by Dancer, Jack
Contents
Book Description
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Prelude
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
thirty-nine
forty
forty-one
forty-two
forty-three
forty-four
forty-five
forty-six
forty-seven
forty-eight
forty-nine
fifty
fifty-one
fifty-two
fifty-three
fifty-four
fifty-five
fifty-six
fifty-seven
fifty-eight
fifty-nine
sixty
sixty-one
sixty-two
sixty-three
sixty-four
sixty-five
sixty-six
sixty-seven
sixty-eight
sixty-nine
seventy
Eqilogue
Interview With Monica Reyes
Dear Reader
To My Readers
About The Author
Description
(Detour Paris: Complete Series is a compilation of the three books comprising the Detour Paris Series - Detour Paris, Detour Allure and Detour Amour.)
Tucker Blue, an advertising man and newly-minted mid-life bachelor is about to fly off on a European holiday to Barcelona with his flight attendant girlfriend when an unexpected love-at-first-sight encounter with the beguiling Monica Reyes lures him into a romantic rendezvous of every man’s fantasy. The plane overbooks leaving Tucker and Monica to find an alternate flight. They do, to London where they catch the Eurostar to Paris and beyond, enjoying an erotic escapade riding the rails across France and into the Pyrenees.
Just as Tucker is about the reach the Promised Land with Monica, a dead man bearing a gift of unimaginable wealth arrives unannounced, and the two lovers are unwittingly thrown into a world of untold danger.
Friends abruptly vanish; new ones appear and still others are unmasked as frauds and everything's getting dicey.
Dead men might tell no tales, but their associates do, and when Tucker begins investigating, truths about his powerful but anonymous adversary begin to unravel, enabling him to find high ground and a narrow chance to triumph over all odds. When he's dealt a second devastating blow from yet another anonymous opponent, Tucker Blue, from all appearances, is out for the count.
Not only has he lost the love of his life in the most horrific manner, but he also discovers he’s been the target of an elaborate con game all along. All the money in the world cannot save him now, and Monica’s life hangs in the balance.
When you take away all that a man has, leaving him with nothing more to lose, what remains is the most dangerous animal in the jungle, and right now that’s Tucker Blue, and he’s pissed.
Love and money got him into this mess, and it's love and money that'll get him out, but he must be willing to sacrifice either or both to rescue his princess and destroy his enemies, not just destroy them - annihilate them.
He needs an army.
So he recruits one, beginning with a single platoon of thirty, thumb-size Japanese Giant Hornets spraying flesh-melting poison.
It's a start.
The rest is a campaign that only a crazed advertising man like Tucker Blue could dream up, someone with nothing to lose other than the cojones to pull it off.
Step into the world of romance from a man's perspective and see what love is really all about.
(Inspired by an actual dating experience, Detour Paris is for mature audiences.)
Copyright © 2015 by Detours Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reversed engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the expressed written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at http://www.detourspublishing.com. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales or reality is entirely coincidental.
Registration #: TXu 1-969-962
ISBN 10: 0-9966573-7-1
ISBN 13: 978-0-9966573-7-2
DetoursPublishing.com
Acknowledgments
Cover Design:
W.S. Jones
Cover Photo:
Silent Gesture
Copyright © triocean
www.fotolia.com/id/76556215
Title Typography:
Paris
Copyright © Moshik Nadav
www.moshik.net
Prelude
Oh God, she's dead.
She must be.
She's lying right there in front of me, so close.
And her eyes. Black holes, empty.
Oh God, she's dead, she's dead; she's really dead.
What's this? Can't move. Nothing.
Not a twitch. Eyes dry, blink, can't. Can't move.
I'm trapped, inside of me.
Holy shit, I must be dead too!
one
At 7:15 PM, on Saturday, August 30th, I was kidnapped. It wasn't voluntary. I guess if it had been you couldn't call it a kidnapping. No, wasn't voluntary, at least not at first it wasn’t.
I was minding my own business when I came upon these two lush green pools, a green so rich and deep like I'd never seen before or, maybe they came upon me. Doesn't matter. Thing is, I fell in. Didn't mean to fall in; just did. Like I said, this wasn’t a voluntary thing, but once in, I stayed. Not only stayed, I swam around; splashed, did somersaults, played Marco Polo. I dove for the bottom several times, each time deeper, like a pearl diver, until I could no longer hold my breath. Never did find bottom, so I floated. Put on my Ray-Bans, laced my fingers behind my head and kicked bac
k and floated on those fathomless pools of liquid under the fiery rays of a crimson sun. My world had reduced to just two colors - green and red, the only colors that mattered. Green, red, green, red - a traffic light without caution because with a woman like this, there is no caution. It’s stop or go, your choice. Either you’re in or you're out.
