by Meg Ripley
But then, even as I’m getting more and more turned on by my own imagination, I stop. Am I really standing here in the shower touching myself to the thought of some guy I only just met, who I know nothing at all about? I shake my head and rinse myself off, keeping it quick so I’m not tempted to lapse into more self-fondling.
I turn off the water and dry myself off, but by the time I’m padding back into my room, I can’t be bothered to put on pajamas. I just climb between the brand-new sheets on my bed, curl up under the fluffy cotton duvet, and in a matter of minutes, I’m fast asleep.
Chapter FIVE
Jacques
Even though I had a late night practicing with the band, I manage to make it into the shop 5 minutes early.
“Yo, Jacques,” Julienne says as I come in through the back door of the shop. “How’s the band?”
“We’re getting ready to play a show next week,” I say. “For once, Pascal managed to have his shit together and was able to get to practice on time, so we managed to get through our whole set twice.”
“Once Yann has the flyers made up, bring them into the shop,” Julienne suggests, tightening her thin, silver ponytail. My boss has always been like a second mother, always looking out for me.
I nod. “I also met my new neighbor,” I tell her. “Claude’s new tenant—did Christophe mention her?”
Julienne rolls her eyes. “He said something about an American taking the apartment,” she says.
“I have to admit, she’s pretty damn cute,” I say. I think about the girl I saw across the alley the night before; she’d looked short, though at that distance, it’s hard to really tell, with long, dark hair and a curvy body—the kind of body you only really see on Americans, usually. Lucky for me, she dropped her towel on her way to the bathroom, letting me get more than an eyeful for a second; I’d be lying if I said my cock didn’t move in my pants at the sight of her.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to get American chick fever, too,” Julienne says with a groan.
“Not a chance, Boss. The last thing I want to do is stir up a whole mess of drama by hooking up with my neighbor. And you know I swore off dating for a year, at least, after everything with Amandine,” I reply.
“Oh, please. That will last until some woman is helpless and in trouble and needs you to defend her honor, Sir Gauvain,” she says.
Julienne’s nickname for me, Sir Gauvain, is based on the Arthurian romances. It’s stupid, but a part of me has to admit I kind of like it.
“So, you’re not going to watch over that new girl in the apartment across from yours?” Julienne gives me a significant look.
I sigh.
“She’s cute, but I’m only looking to watch over myself right now,” I say with a laugh, as I go to my station to start getting ready for the day.
Julienne goes to the front counter to set up the register system while I’m looking through my book, going over the last few designs I need to refine for clients coming in later in the day; all the usual things.
“You know,” Julienne says from the cash register, “in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve probably told me you’re done with women ‘for a year at least’ about ten times, and every time you’ve said it, you’ve ended up dating someone within three months.”
“Is there a moral to this story?” I test my tattoo machine and set it aside to sterilize it again before my first client of the day.
“The moral to it is that you aren’t the kind of man who stays single,” Julienne says. “And you should just accept that.”
“You just want to convert me to your ideology about settling down and having kids,” I say.
“Well, God, you’re not getting any younger,” Julienne counters. “You’re already over thirty—and you haven’t been in a relationship longer than maybe a year. Even then, I don’t think you were ever really serious about Amandine.”
“I was very serious about Amandine,” I protest. “She wasn’t serious about me.”
“Well, I’m telling you, one day, you’re going to end up meeting a girl that will change everything.”
“And if I do, then I’ll marry her,” I say with a shrug. “But I don’t see why I have to sit through this sermon.”
“I’m done with it,” Julienne says, sighing. “I just want to see you happy, Jacques.”
“I’m plenty happy being single,” I insist.
Julienne throws up her hands and heads into the back room to get the cash for the register from the safe.
I think about what she said, in spite of how dismissive I was when she was saying it. I’m not really interested in Nora. She’s hot, and the way that she fumbled a bit with her speaking the night before was kind of endearing, but I have to admit that I’m a little hesitant to encourage Christophe or Yann to go after her.
Christophe especially. The way he was talking about American girls…
I shake my head; Yann might be a better choice for her, but I still don’t like the idea of my band-mate going after the girl I saw the night before.
You don’t even know her, Jacques. Claude said she was an artist—what if she’s like Amandine? Amandine was a girl I dated about five years ago. She was studying for her degree in art, and she’d been the kinkiest of any women I’d ever dated before or since. She’d also been a total slut, cheating on me with a bunch of other guys in the six months we’d dated.
But something tells me that Nora isn’t that kind of artist. There’s something about the way she ran from the kitchen in her place when she realized I’d caught her staring, and the way I could still see the blush in her cheeks when she’d seen me flagging her attention.
I go through the rest of the day trying not to think about her, working away and chatting with Pascal over the buzzing of my machine when he comes in to get some of the color filled in on the last tattoo I did for him. We talk about the upcoming show and plan a few extra rehearsals, and he asks if there are any updates on the story Yann brought to rehearsal—the story of the new tenant in Claude’s unit.
