by Meg Ripley
I grin at the compliment. I still feel so strangely good, and it finally occurs to me that it’s the endorphins from the constant buzzing of the needle in my skin.
“Il y a des hommes—très forts—qui auraient besoin d'une pause.” There are guys, strong ones, who would need a break.
I can’t help but smile wider.
“C’est pas trop mal,” I say with a shrug. It’s not too bad.
“J’ai presque fini.”
Jacques tells me he’s almost done. I take a deep breath and he collects more ink onto the needle and starts again. This part is over my ribs more directly, so this definitely hurts a little more, but I’m able to hold still, and after a few moments, I’m back in the humming, hazy headspace that I drifted into before.
Jacques’ boss comes to look over his shoulder and nods approvingly. “C’est beau, ça,” she says. That’s beautiful.
“Merci,” I say, thanking her as I take a little measure of pride in the design I came up with. I remember that my payment for this work is going to be five designs for their wall, so I ask what she’d like for me to come up with. “Ah—qu’est-ce que vous voulez comme un design?”
“N’importe quoi,” the woman says with a shrug. “Comme tu veux.” It doesn’t matter. Whatever you want.
She glances at Jacques, and I wonder if he’s told her that we’ve been having sex.
“Peut-être que j’aurai ton paiement avant que j’obtiens le sien.” Maybe I’ll get your payment before I get his, she says. She drifts off after that, but I can’t help but wonder what she’s talking about. What does Jacques owe her for?
“Qu’est-ce qu’elle veut dire?”
Jacques shrugs off my question when I ask him what she means.
“Elle et moi, nous avons parié sur quelque chose,” he says. We made a bet on something. “Mais elle n’a pas encore gagné.”
“Ah, oui,” I say, once I make sense of the last part: that—at least, according to Jacques—his boss hasn’t won the bet between them yet. When I ask him what the bet was over, Jacques waves his hand, claiming it’s no big deal and proceeds to wipe the area again, inspecting the outline of my tattoo.
“Un petit peu de plus,” he tells me. Just a little more.
I’ve almost forgotten the whole thing by the time he finishes and brings me a mirror to inspect his work. The skin along my ribs is reddened, and I can see the shiny fluid beading along the clear, black lines, but it’s all there: the simplified flower bouquet that Jacques and I designed together. And it looks amazing.
“Tu l’aimes?”
“Oui!” When he asks if I like it, I answer almost without thinking: I’m in love with the ink he’s drilled into my skin. Of course, for Jacques, it’s probably just another piece, but to me, it’s so much more: a reminder of what I want to be, that I can get past what Ethan did to me and learn to trust again. “C’est marveilleux,” I add. It’s marvelous.
“Je suis content que tu l’aimes, alors,” Jacques says, sitting back and putting his mirror away. “On doit le laisser soigner pendant une semaine, et puis nous pouvons ajouter de la couleur.” I translate mentally: he’s glad that I like the tattoo, and after letting it heal for a week, we can work on the color.
“Ah, bon—j’apporterais les dessins pour le mur,” I say, telling him I’ll bring the designs for the wall next time.
Jacques takes some kind of goop out of a container on his station and begins smearing it over my new tattoo; the skin is so sensitive, it makes me shiver to feel his slick-sticky fingers against me, and I feel myself getting turned on all over again.
“Eh! Jacques!” Someone comes into the shop calling out for the guy I can’t really call my boyfriend—we’re technically just friends with benefits, but with each day that we spend together, I feel like we’re starting to outgrow that label in some way. He sees me and raises an eyebrow. “Tu es l’Américaine?” You’re the American girl?
I look at Jacques. Has he been talking about me to his friends? “C’est qui?” Who’s this? I ask him.
Jacques looks a little embarrassed. “Un copain,” he says. A buddy.
I ask Jacques if he’s told this guy about me, and I’m not even sure if I’m using the right words, but I’m startled to be asked if I’m “the American girl.”
“Oui, un peu,” Jacques tells me. “Pas trop,” he adds, giving me a quick grin as he tells me a little, but not too much. He turns to his friend and introduces us, “Yann, je te présente Nora. Nora, ici mon ami Yann.” I hold out my hand and Yann shakes it, before pulling me just a bit closer and kissing me on the cheek.
