by Alix Nichols
“Where do you want Amanda and me to sit?” Kes asked his mom.
Madame Moreno pointed to the far end of one of the tables. “First and second chairs from the left.”
“Wow,” Amanda whispered to Kes as they sat down. “I didn’t expect this level of formality at a Gitan party. Makes me feel like I’m at one of my mother’s dinners. She writes everyone’s name on a cute little card and puts it next to their plates.”
Kes smirked. “How considerate of her.”
“It’s not. It’s just one of those things she does to convey my family is upper-middle class.”
“Well, mine is certainly not.” Kes pointed at his and Amanda’s paper plates. “This is the reason we’re seated so precisely. Disposable utensils.”
“I don’t understand.”
He told her about the clean Gypsies, soiled gadje, and his own ambiguous status.
“How fascinating,” Amanda said.
“So, who are you, Amanda?” Django Moreno asked from his place of honor at the head of the table.
She went for the safest reply. “I’m a waitress.”
He frowned. “I’d never allow a daughter of mine to wait tables. It isn’t a suitable job for a woman.”
“Why not?” Amanda asked.
“Late hours, strange men looking at her and talking to her freely . . .” Monsieur Moreno shook his head. “Even if she remained proper and chaste, everyone in the community would believe her ruined.”
Amanda stared down at her plate, unsure how to react. She had a ready answer, all right. In fact, she had at least a dozen sarcastic retorts dancing on the tip of her tongue. But every single one of them would lead to a nasty argument that would end in her stomping away from the table . . . into the wasteland.
Keep your mouth shut, Amanda.
Kes touched her hand and smiled. “Not all Gitans are as conservative as my father.”
“No, unfortunately, they are not,” Monsieur Moreno said. “They forget it’s our traditions that keep our people from disappearing. It breaks my heart to watch young Gitan couples move into stationary houses, get gadje jobs, and abandon the Traveler way of life.”
“Next, their children marry a gadje,” Levna Moreno chimed in, “and lose what remains of their Gypsy heritage.”
“And our solution to that bane,” Rosanna said, smirking, “is to make sure our kids don’t get too much education, and our girls are married off at seventeen.” She placed a huge dish of stew on the table.
“Wife.” Monsieur Moreno turned to his spouse. “Tell me how we ended up with two of our three children being apostates?”
“Tata, it’s not fair.” Rosanna tilted her head to the side. “I married young and stayed with the community.”
“And are you so unhappy with your lot, my girl?” her father asked.
“I’m happy because I love my family, and I love the nomadic life. But I can see how some of our youth could do so much better if given the chance.”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘better,’ ” he said.
“You know very well, Tata.” Rosanna gave him a stop-playing-dumb look. “Cousin Joachim is in jail. Cousin Diego is at the hospital with a knife wound. My best friend Blouma’s niece ran away and has been missing since March because she couldn’t stand the boy her father had ordered her to marry. She’s sixteen.”
“So, tell me, Amanda,” Madame Moreno asked, visibly uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. “How did you meet my son?”
Kes opened his mouth to reply, but Amanda cut in, “We met in the library.”
His eyebrows rose.
Truth was she had no idea why she’d lied. Maybe to avoid potential follow-up questions about why she’d been gambling.
Rosanna smiled. “That’s my little brother. When he’s not in a casino playing blackjack, he’s in a library reading. What kinds of novels do you like, Amanda?”
“I read only nonfiction. Cultural anthropology mostly.”
“Anthropology.” Monsieur Moreno sneered. “Kes, why is your friend speaking Latin to us?”
Kes’s lips twitched. “It’s Greek, actually. ‘Anthropo’ means ‘human’ in ancient Greek.”
“Anthropology is the study of savage tribes, Uncle,” Marco said.
“Is that so?” Django Moreno arched an eyebrow at Amanda. “So, what’s your verdict? Are we savage enough for you?”
Amanda squared her shoulders. “Marco’s definition is obsolete. Today’s anthropology can look at any group and any social behavior. If you study lunchtime habits of members of the Senate, you’re doing cultural anthropology.”
“I see.” Monsieur Moreno’s face relaxed a little, and he turned away to chat with someone.
The rest of the party was less stressful and more fun. Amanda ate and drank as much as she could manage without throwing up. She also danced in the big circle and adapted her salsa moves to the Gypsy rhythms. Kes always hovered nearby, dancing or talking with her. Even when he was several meters away, chatting with other young men, she could feel his gaze on her. It was openly appreciative. And protective. He had singled her out among all other women and was bathing her in the warm, golden light of his desire.
Amanda couldn’t get enough of it.
At three in the morning, the party slowed down, and the guests began to return to their caravans. Kes asked Marco if he could borrow his car to drive Amanda back to Arles. His grandma kissed his forehead and made him promise he’d be back for an early breakfast with her before returning to Paris. His parents and other relations bid her farewell.
In the car she rubbed her eyes and yawned, as she watched Kes slowly drive them toward the town.
Very slowly.
“I’ve had some wine,” he explained, noticing her amused look. “I’m sure I’ll pass the alcohol test if the police stop us, but I’d rather not take the risk.”
