’re very much the busy bee around here.” I feign to give the room a sweeping look. “Nice place by the way. I still have to come to terms with you being a club owner.”

  He leans against the back of the bench, his hand moving away from my neck to rest against my back.

  “You know better than anyone how much I used to enjoy partying and all that comes with it.”

  He’s right: I do know. Girls, booze and drugs. I know better than to let his lifestyle choices hurt me again. I know better than to delude myself into believing I can save him.

  It’s my turn to chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  My own stupidity. But I’m not going to answer that. I pretend to check on my friends who are on the stage. The music’s frenzied tempo continues in time with the frenetic flashing of the lights. I feel the vibration under my palms spread across the tabletop.

  “Who’s the guy?” Zachary tips his chin towards Pierre.

  The words escape my mouth. “Someone I slept with.”

  If he’s spared me The Freezer look so far, it now comes into play in full-force. His jaw tightens. “Often?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “Will tonight be the third?”

  “Probably.” The thought of Pierre inside me makes me want to retch.

  I hold Zachary’s polar gaze without flinching but swallow the tight lump in my throat.

  “Zach!” The Swedish girl, confident and flamboyant, stands next to us.

  “Not now, Clara.” He has kept his voice soft but he doesn’t even spare her a glance. His attention is on me and me alone.

  His rebuke startles the waitress but she doesn’t give up. Kudos to her. “You’re needed,” she says in English. “That French singer has passed security. A personal welcome would be a nice touch.”

  It seems as though Zachary hasn’t heard the girl, but then he stands. His eyes are still fixed on me. I’m silently thankful for the darkness as there’s a high probability my cheeks have turned an intense shade of purple.

  He bends forward until his mouth is inches away from my ear. “I’ve got to take care of a few things.” His breath tingles on my earlobe and I stifle a delicious shiver. “After that, I’ll be back.”

  I blurt out a ‘no need to’ that sounds like a croak. He disappears, but Clara blocks the path back to the dance floor. I leave the alcove and I’m thankful for my heels because they bring me to eye-level with her. Her facial features are annoyingly flawless. The lights cause multi-colored shadows to dance over her cheekbones that set new standards for ‘well-chiseled.’

  With my most polite smile plastered on my face, I circle around her.

  “Don’t screw with his life,” she warns me.

  I freeze. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s turned the page. He’s moved on from all the shit tha
t was going on in America, with his family, you know…” She shrugs.

  Someone passes close behind and pushes me. I stumble sideways, my feet colliding with each other. When I find my balance again, Clara is looking down at me as if I were some clumsy, uncontrollable child.

  “I don’t matter—I mean—I wasn’t anyone important. Just a kid.”

  Her gaze flickers and then travels around the room to land back on me. “Zach is my friend. He never lets anyone he loves down, so I’m looking after him.”

  My lips stick tightly together. I don’t need a reminder that Zachary Murdoch has never loved me because he certainly has let me down. A kaleidoscope rolls in front of my eyes. Our first kiss onboard Renegade, our jumps into the freezing Atlantic, him walking away from me on the beach. I shut my eyes, only to see Josh’s earnest face when he told me we were over. One month ago.

  I swivel around and head towards the stage. I grab a small shot glass from a passing tray and gulp it down. Tequila! As the alcohol burns its way down my throat, I flow up the steps and, in a couple of strides, have embedded myself into Pierre.

  “Salut, Beauté!” he welcomes me back and, within seconds of me grinding my hips against his, I feel the full extent of his hospitality. I’d usually tear myself from that type of PDA. But not tonight. Tonight, recklessness seems like the best anesthetic. I don’t want to feel anything anymore: Shame, loneliness, rejection. I kick them all by running my fingers along Pierre’s neck, by brushing my lips against his and by snaking my tongue inside his mouth.

  Pierre repays my efforts. He palms my butt and pulls me closer. “I like your naughty side.”

  I want to giggle because, deep down, I’m as naughty as a nun buying sweets on the first day of lent.

  The music changes and our bodies start sharing the same rhythm, Pierre sliding his right leg between mine. We sway endlessly and I arch my back to stare up at the flashing lights again. I let them hypnotize me.

  There’s more tequila and more champagne. I’m so disconnected I don’t object when Pierre leads me out of the VIP room. He holds my hand tightly, otherwise I’d get lost. My brain doesn’t have any authority over my nerves and muscles.

  Outside, the air of the Parisian night caresses and refreshes my skin. Pierre has stopped walking and I hear him ordering a taxi on his cell. There’re a couple of cars with tinted windows parked down the curb from the club’s entrance, waiting for celebrities to roll out of Le Duke.

  I shut my eyes and try to get my senses back by taking one deep breath after another. I fear the music has damaged my hearing for good, but it slowly recovers. I ignore whatever Pierre is mumbling into my ear. I should walk away, go back inside, or better, back home. Now. I’m about to fall down and there’ll be no climbing back.

  A hand falls flat onto my stomach and a taut body force-marches me down the sidewalk.

  “Wait a minute. She’s with me,” Pierre objects.

  “Not anymore.” I hear Zach answer in English. His voice is chilling.

  “Who the hell are you?” Pierre hurries after us and attempts to block our way.

  Zach is now everywhere, both his hands on my stomach, which is rising and falling with my rapid breathing. “Eleanor is my guest and I’m making sure she gets home safely…and alone.”

  Pierre is too drunk to notice the threat. “Isn’t that for Lenor to decide?”

  He tries to pull me back towards him, but Zach twirls me around on my stilettos. I’d collapse but he gathers me in his arms.

  “Lenor is hardly in a state to make any decisions like that.” He turns his back on Pierre and whisks me away.

  The short exchange ignites something in my head. “Wait a sec! Let me down this minute.” My grip tightens around his neck. “Where are you taking me anyway?”