He tells me he’s pleased to meet me, and then makes a remark about getting new ink, and I gesture to the tattoo that Jacques just finished. “Oui, c’est trop bon,” Yann says, telling me it’s really good, but I notice him looking a little more at the exposed part of my bra than the tattoo itself.
“Elle l’a conçue elle-même,” Jacques says. “Et aussi elle va concevoir deux pièces pour le mur.” Yann nods approvingly, and I smile. She designed it herself, and she’s going to be drawing five pieces for the wall, too.
“Tu vas aller au concert demain?” I frown in confusion at that as Jacques covers up my tattoo with a thin, plastic wrap and tapes it down.
“Le concert?” I look from Yann to Jacques. The concert?
“Notre groupe va jouer dans un bar demain,” he says. After a moment, I work out what he’s saying, and I’m a bit surprised. Our band is going to play at a bar tomorrow.
I knew that Jacques played guitar, but he hadn’t mentioned being in a band. “Tu es dans une—pardon, un—groupe?” You’re in a band?
“Les Quatres Pistoles,” Yann tells me.
The Four Pistols. It’s not necessarily the most original band name I’ve ever heard, but it could be worse. “Il y a deux autres dans le groupe?” Are there two others in the group?
“Deux de nos amis, Pascal et Sam,” Jacques replies. Two of our friends, Pascal and Sam. I’ve heard him mention these two before, but it seems strange that he wouldn’t have mentioned that he’s in a band with his friends, much less that they’re playing a show tomorrow night.
I don’t know why it would bother Jacques for me to go to the show, but obviously, he must have had a reason for not bringing it up. Regardless, I tell him I’d love to see them play tomorrow.
“D’accord,” Jacques says in agreement. Okay.
He pencils me in for another appointment next week. The tingling in my side, along my ribs, has deepened into a stinging itch, but I still feel the lingering warmth of the endorphins in my system. I kind of want to ask Jacques if he can take a break; my apartment isn’t that far from the tattoo shop.
“Tu veux aller prendre un verre?” Do you want to go get a drink? Jacques asks and then glances sideways at Yann.
It’s almost like he’s reading my mind. If I had it my way, we’d be going back to my place instead of to a brasserie, but spending time with Jacques is always fun, no matter what we do.
I nod in agreement. “Oui.”
“Je vous laisserai être seul,” Yann says, giving both of us a look and a grin as he says he’ll leave us alone, and tells Jacques he’ll see him tonight at practice.
“Oui,” Jacques agrees. I almost feel disappointed that he’ll be busy tonight, but I tell myself that I wasn’t supposed to get into any kind of relationships in the next several months, anyway. I’m supposed to be living the single life, getting over Ethan.
Yann leans in and kisses me on either cheek, and Jacques calls out to Julienne that he’ll be back in an hour.
He takes me to a little brasserie-tabac about a block away and orders us each a glass of wine, and I do my best not to move around too much and loosen the plastic wrap taped to my side underneath my blouse. I want to ask Jacques why he didn’t mention the show, or even his band, for that matter, but wonder if it would just complicate things, making it seem like I’m trying to hold him accountable for something I should really only expect from
a boyfriend? I’ve only been in the country for a few weeks; I shouldn’t be developing any kind of serious feelings towards anyone.
Instead, we talk about what I’ve been up to, and Jacques laughingly points out that I’m becoming more and more French by the day: I don’t pause as much when I speak, and sometimes I don’t seem to be thinking about what I say at all.
“C’est beaucoup mieux comme ça,” he says. “Si tu fait des erreurs, il ne faut pas t’inquiéter aux eux.”
I have to admit that, just as he said, I speak better when I don’t worry about making mistakes. For the most part, even when I’m not sure that what I’m saying is correct, most of the people I speak to don’t seem to mind much; they seem to be able to understand the gist of what I’m saying. Of course, a good half of them that I run into seem to ask if I need someone who speaks English, looking a little worried that that might be the case.