“If you say so.” She arched an eyebrow. “You’re the gambler.”
“Technically, I’m a card counter.”
“Are card counters some sort of elite corps among gamblers?”
“You could say that, yes.”
They drove in silence for a little while before she spoke again. “When you said some Gypsies didn’t share your father’s old-school thinking, were you referring to yourself?”
He nodded.
“So you haven’t excluded the idea of settling down one day and staying put like the gadje do?”
Amanda hoped the question had sounded casual enough to rule out any misinterpretation. She was only being inquisitive, like someone interested in anthropology would be. She wasn’t at all holding her breath or itching to bite her fingernails while he mulled over her question.
Why would she?
After a long moment, he shook his head. “If I take root somewhere, it would limit my freedom. I guess I’m a true Gypsy that way. I need to be on the move to feel free. And I need to feel free because . . . I need to.”
“I enjoy traveling, too,” Amanda said. “Lots of people do. Travel isn’t a Gypsy invention, nor is it a Gypsy prerogative.”
“I never said it was.” He smiled. “But it’s our way of life. Whereas for the gadje, traveling is just a way of getting from point A to point B.”
“I know gadje people who live to travel,” Amanda said.
“OK. Let me explain this differently. When a sedentary person travels, they pack, leave home, go to a place—or many places—and then return home.”
“So?”
“For Gypsies, travel isn’t like that. When we stop somewhere, it isn’t to make a home. It’s just to make some money, before we’re on the move again.”
“Hmm.”
“We leave nothing behind—nothing we would long to go back to. Our home is our family, and the family travels together.”
“Then why do you, Kes the Gitan, live in hotels and not in your parents’ caravan?” Amanda gave him a triumphant look.
“I’m the family’s black sheep, remember? The renegad
e. Neither a gadje, nor a proper Gypsy anymore . . .” He sighed. “I don’t know who I am, Amanda, and to be honest, I don’t know where I’m going.”
She turned away from him and stared at her hands. This confession was the biggest, deepest glimpse into Kes’s soul he had granted her since they met. She saw the lost boy behind his usual mask of irreverent nonchalance, and the sight humbled her. His trust flattered her more than she cared to admit. But there was something else, something she felt a lot more ambivalent about . . . if she could only put her finger on it—
Amanda’s breath hitched as it dawned on her. The intimacy. The scorching, uncanny intimacy of his words.
Kes was the first lover to share his doubts and his fears with her as if it had been the most natural thing to do. He was the first friend to let her this close, to entrust her with the full measure of his weakness. Come to think of it, he was the first person in her life to do that. It unsettled her.
Forget unsettling—it freaked her out.
* * *
Chapter Ten
Friends with Benefits
~ ~ ~
A Woman’s Guide to Perfection
Guideline # 10
The Perfect Woman never tells her current lover about all the previous ones.
Rationale: If you are over twenty-five, chances are you’ve been around. While experience is attractive in men, it isn’t something a woman wants to flaunt. No one expects you to be a virgin these days, but informing your new boyfriend you’ve had eighteen lovers before him is a bad idea. Believe us.
A word of caution: If you insist on being honest, then by all means, go ahead and tell him about all your former lovers. He may take your confession with equanimity and even humor, but here’s what will happen next: (a) he’ll disappear from your life (because, frankly, what man wants to compete with eighteen other men, all of whom he imagines exceptionally well endowed); or (b) he’ll stay, but will have a much harder time picturing you as a bride in a virginal white wedding dress. Just saying.
Permissible exception: You are allowed to tell your new boyfriend about your first lover and your most recent one, letting him assume you haven’t had anyone in between.
Damage control: If he’s too rational for his own good and insists there must have been others, then just say, yes, there have been one or two but it was a long time ago. If he still won’t let you off the hook, demanding names and details, dump him—he’s going to be more trouble than he’s worth.
Pitfalls to avoid: (a) saying too much, (b) not saying anything.
~ ~ ~
As soon as she got home from work, Amanda launched into vacuum cleaning, dusting, filing the papers on her desk, and rearranging cushions on her designer couch.
Kes was coming over at nine thirty with Japanese takeout.
She was a little nervous, which she chalked up to her perfectionism. He was going to see her apartment for the first time, and she wanted him to be impressed. She wanted him to see it through her eyes, to understand why she had refused to look for jobs outside Paris.
At eight thirty, she decided the place was as close to perfect as it could be and headed to the shower.
The first thing she saw as she walked into the bathroom was Christophe the Spider. The furry black critter was back, peeking out of the bathtub overflow hole. Amanda let out a frustrated sigh. It was becoming harder and harder to deny the truth: the spider wasn’t leaving of his own accord, and she was going to have to deal with him.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she didn’t have time for it, what with Kes arriving in less than an hour. She stepped into the tub and turned the water on.
The spider watched her.
“You’re trespassing,” she said as she shampooed her hair. “Your kind belongs outdoors and in dusty attics. But not in my bathroom.”
Christophe seemed to be listening.
“Please leave, will you?” She stared at him, her expression pleading. “Don’t force me to do wet work.”