“I saw her last night, actually,” I say, carefully following the line work I’d inked into his skin last week. “She’s cute. Keep Yann away from her.”
Pascal carefully laughs, trying to keep the needle from moving astray on his skin. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you argue for some girl to be kept away from Yann,” Pascal points out. “Normally you’re telling Yann to stay away from girls for his own good.”
“Considering Claude’s told everyone who will listen about her, she’s going to be wading through guys in the next week,” I point out. “And her French isn’t great.”
“She’s an American, it doesn’t have to be,” Pascal says.
“She’s not bad, but you can tell that she doesn’t really speak French, you know?”
“Her French is probably better than your English,” Pascal suggests.
“True.” I laugh. “I don’t know if I could even put three sentences together.” I step back from the table he’s lounging on so I can examine my progress. I’m almost done.
“So, are you going to offer her a memento of her time in France? A little tattoo to take home?”
I smirk at the idea, but I have to admit, it’s not a bad one. It would give me an excuse to get to know the girl a little better.
Why do I want to get to know her better? I ask myself. It makes no sense. She’ll probably abandon her lease in three months or so, and even if she doesn’t, I made a commitment to myself not to get involved with any women for at least a year.
“I’ll probably just say ‘hi’ on occasion, or maybe invite her to have a glass over at Le Lido or something like that,” I say.
“You say that, but you’re going to start talking to her, and then you’ll be taking her to the Musée des Beaux-Arts, or offering to take her out of the city to go to Versailles or something,” Pascal tells me.
I shake my head. “Not interested,” I tell him. “I’m too busy with my own shit.”
“So, int
roduce her to me,” Pascal says with a grin.
“Dude, do you have a weird American fetish like Christophe?”
Pascal shrugs as I clean his freshly-inked skin with antiseptic and wrap the area. “I just think she’ll be interesting to talk to,” Pascal says. “I mean, don’t you?”
I shrug off his question. “I don’t even know if she’ll have enough ability to speak French to say anything worthwhile.”
“She’ll only get better if she practices. You should encourage her, since you’ve already introduced yourself,” Pascal points out.
“Nah, man,” I say. “She can get plenty of practice with guys on Tinder or wherever.”
Pascal raises an eyebrow at that, and I walk up to the cash register with him to charge him for the session.
“You don’t want Yann or Christophe to have anything to do with her, but you want her to meet random guys on Tinder?” Pascal shakes his head. “I think you’re afraid you’ll end up liking her.”
“Whatever, man,” I say. “She’s hot; I’m sure she’ll have plenty of people to talk to. If someone tries to go over the line with her, I’ll step in to help, just like I would with any woman. I’ll talk to her here and there, but that’s as far as it’ll ever go.”
Pascal laughs and shakes his head. “We’ll see how you do. I don’t think you’ll be able to help yourself, though.”
“That’s twenty for today,” I tell him, recording it in the computer.
Pascal takes out his wallet and gives me thirty. “Rehearsal the day after tomorrow? Does that work for you?”
I nod. “Message me with the time to meet everyone.” I grab Pascal’s hand, we shake and give each other a quick half-hug, same as always, and then he’s out of the shop and I’m back at my station, disinfecting it for the next client.
Maybe I’ll chat with the girl. It might be interesting to learn about what things are like in America from an actual American, instead of hearing about it in the news. Of course, I think, grinning to myself, that’s assuming she knows enough French to get the ideas across. I have to admit, her little errors and fumbles were cute; any guy interested in having sex with her is going to have a hard time explaining what he’s looking for. I snicker to myself, picturing the whole thing going down.
After a while, Christophe comes in, and as soon as Julienne tells him I’ve seen Claude’s new tenant, he’s practically on top of me, asking questions.
“She’s hot, right? How’s her French?”
I clench my jaw and work on tweaking a design for another client coming in after lunch.
“She’s able to form sentences,” I mutter. “But obviously, it’s going to be slow going with whoever she talks to for a while.”
“But she doesn’t need to know much to be able to say ‘yes’,” Christophe says with a leer.
“Think about it, man,” I point out. “If she doesn’t know how to ask for what she wants, how are you going to get her off?”
Christophe wiggles his eyebrows and grins even broader. “She can show me,” he suggests.
“You’ll have to brush up on your English,” I tell him. “She doesn’t speak very much French, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be comfortable saying ‘yes’ to someone when she can’t talk to them.”
“All she needs to know is ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘right there,’ and ‘harder’,” Christophe says with a laugh.
I shake my head at him, giving him a dismissive wave and go into the back for my lunch break while Christophe’s next customer comes in.
“I’m beginning to see why you don’t want Christophe anywhere near her,” Julienne remarks. “You know what? I’ll bet you five hundred euros that you’ll end up dating her,” she says, grinning.
I hold out my hand to shake on that bet and laugh. “You have yourself a deal, Boss. This will be the easiest five hundred euros I’ve ever made.”
Julienne smiles again. “If you say so, Jacques.”