But I’m getting better, if only by virtue of having to practice constantly.
Chapter ELEVEN
Jacques
Two weeks after the show, I’m headed upstairs to Nora’s place, unannounced, to check on the color work we did the week before.
She’d mentioned wanting to try a few kinds of the cheeses and cured sausages that I’ve been talking about, so I have a bag of some for her to sample and a bottle of the lotion I recommend for healing tattoos. I hope that Nora’s alone in her apartment. That would certainly show me if it turns out she has friends over, I think as I get to her floor. It’s possible that she won’t even be home at all.
I knock on her door anyway, looking around. Normally, I’d have to ring her bell at the ground floor, but one of the other building tenants had just gone in before me, leaving the door unlocked.
“Coming!”
I smile to myself, thinking that at least Nora’s home. There’s one issue resolved. I wait patiently and then I hear her approaching the door. I hear the locks turn over, and then, there she is, dressed in a cropped shirt that barely covers her bra, leaving her new tattoo open to the air. It’s just a bit shiny from the other salve I gave her for healing it.
“I came by to check on your tattoo, but I thought I’d bring you a surprise, too,” I say, holding up the bag. “And here,” I add, showing her the lotion. “The salve is too heavy at this point in the healing process, so you should switch to this.”
“Oh, thank you,” Nora says. “Please, come in.”
After about a month in the city, surrounded by French speakers, she’s much less hesitant, and I’m happy to see it. She told me after the show that she’d had an idea: if she started reading books in French—and listening to the audio versions at the same time—she’d improve faster, and that seems to be the case.
I take off my shoes at the door and hand her the bag; Nora peeks into it and smiles as soon as she realizes what’s inside.
“Oh my God, cheese and sausage—I’m going to reek later, but I’m really happy right now,” she says, and I laugh. “I have some olives and a fresh baguette that would go really well with this,” she adds.
“Perfect,” I say. “Any wine?”
Nora looks at me with one eyebrow raised, as if asking who I think she is. “Of course, there’s wine,” she says.
Between the two of us, we put together a kind of picnic lunch and I follow Nora into the living room. She’s carrying a big tray with the cheeses, meats, bread and a bowl of olives on it, while I carry a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and a couple of glasses, along with a bottle opener. I think that if it weren’t for the need to check on her tattoo, Julienne would almost tell me that I was having an actual date with the girl; but it’s strictly business, as far as I’m concerned, even if it’s particularly pleasant business.
She turns on some music and I start to describe the cheeses and the sausages to her, while pouring the wine. “This one is a specialty of this area, and you can get it at the market any day of the week,” I say, pointing to the Neufchâtel. “This, Mimolette, is one of my favorites—especially the aged. Époisses is also really good. I got the hazelnut dried sausage and the dried mushroom sausage, along with the plain, so you can compare.”
Nora starts sampling the cheeses on thick slices of baguette, and I help myself to a few pieces of sausage and a sip of wine before I examine her tattoo. It’s healing nicely, and I tell her she’s doing an awesome job of keeping it moist the way it should be.
“I’ve noticed that there’s nothing that will make me want to take a long bath like being told I can’t,” Nora says, grinning wryly.
I laugh and convince her to try a bit of the cured sausage with hazelnuts.
“In about another week, it should be okay,” I tell her. “Maybe you could come over my place and we can take a bath together.”
Nora blushes slightly at that, but I can see the interest in her eyes. She definitely likes the idea.
“Maybe,” she says coyly. “I meant to ask you something. Who was that girl at the show the other night?”
I want to groan, but I know better.
The concert went off almost completely without a hitch. Nora bought our latest album on vinyl to take home, along with a tee shirt, but Hélène had been there, and even though she’d been focused on Pascal at the beginning of the evening, she’d noticed that I was paying attention to Nora, and started a bit of an argument over it.
“She’s just a fan,” I say. “She’s a little…” I twirl my finger in circles next to my head, wrinkling my nose.
“That’s not very nice to say about someone,” Nora says, giving him a playful slap on his arm. I offer her a chunk of the dried sausage with mushrooms, and she chews it meditatively.