Christophe stirred in a way that appeared enthusiastic.
“Oh my God!” Amanda clapped her hand to her forehead. “Are you suicidal?”
The spider didn’t move.
“Do you actually want me to eliminate you?” She narrowed her eyes at the stubborn creature. “Or are you so happy because you think ‘wet work’ means sprinkling you with water?”
Christophe just stared at her.
Jesus.
She shook her head in desperation and finished her shower without saying another word or even looking at the intruder. She would have to warn Kes about him just in case he had a phobia.
As it turned out, he didn’t.
“Hey there,” he said, squatting down before Christophe. “So you’re Amanda’s roomie, huh?”
“Absolutely not. He’s a trespasser and a stalker,” she said.
Kes looked up, grinning. “Does he have a name?”
“Christophe.”
“What if Christophe is a girl?”
“He’s a boy.” Amanda rolled her eyes. “I’m being daft. I just . . . had to call it something.”
“He does look like a boy.”
She crouched next to Kes. “What if he’s venomous?”
“Nah. Christophe is harmless—to humans, at any rate.” He stood up. “Will you show me the rest of your apartment?”
She led him to the living room, where she’d set the coffee table for their dinner in front of the TV.
“Why don’t you put your stuff here?” She motioned to the empty space between the bowl of cherry tomatoes and the bottle of mineral water.
He set the sushi boxes and the bottle of Chablis on the coffee table.
“We can eat first, if you’re hungry, and then I’ll show you the bedroom,” she said with a saucy smile.
“I’d rather see the bedroom first.”
Her smile grew wider. “Then we’d better put the sushi into the fridge.”
When sushi and wine were safely inside Amanda’s powder-blue Smeg, Kes took a step toward her.
The closeness of his hard, beautiful body made her dizzy.
For a moment, they just looked at each other. He moved closer still and bent his head down a little. She tilted hers back. He stared, his obsidian eyes locked on her mouth.
Her gaze wandered over his irises, his thick lashes, his out-of-this-world eyebrows, and his yummy lips. She breathed him in. He smelled clean and a little salty, like the air of his native Camargue. Correction—he smelled like the Camargue air spiced with . . . sandalwood?
No, something tangier.
Whatever that essence was, it fit him perfectly, making his scent so intoxicating it messed with her brain on a deep, chemical level.
The anticipation of holding him in every shameless way she wanted and kissing him as if the sky were falling was incredibly erotic. It made Amanda’s blood quicken in her veins and her pelvis ache and clench, soaking her lacy underwear.
She put her arms around his neck and dissolved into his kiss.
Later, when she replayed the evening in her mind, she couldn’t remember how they got to the bedroom. She must have led him there while they were kissing. And undressing, judging by the trail of discarded clothes on the floor.
In the bedroom, they stroked and kissed each other everywhere until he backed her to the bed and stretched out over her. Amanda gasped, welcoming the weight of his body. So snug, so right. She spread her thighs, and he moved between them.
His eyes locked on hers; he braced himself on his arms and entered her.
She moaned softly and wrapped her thighs around his hips.
With every delicious stroke, her eyes closed so she could focus on her sensations more fully. But she forced them open again. The position offered her a view of his chest, shoulders, and neck that was too precious to miss. She wanted to feast her eyes on his masculine beauty while he made love to her.
His thrusts grew harder, and Amanda’s moans, louder.
Oh, the vigor of him, the
strength in his arms, the overflowing vitality of his muscled body. Lying beneath him, filled with him, she quivered from the power of the life force he was pouring into her.
“My gadji, my sweet gadji,” he rasped.
When her body tensed and her legs trembled with the intensity of her release, he said something else—a raw, feverish word in a language she didn’t understand.
“Kamotoute.”
He came after that, growling his pleasure into the air and collapsing on top of her.
For a few long moments, they clung to each other, their bodies still joined, sweaty and spent.
He kissed her and rolled over.
For a while, they just lay on their backs, his long fingers interlaced with hers.
When her breathing calmed, Amanda turned to her side, facing away from him. It was only ten thirty, but the prospect of getting up for the dinner they’d planned seemed too overwhelming to contemplate. He drew closer and hugged her from the back, curving his warm hard body around hers.
Hard everywhere.
“I want you,” he whispered in her ear.
“Again?”
His pushed her hair to the side and kissed the back of her neck. “If I had you a thousand times already, I’d still want more. Looks like I’m hooked.”
She turned to face him and smirked. “Fear not, it’ll pass. It’s just—”
He silenced her with a searing kiss.
* * *
When Amanda woke up, Kes was half-awake, his breathing still even but not as deep as when he slept. She put her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat and the delicious warmth of his skin. Then she reached for his face and touched the back of her hand to his cheek. His morning stubble grated against her skin, creating a most pleasurable contrast of rough and soft, masculine and feminine. She enjoyed the sensation for a few moments before she flipped her hand to caress the side of his face.
He smiled with his eyes still shut and shifted his head slightly, leaning into her palm. His scent had changed a little compared to last night. It was less sandalwood and more salt, and she found herself wishing that if heaven existed, it would smell like him now.