Chapter SIX
Nora
I fumble with my keys and teeter a bit as I try to focus on the lock of the door to my building. I should have known better than to let another American—a friend I’d met on an expat forum for France named Jess—talk me into spending the night drinking. But after being in Rouen for almost a week, surrounded constantly by the French language, I’d been hungry for the sound of English-speaking voices—outside of Netflix.
“Tu as besoin d’aide, ma petite?” I blinked a few times and looked around. Do you need help, little one? Behind me stood a guy who was maybe half a foot taller than me, who I’d never seen before.
“Je ne suis pas la tienne,” I mutter, hoping that I’m at least getting that right. “Et...je n’ai pas besoin d’aide.” It takes me a moment to work through that one, remembering the way that you’re supposed to put the negation around the verb. I don’t belong to you, and I don’t need help. Technically, the last part was kind of untrue; but I am pretty determined not to take help from a random stranger standing outside my apartment building at midnight. I might be drunk, but I’m not that drunk.
“T’es sûr?” I blink again and find the right key on my ring. Are you sure?
“Oui, je suis sûre,” I reply. I’m sure.
I manage to get the key into the lock and turn my back on the guy, hoping that if I just ignore him, he’ll move along. In the past few days I’ve been in Rouen, I’ve noticed that catcalling doesn’t seem to be as frequent as it was back home, but people coming up to talk to you—whether it’s to ask you to sign a petition, or for a few euros, or to proposition you for a date—is way more common. I’m not sure why, but it’s still a little off-putting.
Before I can get the key turned, though, I feel something on my back, and the guy I’d just turned away is pressed up against me, turning me around to face him.
He murmurs something that I think he intends to be hot and sexy, but the fact that I don’t know any of the words beyond the odd “tu,” “toi,” and “faire” just makes me afraid. I struggle against him, trying to get my wobbly-drunk legs to work, and he’s pressing up against me harder, still whispering in my ear.
“Eh! Tu fais quoi, alors?” I recognize the voice a little bit but I don’t know from where. Hey, what are you doing? It’s a moment of relief—someone might actually have seen this guy ambush me.
“Laisse-nous tranquils,” the man still pressing me against the door calls back over my shoulder. Leave us alone. He followed that with something else I don’t understand. No, that isn’t at all what I want, and I don’t even care what the guy said after; I know I don’t want that, either.
“Non! Non, s’il vous plait, aidez-moi!” No, no, please help me! It’s a little startling how easily I remember how to say that, but I’m glad for it. I have no idea how to tell whoever is coming to my aid what’s going on in French, so I go into English out of sheer hope that the man will understand something of what I’m saying. “He just came up behind me and grabbed me! I don’t know who he is!”
“Elle ne te veut pas!” the second man blurts out, and I kind of want to laugh because I’m still a little drunk, and the flat tone of his voice, telling the guy who’d grabbed me that I don’t want him, is—in a way—funny. “Laisse-la tranquille.” Leave her alone.
“T’as un problème? C’est pas tes affaires, mec.” You got a problem? This is none of your business, man.
I finally get some control of my own legs and bring my knee up hard against the man’s groin. He shrieks loudly and pulls back, and I look to see who it is that came to my rescue.
I hear them arguing, and the darkness of the street makes it hard to see who came across me and my attacker, but whoever he is, he’s big; broad across the shoulders and tall. Just the kind of guy you’d want rescuing you. I hear the noises of a scuffle, and see the guy who attacked me tumble onto the ground before shouting some cuss words I barely recognize, stumbling to his feet, and walking off.
“You are okay? ‘E did not ‘urt you?” I blink as the big man who came to my a
id speaks to me, and I finally recognize him as he steps into the light.
It’s my neighbor from across the alley, Jacques.
“You speak English?” If I’d known that, I would have made more of an effort to talk to him before.
Jacques shakes his head, and raises a hand to tip it side to side. “Un petit peu, et pas trop bien,” he tells me. A little bit and not very well.
I nod my understanding.
“Je...je vais bien,” I say. “Il ne m’a pas blessée,” I add. I’m okay, he didn’t hurt me. I try to think a little harder. In some ways, it’s easier to dredge up the words I want, but in other ways, it’s more difficult. I can’t for the life of me remember all the grammar rules. “Il m’a fait peur.” He just scared me.
Jacques nods. “Tu veux que je t’aide?” I take a second to translate that, frowning, and he looks concerned. Do you want me to help you? “Tu veux que je t’aide à entrer dans ton appart sain et sauf?” I try not to frown as I work through the more complicated sentence. Do you want me to help you...get into your apartment...safe and sound? I think that’s what he asked, anyway. I look him up and down; he has, after all, just probably seriously hurt a guy who’d attacked me with intentions that I’m sure were pretty bad. Besides, I should be able to trust my next-door neighbor, at least a little, right?
“Oui, si tu veux,” I say. Yes, if you want to. Jacques takes the keys out of my hand and gets the door unlocked, stepping ahead of me to press the button to light up the hallway.
“Tu as passé une bonne nuit? Avant que tu l’as rencontré?” I take a few seconds to translate that: Did you have a good night? Before you met him?