“Nothing,” I say without thinking. And maybe that’s part of an answer, too, but it’s not entirely true.
A tight expression pulls at his face, a thin mask of control. For some twisted reason, it makes me want him more. This is all so unlike Hudson. He’s never one to care. He’s a cold, heartless asshole, always ready to push someone out of his bed to make room for another without apology. He takes without thinking of the consequences. They never hold to a man like Hudson, anyway.
He curls his fingers over my wrist and tugs hard. The air is suddenly too heavy to breathe and gets stuck in my throat. His perfect face is close to mine, his dark eyes pulling me in until I’m drowning, dizzy with anticipation.
“You don’t have to prove—”
His lips crash over mine, as if kissing me will convince me more than his pointless words can. I won’t believe him. A girl is the biggest idiot in the world if she believes Hudson. That much I know is true.
“Stop pretending,” I say, pushing him away to catch my breath. I smile against his mouth as his body changes, melting into the Hudson I do know. My body remembers this touch well. For all our history, good and bad, I’ve never been able to erase it. He branded me, as first loves often do. If you could consider what we shared love.
“Am I a bad liar?” He kisses my neck, then switches to the other side, nibbling my skin with his teeth and then swiping the pain away with his tongue.
“The worst kind,” I whisper. I arch under his caress, his fingers running down my side to grip my waist.
One hand continues lower, and he strokes my inner thigh, creeping higher until he’s underneath my sequined shorts. “Are you going to forgive me, Ev?” When I don’t answer, he pushes his palm against me. “I’m about to be very bad.”
I rock against his hand, lost to the way my body wakes up, full of heat and awareness. It feels like I’m alive again, that girl in the sun. Not the one who’s been mindlessly waiting tables in Paris to survive.
I shove my hands into his chest until he falls back against the couch. I loosen his tie the rest of the way and shake my head at his arched brow. I toss it to the floor. I don’t want to play that game today.
He doesn’t say anything, only watches me, a satisfied smile spreading across his lips. I unbutton his shirt, then lean down and kiss his chest. I trail my fingers lower until my hand cups him through his pants. His stare is burning me.
As fast as everything started, I break it off and stand. I strip off my silky halter and pad over to my bedroom, unzipping my shorts and letting them glide down my legs. I glance over my shoulder in time to catch him stalking closer.
This time, I want to be caught. I want him to consume me and make me forget. I want to be burned in the fire because there’s nothing left of me, anyway.
He hooks his finger beneath my lacy boy shorts and tugs down so they slip past my hip. I let my arms go slack, fighting the urge to throw them around his neck when he pulls again, and my panties pool around my feet.
“I’m going to ask one more time,” he growls, licking my lower lip. He runs his index finger down the side of my face, the line of my neck, before his fingers rest at the base of my throat over my pulse. My skin is raw, throbbing from his bite marks. “Why are you in Paris?”
I give in and wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my naked body against his suit. I want to feel things again, good things. “I want to pretend, too.”
Hudson grabs my waist and lifts me up into the air, shoving me hard against the doorjamb. I slide down until my waist lines up with his, and my legs wrap around him, unrelenting.
I want fire. I want to face the lion and not have him destroy me, to find out if such a fate is even possible. An heiress can’t hide forever, but I’m going to try.
“Maybe I can change your mind,” he hisses into my ear. He skips the bed and sets me on my rickety dresser instead, swatting away the collected party cups.
“You can try, Hudson.”
One hand paws at my breast, his other squeezes my hip until his grip is painful enough to leave a bruise.
He might too. A mark deeper than just a superficial imprint. But I’m waiting for more to happen beyond me sticking to a crappy piece of furniture. I’m waiting for my heart to race, for my skin to warm, for my body to tingle.
But all I feel is the pleasant ache of someone getting me off and more of the same detachment I suffer through every day.
And then I think of strong fingers linked with mine, the smell of lemon and cloves, the gentle touch upon my skin as if I’m breakable, and my heart answers, its pulse racing. I close my eyes and toss my head back, pushing everything away until there’s only me and the stranger on my rooftop, alone in the dark during a spring night in Paris.
Everly
The back of the limo is very nice. So nice I decide it’ll be a wasted opportunity if I don’t sprawl across the backseat and stick my feet out of the window. The cool wind licks my sore soles, the passing cars beeping as if I’m offending them. I smile up at the ceiling, ignoring the whimpering girl with Hudson in the opposite seat. It looks like they’re eating each other’s tonsils, so good for them.
The partition lowers, and the driver asks for me keep my feet inside. I wave him off, but he reminds me that I’m a few minutes away from the café. I bite back my protests and curl my feet inside like a good girl.
It’s a struggle for Hudson to peel away from the brunette, their lips fused together like tongues on a flagpole in winter. He’s wearing a sloppy smirk and a lovely red lipstick ring around his mouth. “I had fun tonight, Ev.”
I know he had fun last night. I’m still sore, but having sex in a tiny club stall can do that to a girl. The important thing is I’m not sure I had fun, and that’s really starting to piss me off.
I lower my window again and wave my hand at the obvious. “It’s morning, Hudson.”
I tumble to the floor when we make a hard turn. Balance isn’t a forte of mine after a night at a rave. Or had I been out longer? I’m staring at the red soles of my stilettos as we jolt to a stop. I try to count the hours or days on my fingers. I think I’m forgetting something.
