by Alix Nichols
Beware, Mia—it will scorch your soul.
When my skirt and panties pool around my ankles, I step out of them. He pulls me back to him immediately and brings his mouth down on my very slippery flesh. His tongue explores and strokes me, while his fingers spread me open.
I clutch his shoulders because my legs are suddenly too weak.
The orgasm that follows isn’t the deepest or most intense I’ve ever had, but it’s incredibly sweet. It’s as if my loins had grown tastebuds and savored honey.
When I return to reality, Raphael is gripping my hips, arms stretched. Sitting back, his lips glistening from what he’s been doing a moment ago, he watches me.
All of me.
I stare into his eyes.
What I see in their depths makes my heart quicken. They hold lust—tons of it—but also admiration. And tenderness. So much of it that my knees wobble and I sway forward.
He props me up and levels his gaze with mine.
I gasp.
That “funny” look I’d noticed before is back, amplified a hundred times. Do I dare name it? Could it be that the admiration and tenderness in his eyes weren’t just for my body, but also for my person? Is it possible that the country’s most notorious womanizer has a crush on a girl from work? A girl with quirks, ragged edges, and a bluestocking level of nerdiness.
I must be imagining it.
Those double shifts must be taking their toll, making me delusional. I should know better than to let myself think Raphael d’Arcy has feelings for me. Because he doesn’t. He can’t. That’s not how he’s built. A twenty-nine-year-old unapologetic bad boy can’t change his tiger stripes for someone like me.
Or can he?
Chapter 18
I wake up surrounded by Raphael.
His chest is pressed to my back, his left arm is under my head, and his right arm is wrapped around me. I don’t dare budge for fear of disrupting the sweetness of this moment. As I lie in his arms with my eyes wide open but my body still gooey and listen to his steady breathing, a realization begins to form in my mind.
For a while, I pretend everything’s fine, but my inaction allows the epiphany to take shape and grow. By the time I start shooing it away, it’s too late. The bastard has made itself comfortable at the forefront of my consciousness and is opening its mouth to say something.
I begin to sing in my head, La la la la la la. Can’t hear you, can’t hear you, can’t hear you—
Except I can. Loud and clear, every murmured word.
I’m in love.
Carefully, I lift Raphael’s arm, roll out of bed and head to the shower. I’m going to take it cold. And long.
When I return to the bedroom, wrapped into a bathrobe, Raphael is sitting on the bed, his feet on the floor and his phone in his hands.
“Bruno just texted me. He’s on standby,” he says.
Bruno is his driver.
I sit down next to him. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“That he’s having a coffee in the nearest bistro, waiting for my signal.”
“I see.”
“When do you think you’ll be ready?” he asks.
“Why?”
“So I can give Bruno a heads-up.”
“I’m going to walk,” I say.
“Don’t be silly. DCA is at least an hour’s hike from here.”
“Actually, it’s only forty minutes of brisk walking. And it’s the only exercise I get these days, soooo…”
“All right.” He taps something on his phone before looking up at me. “I just told Bruno to take his time and then drive to the office without me.”
I frown, confused.
“I’ll walk with you,” Raphael says.
“What if someone sees us?”
“They won’t. We’ll split where I usually let you off when we go to work from my place.”
It’s a great spot, actually, in the middle of a roundabout a few blocks from DCA. It swarms with office people and cars. If you’re dressed for work, you immediately melt into the crowd like an ant stepping into an anthill. You’re no longer a person—you’re just a suit among suits.
“I don’t know this neighborhood well,” Raphael says as we emerge from the bistro on the corner of my street, steaming paper cups in our hands. “Will you give me a guided tour?”
I shrug. “It’s super ordinary compared to yours. No sites or historical monuments to speak of.”
“I’m not interested in those. What I want you to tell me about is Mia’s Ménilmontant quarter.”
“OK. Sure.” I give him a bright smile. “Welcome to Mia’s hood! I’ll try to make your tour as exciting as it can be.”
“Thank you.”
“On your left”—I point to the bakery across the street—“you see one of the many wheat temples of our capital.”
“So we’re a nation of wheat worshippers?”
“Of course.”
He lowers his brows, unconvinced.
“Picture a freshly baked, warm baguette,” I say.
He shuts his eyes for a second. “Done.”
“What do you want to do with it?”
“Break off a piece, smell it, and sink my teeth into it.”
I smile.
“Or, if I make it home,” Raphael adds, “I’ll cut my baguette in half lengthwise, butter one half, layer sliced goat cheese and dried tomatoes onto it, top it with the second half, and wolf it down.”
He sighs dreamily and swallows.
My lips quirk. “Now picture a rice cracker.”
Raphael stares at me for a moment and then throws his hands up in surrender. “You win. I’m a wheat worshipper.”
“On your right,” I say, pointing to a colorful building, “is our local médiathèque.”
“Is that a fancy multimedia library?”
“Correct.”
We walk in silence for about five minutes until we reach a crossing with traffic lights.
“And this is the fateful intersection,” I say.
“Why is it fateful?”