Now I'm no neophyte when it comes to life and all the trials and tribulations. I've not only been around the block more than once; I've been kicked around the block, a couple of times. Been married more than once, raised children, more than one. Even created businesses. Destroyed ‘em too. You might say I've seen it all, and had you asked me even yesterday, if I believed in love at first sight I would’ve told you, of course, but those are miracles reserved for the young - those naive little creatures still virtuous and deserving of such wonders.
So, is it possible that someone like me - someone cynical, jaundiced and thoroughly jaded - could be so utterly mugged by that sneak thief, love? My pre-smitten self would've said, out of the question, a thoroughly ridiculous idea. But ask me now and I'll admit that as totally cliché, and stupidly impulsive as it no doubt is - yes, I am at this moment happily plummeting those verdant pools of promise.
I have been kidnapped and please do not post a ransom.
two
20:15 Hours, Saturday, 30 August.
JFK International Airport, New York.
We're introduced, and as my hand presses into hers I want to tell her to keep it as a small token of my. . .well, you get the idea.
“Look, she’s got him, stunned in her headlights,” Terry says and Ebba my flight attendant girlfriend launches her Aerosoles into my shin.
“Ouch! Sorry,” I say, reluctantly breaking my grip with those emerald greens holding me hostage and now stepping away, a mischievous smile playing over her face.
Coughing a grin into my fist I turn my undying attention toward the woman I signed up with on this trip.
We’re at gate E-08 waiting to board American Airlines flight AA-114 for Barcelona, Ebba and Terry are working the flight, Monica, (my now soon-to-be bride), and I riding their companion passes.
As Ebba and Terry split off for crew boarding, Terry giggling and explaining how her girlfriend has this effect on men, blah, blah, Ebba’s throwing daggers over her shoulder at me even though Monica's evacuated to the far end of the waiting area.
To allay her concerns I remain dutifully anchored in place blowing air kisses until she and her jealous insecurities disappear into the Jetway leaving me confounded with this dating dilemma about changing horses in midstream.
But surely love trumps all, right, I ask myself? Yes, even to the clouds. Wherever it tells you to go. Where'd I hear that? Oh yeah, Urinetown, the musical.
And if you don't believe me just ask the kryptonite peepers at the other end of the waiting area ready to suck my heart out like marrow from a bone.
***
“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to come over and talk to me, or just leave me here in doubt,” she says, lacing in a little pouty to shame me that I'd ignored her.
You'd think I’d know better. Beautiful women working men's egos like Play-dough. Am I immune? No. She’s got me and she knows it. Hell, I know it and she knows I know it. So for the next forty-five minutes, that fly by in five, we lose ourselves in each other’s company, sharing everything but spit, while, one by one, the paying passengers disappear into the maw of the Jetway until only six anxious, but ever-hopeful, standbys remain in the lottery for those last unfilled seats in business-class.
What did we talk about? You could've taken out my brain and pried open my memory banks and all you'd've found would've been empty accounts. We talk about everything and nothing I’m so lost in the Nitrox depths of those verdant pools of pleasure. Even when B-L-U-E rolled across the monitors clearing standbys, I still can’t extricate myself from her gravitational pull.
“Go, go,” she says, “I'll meet you on board, and if we're not seated together maybe we can persuade our neighbors to switch.”
So I go. Grudgingly.
“Congratulations, Mr. Blue,” welcomed words from a gate agent any other time, but with Monica's chances still in doubt they rang as hollow as a preacher’s promise.
“Thank you, Marci,” I say stealing a glance at her nametag. “Say, could you pull a few strings so the lady over there makes it aboard too?” (When you're flying the friendly skies on standby, it's right here, with the gate agents that the power lays. Trust me. This is bona fide insider knowledge. The gate agents own this velvet rope; so don't even think about crossin' 'em. Just be pleasant and show lots of appreciation.)
But all Marci gives up is a well-trained smile and with the last of my charm having been spent on Monica I didn’t push for fear Marci might not punch her ticket on purpose, knowing I’m riding Ebba’s companion pass. They do that, women, working the little things.