  “Your mother can’t see you like this. Not the best for a recovering alcoholic and junkie, I’m sure you’d agree.”

  He gently puts me back on my feet. His arms encircle my waist and linger there until he’s sure I won’t crumble. We’re in front of one of the chauffeur-driven cars. A striking man dressed in a tailored suit opens the door for us. Zach exchanges a few words with him in French. I steal a glance over my shoulder at Zach who’s shuffling me into the car. His eyes are dark but there isn’t the anger I expect in them. It’s warmth I see.

  “Duchess, I’m taking you back to my place.”

  Chapter 7

  ZACH

  East Hampton ~ 19th July, five years earlier.

  Megan Alistair’s tongue is down my throat.

  The girl is in charge and I like that. She’s a bitch and I like that too. I palm her ass. She gets the message loud and clear and glues herself against me.

  Going to The Gatsby wasn’t such a bad idea after all. My two-week dry spell has lasted long enough. Tonight, I won’t be sleeping alone.

  “I need more booze,” Megan shouts straight into my ear.

  I grimace. The place is loud, but it’s her shrieking voice that is deafening me.

  She wriggles against me and it makes me eager to please her in return. “What do you want?”

  “Anything with vodka.”

  Meg gets off on vodka. She’s eighteen. I’m twenty-four. I can help.

  “Don’t move.” I gently bite her neck.

  The joint is crowded and I have to fight my way to the bar. I’ve been drinking since lunch. My mother wanted to get out of the house. She wanted to spend some time with me, her only son, the apple of her eye. I obliged her and took her out. We had a good time for about ten minutes but she couldn’t help bringing him up. I’m so fucking fed up with her perpetually crying over the spilled milk of her marriage. To me, my father is as good as dead. So should he be, to her.

  I reach the bar and my fingers grip the edge of it. I shut my eyes and swallow hard. Damn, I’m more wasted than I thought.

  A great pair of tits burst into my line of sight. “What can I get you, gorgeous?”

  “Two vodka Red Bulls,” I smile back at the waitress, blonde, busty, and definitely game. But I shouldn’t spread myself too thin: Megan is a done deal.

  I like The Gatsby. It’s my oldest hunting ground. I turn and rest my back against the bar as the drinks are poured. I’m taller than most of the people in the room so I can see what’s going on. What I see are dozens of heads popping up and down with spotlights flashing and rolling over them. The music pounds harder and harder. I shut my eyes because the lights feel as though they’re stabbing my eyeballs.

  I open my eyes again and what I see doesn’t make sense. She’s there. Ten yards away, but it may just as well be ten thousand fucking miles because the space is so crammed. She’s there though and she’s not alone. A nerdy-looking guy has his mouth next to her ear. He says something to her. She laughs. A fake laugh. I know Duchess well enough now to recognize the truth in her. I know she’s been honest with me every minute we’ve spent together since the Fourth of July, just two weeks ago.

  Her hair is tied up in a ponytail and she’s wearing a white T-shirt. Very demure. Count on her to look prim-and-proper, no matter where she is. There she goes again, laughing. The boy tries a clumsy move on her and she twists away from him. He has no rhythm. She frowns over his shoulder. She sees me.

  A flimsy smile curls around her lips. And then it freezes. I was supposed to be at her place tonight watching some old movie, but I’d cancelled. I let her down because I wanted to get hammered. Because I wanted to get laid.

  Someone taps on my shoulder. I turn around. The vodka Red Bulls are waiting on the counter. I pay and slice my way back to the private area, a drink in each hand. Megan is now sitting down. She’s a pretty little thing. She’s also a good lay.

  She waves at me and I crash down on the seat. Her hand slides along my thigh, up and up until there’s nowhere else to go. I’m here to have fun but some things are better done behind closed doors. I’m not that keen on having people watch as a girl feels me up.

  “Drink,” I offer.

  She brin
gs the glass to her lips but her hand on my thigh doesn’t budge. I’m not even close to being hard. I knock down my vodka. It grates my tongue and burns my throat. Alcohol buzzes through my veins, but the sensation won’t last long enough. It never does. I need something else.

  Lenor re-enters my field of vision. She and the guy are taking a seat on low stools around a table on the other side of the private area. She has her back to me but I can’t miss how he’s playing with a wisp of her hair. He leans over to her and mouths some words into her ear. Her shoulders shake slightly. I guess whatever he said must have been funny.

  “Well if it isn’t, Eleanor Carrington herself.” Megan doesn’t miss anything. Her fingers almost pinch me as her grip tightens. I recoil slightly and clear my throat. “The Ice Queen knows Freddie.”

  I can’t miss the dejection in her voice.

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “Some English Earl, or soon-to-be. Great catch.”

  It’s impossible that Lenor can hear us given how loud the music is. Still, she looks back over her shoulder and our gazes meet. Her eyebrows furrow as if she’s trying to make sense of what she sees. I should just go over and say ‘hello.’ It wasn’t cool to let her down like I had. Not after we spent days and days together.

  But something snaps inside my head. My hand palms the back of Meg’s head. I pull her against me. I feel her tits crushing against my chest. My tongue hunts for hers. They find each other and the ballet commences. She squeezes my dick. She keeps doing it but triggers no response.

  Her lips move against mine. “Let’s go somewhere else… somewhere you can relax.”

  I don’t want to relax. I want to get off. I want to cut Lenor’s eyes from me. I jump to my feet and drag Meg with me. I make a point of avoiding Lenor.

  “Where are we going?”

  I look back at Meg and she’s stumbling on her heels trying to match my pace. I don’t slow down and we make it to the restroom. I’ve done this before. Many times. There’s no line outside the ladies room. I push open the door and right in front of me, there’s a free stall. We go in.