“I hate to say it, but in her case, it’s true,” I say firmly. “She’s not a bad person, I think, but she’s obsessed with the band, and sometimes gets a little out of control.”
“I see,” Nora says, looking doubtful.
“Why do you ask?”
Nora shrugs and helps herself to a piece of baguette with a thick layer of Neufchâtel spread on it.
“I saw her at the Monoprix the other day,” Nora says. “She asked how well I know you.”
“The fact that you can speak to strangers comfortably is a good thing, at least,” I point out.
Nora bobs her head from side to side, pressing her lips together as she considers that aspect.
“She doesn’t like me,” she says after a moment.
“You didn’t think that all Rouen people would like you, did you?”
Nora shakes her head, “No, of course not. You can’t please everyone. But it’s weird; it seems like she has some specific reason to not like me, and I don’t know what it is.”
“She’s a little crazy,” I remind Nora. “She could have decided that you’re a threat to her or something. I’d just avoid her, if I were you. She’s a drama magnet.”
“It may be a good idea,” Nora says, taking a spoonful of the Époisses and smearing it across another slice of baguette. She chews it slowly, savoring it before mentioning how it would pair well with a glass of Sauternes. She holds the bread to my mouth so I can have a taste, but instead, I take it from her hand and place it on the tray, grasping both of her hands to pull her in close.
“You know what else is a good idea?” I ask, coaxing the hem of Nora’s shirt up, carefully avoiding the still-sensitive and healing skin along her ribs as I start to strip off her clothes. I cup her tits in my hands—I can’t get enough of them—and tease her nipples into firm little nubs, rolling and twisting them between my fingers.
I’m already hard by the time Nora reaches down and starts to rub me through my pants, her hands eager against my crotch. She opens my fly and reaches in, and as soon as her hand wraps around my erection, I’m moaning against her lips, reaching up between her legs to return the favor. I stroke and rub her carefully, finding her clit with my fingertips and swirling them over the little bead of nerves. Nora moans, gripping me tighter as we touch each other at the same time.
I kis
s her lips, her throat, down to her breasts, and murmur in her ear how much I want her, how hot and wet she feels, as she gets more and more turned on. I bring my mouth down to her tits and find her nipple with my lips, sucking and licking it enough to make her writhe on top of me, her hand moving on my dick a little faster. We keep going at it for what feels like an hour, teasing each other. I get Nora right up to the edge of climax again and again until she’s panting and gasping, almost ready to beg me to finish her off.
When I can’t take it anymore, I wriggle out of my jeans and settle her on top of me. We were both taking a risk when we first had sex—we probably should have used a condom—but since then, I’ve found out that Nora’s on birth control and clean, and my test results all came back negative as well.
She sinks onto me slowly and it’s almost more than I can stand, feeling her tight, wet heat wrapped around my cock. I let her take me at her own pace, turning my attention onto her full, heavy tits, sucking and licking as much of them as I can take into my mouth, carefully tugging at the nipples until she gasps and shudders.
Finally, when she’s fully settled on top of me, we start moving together, slowly at first. I thrust up into her as Nora pushes herself down onto me, and I’m pressing deeper and deeper inside of her, touching her everywhere, only barely remembering to avoid her new tattoo.
I grab her hips and start moving faster inside of her, rocking my hips up into hers. Nora kisses and nibbles and licks my throat, my shoulders, then down to my chest.
Being with her is not like any other experience I’ve ever had with a French girl. I can sort of see what Christophe meant about American girls, if the rest of them are anything like Nora. She’s so hot, so passionate, that I can barely keep my hands off her every time we’re alone together.
We hit a steady rhythm and I start moving faster, while Nora matches my pace, rising and falling on me, taking me deeper and deeper. I reach up between our bodies and find her clit with my fingertips again, right above where I have her speared, and begin rubbing and stroking her in time to my thrusts, making her cry out in pleasure. I hold back for as long as I can, slowing down just enough to avoid my peak while I feel the tension mounting in Nora’s body. I can feel her muscles tightening around me in little spasms more and more often as she gets closer to orgasm.