I point ahead of us. “That way is an early arrival at the office. And that way”—I point at the corner to our left—“has the best chai latte in Paris.”
Raphael grins. “I can see your dilemma.”
“You have no idea what I go through every morning as I wait for the green light here.”
“The call of duty versus instant gratification, eh?”
I nod.
“Which one carries the day?”
I give him an apologetic look. “I’m only human.”
He chuckles softly.
“Now, look at that building,” I say.
Raphael looks at the classic nineteenth-century limestone façade with cast-iron balconies and wooden shutters.
“Follow my finger.” I point.
“Are those…” He peers at the mosaic above the main door, blinks, and then peers again. “Space Invaders from the video game?”
“Oui, Monsieur d’Arcy.”
“How? Why?”
“It’s pixel street art. We owe it to an artist who goes by Invader and to his copycats.”
“I love it.” Raphael snaps a picture with his phone.
“Invader claims he’s placed a thousand installations all over the city.”
“Really?”
“I read it online,” I say.
“Must be true, then.”
When we reach the next intersection, I spot a bright yellow postal van and stop in my tracks.
“What is it?” Raphael asks.
“You see that La Poste van?”
He nods.
“It’s almost always at this crossing when I get here.”
Raphael surveys the van, looking amused.
“What’s worse,” I say, “it always stops to let me cross.”
“Why is it so bad?”
“Because it feels wrong. You know how even the most polite Parisian turns into an a-hole behind the wheel? Not this guy, not once. And that giv
es me a creepy Truman Show feeling.” I give him a comically panicked look. “What if my life isn’t real? What if it’s the Mia Stoll Show?”
“It’s real,” he says.
“Of course,” I say, going around a pile of dog poo. “I know that. But here’s the thing… I can’t prove it.”
“I can.”
“How?”
He puts his hand on his chest. “I’m real.”
I look at him expecting a grin but his expression is earnest. Way too earnest for the conversation we’re having.
“And so is my cock,” he adds, the anticipated smile finally curling his lips. “I promise it hasn’t been enlarged, elongated, stiffened, or otherwise tampered with surgically or chemically.”
I roll my eyes.
“And here”—he points to the postal depot on our right—“is the explanation for the mystery of your ever-present van.”
“I have considered it,” I say. “What do you think? The depot may explain the van, but it doesn’t explain the driver’s unflagging courteousness.”
“You know you’re weird, right?” Raphael asks.
I sigh. “I’ll work harder on suppressing my weirdness.”
“Please don’t,” he says. “I love it.”
I look at my feet, grinning.
A pair of fairy wings sprouts on my back, and I have to stay very focused for the rest of the walk so I don’t fly.
When I get into the office and fire up my computer, there’s an unread email at the top of my Inbox. Its subject line draws my attention immediately. “The day of reckoning.” My hand trembles when I click it open.
MEET ME AT THE SANDWICH PLACE OUTSIDE YOUR OFFICE AT NOON. IF YOU DON’T SHOW UP, I’LL POST SOMETHING ON THE INTERNET THAT YOU WON’T LIKE. I’LL ALSO EMAIL IT TO YOUR PARENTS.
SEE YOU AT NOON.
Chapter 19
I close the email and stare out the window. My heart beats so fast my chest hurts. The inevitable has happened. Today is the first of July, and after six months of virtual threats, my blackmailer is about to show his face. It could be her face, too, but I have a hunch it’s a man.
Will I recognize him? What will he want in exchange for his silence?
Last time I checked my bank account, I had twenty-five hundred euros. It’s the richest I’ve ever been, but will it be enough to get him to destroy whatever “proof” he claims to have? I doubt it. I can only hope it’ll be enough to keep him from posting it until his next visit.
Thankfully, today is quiet at work, so I can get away with just staring at my screen for the next three hours. Even more auspicious, Delphine and Barbara are super busy, which means no coffee-and-chat break this morning. I couldn’t chat right now. And I don’t think I could swallow anything without throwing up.
At five to noon I leave the DCA offices and enter the sandwich place. It’s still empty, given that the Parisian lunch break starts around one. The only customer in the eatery is a man wearing a bright green T-shirt and nursing a beer in the back of the room. He gives me a hard stare and then beckons ominously.
I plod to his table and sit across from him. “Who are you?”
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“I wouldn’t’ve asked if I did.”
“We started the same year at the Ecole des Sciences Sociales,” he says.
“So you were at that party?”
He nods.
“And you filmed it.”
He nods again.
“Prove it.”
“Sure.” He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, and turns it toward me.
What I see on the screen is what I’ve been trying to forget for five years.
I peer at him, my mouth a hard line and my hands clammy.
“I zoomed in on your face in this sequence,” he says. “See?”
I take a glance at the screen and then turn away. “You’ve made your point. What do you want from me?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“I have two thousand five hundred euros,” I say.
He sneers. “I don’t need your money, Mia. I want you to be my plaything, my personal… petite pute.”
My little whore.