So here I am dragging my feet through the Jetway, mulling over the idea of jumping ship should Monica not make the cut and wondering how I’m going to accomplish that without placing my life in mortal danger with Ebba. Got to find a way out of this dilemma without spilling blood. Mine preferably.
As I’m grappling with the intricacies of how to pull this off, I come to the end of the Jetway where God Almighty himself, the infinite jokester, has placed one gorgeous prize at entry door number one. The same exquisite brunette that’d caught my eye earlier while in the company of two other flight attendants during crew boarding. No chance I’d forget this one, and even less after she'd thrown me a fetching smile. Now here she is again. Nanette, her nametag reads. Greeting me like this rendezvous had been planned all along.
“So glad to see you Mr. Blue. May I take your coat?” And like any bewitched man would, I hand it over like an offering to Aphrodite.
Retrieving a hanger from the small closet behind her, and, without diverting her milk chocolate eyes from mine, she shoves the garment into the overstuffed cupboard.
“Your coat will be right here when we land.”
I want to tell her to keep it as a gift but my voice deserts me, refusing to obey any commands that don’t come directly from her.
Then leaning in as close as a whisper, and with one slender finger, she turns my face like a puppet on a string. “Your seat is halfway down the second aisle,” she points.
“Yes,” and it’s all I can do to suppress the urge to add Madame and beg for twenty lashes.
“Would you like for me to bring you a drink? Single malt over rocks with a splash maybe?”
“Why that'd be . . . How'd you . . .”
“This is first-class, Mr. Blue. We're here to please,” her words licking me like opiate.
“And I have every expectation you will. Heck, I'm ready to fill out my customer satisfaction survey right now.”
She laughs and leaning into my ear whispers, “But you haven't even been serviced yet?”
Holy shit!
“Uh, right,” I stammer and stumble my way over to aisle two, thinking this is all to weird not to be some alternate reality. I mean come on. First, there’s Monica, who got me making wedding plans before I even know her name and five minutes later I’m intercepted by this Nanette creature that scares the hell out of me and got me considering Mormonism for the sake of bigamy.
To my new window-seat neighbor I offer up a smile and a nod hello and go about shoving my bags into the overhead before dropping my six-foot, one-eighty-pound load into a recliner big enough to stow away a family of small-boned Asians.
As I’m pondering how much I love flying first-class the beautiful Nanette leans into my intimate space purring, “Here, Tucker, this should help you relax while we’re underway,” and hands me an amber-laden crystal tumbler.
“How'd you know my name?”
“Why Ebba of course. We've all been anxiously awaiting for you to board.”
Anxiously?
“Oh. Well, thank you,” turning to face her and flinch that she's hovering onl
y a kiss away. And just as I’m about to give in, wouldn’t you know it; she draws back the tease, giving my arm a little squeeze.
“Gotta run sugar, but I'll catch you later, okay?”
Sugar?
In a swirl, she vanishes, her scent the only evidence remaining, and I inhale deeply and chase her with a draw on my Glenfiddich before surrendering to the glove leather surrounding me telling myself to forget the futility of understanding women though it’s an impossible temptation to resist. Just ask Adam.
Like a half-asleep child pushed along by his parents to bed, my mind slips between the crisp clean bed sheets of tranquility, and I think, if this is how death feels, what’s not to like?
My mind drifts and when approaching those familiar crossroads where serenity intersects with harmony, a paw clamps onto my shoulder and a maw assaults my ear with, “you’re off the plane, Tucker. Someone's shown up with a higher-priority pass, and they're taking your seat.”
“What?” I ask, knowing exactly what I heard the first time but needing to ask because it’s too stupid a thing not to.
“You’re bumped,” says Ebba.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I'm not. There are priority levels. You’re holding an S-2, but she's got an S-1, so you’re bumped,” and with every word the cabin pressure increases and we’re not even off the ground.
“So, bump someone else.”
“You're the lowest standby in business.”
“Wonderful. Now what am I supposed to do?”
“Catch an Air France to Paris and make a connection to Barcelona.”
“I can't believe this.”
“Just do it Tucker and please don't make a scene.”
“Fine,” and I’m up yanking my bags from the overhead.
Standing in the doorway with a sad smile across her pretty face is Nanette to send me off.
“Sorry about this, Tucker, but you can still make it. Go to the Air France desk and take their next flight to Paris. From there you can grab a connection to Barcelona. Do it and I'll see you in Barcelona.”