Suddenly, a light bulb goes off in my head. “I remember you! You’re Gaspard—the creep who followed me everywhere in my freshman year in Strasbourg!”
His nostrils flare. “I worshipped you.”
“No kidding.”
“I thought you were an angel, with that elfin face of yours and those eyes…” He sneers. “And then I overheard you calling me exactly that—a creep—in front of your girlfriends.”
“You deserved it! You snuck up on me everywhere, and you stared.” I search his face. “Can’t you see how an eighteen-year-old girl would feel in that situation? Put yourself in my shoes. You stalked me in the canteen, in lecture halls, in the dorm… I even spotted you in the ladies’ room a couple of times!”
“Big deal.” He shrugs. “I didn’t touch you, did I? I just looked.”
So much for getting him to relate.
“You disappeared in the second year,” I say. “I thought you’d dropped out or transferred. I forgot all about you.”
“Of course you did.” He purses his lips. “But I didn’t go anywhere. I just made myself more discreet after you ratted me out to the administration.”
I survey him for a long moment.
He holds my gaze, his eyes filled with lechery so revolting it makes me gag. Just like it used to eight years ago, every time I caught him leering at me from behind a tree or a pillar.
“So, Mia,” he says at length. “Do we have a deal?”
“No, we don’t.”
“You’re being stupid.”
“Why come forward now?” I ask. “You sat on this video for six years. What pushed you to take action?”
He smirks. “I went to Sydney for my third year, graduated, landed a job, and a girlfriend—Sandy. A genuinely good girl, unlike some.”
I ignore his meaningful glance, keeping my expression as impenetrable as I can.
“But you ruined my relationship,” he says.
“Me? How?”
“That video… I couldn’t stay away from it, couldn’t stop watching you getting banged.” He shakes his head, his expression bemused. “I had the wildest fantasies about you, Mia. The things we did in them!”
Panic fills my chest, but I do my damnedest not to show it.
Gaspard leans forward. “It became a bit of an obsession.”
“You don’t say.”
He glares. “I tried to get Sandy to be more like you… I asked her to dye her hair auburn. Then I bought her green-tinted contact lenses. And then I began to push her sexually where she didn’t want to go.”
“Let me guess—she ditched you.”
I shouldn’t have said that! But I couldn’t help myself.
He nods. “I could’ve made her stay if I had leverage. But I didn’t—unlike with you.”
The gleam in his eyes is borderline deranged.
Oh God.
Gaspard sits back. “After Sandy left, I wasted some time hooking up with prostitutes and all kinds of trash. They did everything I asked them to do, no problem, but… I felt shortchanged. You know?”
He bares his teeth in a sickening smile.
I turn away.
“That’s when I realized I didn’t have to use cheap substitutes. I could have you. Mia Stoll, my fantasy, the haughty slut of my dreams, was within my reach if I played my cards right. All I had to do was to find you and—”
“Blackmail me,” I cut in.
“Exactly,” he says without a hint of discomfort. “It took me a while to locate you, though, seeing as you’re not on social media or in the phone directory.”
“But you managed.”
“Yeah, I did.”
I force myself to look him in the eye. “I won’t be your plaything.”
“Listen,” he says, his tone conciliatory. “It won’t be as bad as you think. I wo
n’t humiliate you in public. I’m a reasonable man.”
“Reasonable?” I choke back a bitter laugh. “You’re a raving lunatic.”
He glares. “Why don’t you drop the innocent act? I was at that party. I filmed it, remember?”
“People change,” I say.
“Oh please.” He makes a face. “Do yourself a favor and accept my terms.”
“No.”
“Mia, darling,” His tone becomes softer again, and even creepier than before. “All I’m asking is that you put your sweet little body at my disposal, just like you did for three other men at that party, once or twice a year when I’m in France. The rest of the time, you’re free to fuck whomever you want.”
“No,” I say again.
He frowns. “You’ll risk your academic career? Your job? Your pastor mom cutting you off?”
Those prospects are terrifying, indeed. Especially, the last one.
“Tell you what,” he says with a saccharine smile. “Why don’t you sleep on it? Actually, take the entire weekend. I’ll be visiting with some family in the countryside, and then I’ll be back on Monday.”
It’s tempting to tell him he can go to hell, but I bite my tongue.
“I can totally see how my offer may seem daunting at first.” His smile grows increasingly sickening. “Especially since you expected to just pay your way out of this.”
I refuse to look at him.
“But you’re a big girl. You’ll survive.” He stands up. “Until Monday, chérie.”
And then he marches out.
Chapter 20
I return to the office and format the news bulletin with my brain functioning on autopilot. When I’m done, I email Pauline that I’m unwell and won’t be able to compile the international politics section today.
Then I shut down my computer and leave.
As I walk home, barely aware of my surroundings, I collide with a woman who stopped suddenly in front of the médiathèque. I apologize. She smiles, pats my arm, and tells me it was her fault.
She’s very pregnant.
A chill runs down my spine as I take in her rounded belly and realize I missed my period in June.
That means I haven’t had it for almost two months.
It could be nothing.