“Come back with us,” Hudson says, reaching out to run his hand over my hair.
I swat him away, knitting my eyebrows together. Shit, I don’t even know what day it is. “What’s today?”
Hudson doesn’t answer. He’s devouring the cheap brunette again.
I scramble out of the limo in an ungraceful warrior pose, the sidewalk rough on my bare feet as my lunge slips and I land flat on my ass. Around me, people are adulting—going to work because they’re responsible, having important conversations on their phones with coffees and newspapers in their hands because they have meaningful things to say and places to go.
Hudson shouts something, but the limo speeds off before my mind can catch up and make sense of his words. I hop around, trying to slip on my heels without my short dress riding up any higher. Important people probably don’t appreciate an intimate view of my thong this early in the morning.
I open my clutch and dig around until I find my lipstick, feeling somewhat better after swiping it on my lips. I finger-comb my hair as I tipsily rush down the alley and into the back entrance of the kitchen of the café.
“You’re late.” My boss, Nadine, snaps at me in French. She stands in the doorway, her arms crossed. “And you can’t serve dressed like that.”
I look down at what I’m wearing. It’s a little short, but it’s Gucci. Who wouldn’t want their coffee served by a waitress wearing a gold-sequined Gucci? I shrug, walking over to the deep metal sink for a glass of water. Once it’s sitting in my stomach, I feel a little more presentable, but it could still go either way. My liquid diet might make its public arrival soon.
I pull my uniform out of my locker and hold it up for Nadine, doing my best model wave like I’m one of the girls on The Price is Right. “I’ll work later to make up for being late. Sorry.”
She shoos me away from acros
s the room, but the disappointment in her eyes hits me like a slap. I need this job. It was hard to find one considering I’m an American with no job history. I’m getting paid under the table to avoid figuring out a work visa and all that bureaucratic red tape. I couldn’t find anyone else willing to take part in an arrangement like this one. Only thing that saved me was my flawless French and the crush of tourists during spring in Paris. The street cafés are packed, and Nadine was desperate for help.
I drink another glass of water and grab a stale croissant, stuffing it in my apron pocket to eat between table orders. I hurry out into the crowded café and stop dead in my tracks.
Some people believe in fate. Others, in chance.
I always like to believe in the possibility of chance. It seems more powerful. At least with chance, I can chose the risk. The consequences are easier to stomach when they go wrong.
But sometimes life can be a cruel bitch and throw fate in your face, and it’ll always have the upper hand. Because, a lot like life, fate is going to happen one way or another. I can try to ignore it, but there’s no ignoring him. I just thought there were enough cafés in Paris that I wouldn’t have to see Beckett standing in mine.
He’s in my café, looking ridiculously hot, flirting with Nadine.
I was so preoccupied the other night by his touch and his voice that I never noticed the rest of him. I mean, I was draped over this guy’s body for fifteen minutes, and somehow I forgot the rest of him. But now? Well, now, I remember and soak him in—all the details. Even if I’m furious. And I am. I’m tempted to throw an espresso at his face, but he’d probably take his shirt off and ask if I needed a hug. Stupid, frustrating saint.
He’s tan like Hudson, but in a different way, a rugged way. The scruff on his jaw matches the ashy brown hair on his head, the epitome of bedhead. I’m not sure he cares enough to brush it. He acts like he doesn’t. Where my eyes are dark blue, his are light—brilliant like the water off the Amalfi Coast.
He’s smiling at Nadine, and by some miracle she’s laughing. She never laughs. Her blunt black bob isn’t the only thing dark about her. The hard line of her hair is such a perfect choice that I sometimes wonder if I’m missing my chance to tell the world who I am by a haircut.
My blonde hair is long and wavy, uncomplicated. The total wrong message.
With a deep breath, I storm up to the barista bar and drop my tray onto the counter, espressos and lattés sloshing over their brims. “What are you doing here?”
If he’s surprised, Beckett doesn’t show it. Nadine’s green eyes are wide and unblinking, her mouth puckered as if she’s seconds away from screaming at me that I’m fired in the most French way possible.
“It’s a good thing you don’t rely on tips to pay rent,” he answers in English.
Beckett might be able to pull off that charming shit with other girls, the ones who swoon over a British accent. I’m not one of them. No Cumberbitching for me, thanks.
He looks me over, darting his tongue to the corner of his lips. That’s a move for Hudson, not Beckett. The fact that I notice the difference bothers me. I shouldn’t care.
“Are you following me?” The moment the words pass my lips I want to die, even if it’s a justified question. People do follow me. I’m not paranoid. I used to have fan mail in Manhattan. Photographers love me, too—almost as much as the paparazzi.
His smile builds before he turns and it washes away.
“Well?” I ask.
I don’t care if I sound like a bitch, I’ve had enough of being chased for a photograph. I’ve been stuck in front of a camera since I was twelve. When I became a hot mess of a teenager at prep school, the attention became less about my charity work and wardrobe and more about my sobriety and sex life. People love to watch pretty young things derail, and I’ve delivered in spades. At least in that way, I’ve made something of myself.
“I live upstairs.” Beckett rolls his back against the bar so he faces me, resting on his elbows. His light blue eyes are crinkled—he’s amused by me. For a moment I’m sorry I never kissed him the other night. Only for a moment.
I’ve had a lot of men undress me with their eyes before, but I don’t think I’ve ever stood before a stranger and had him watch me as closely as Beckett does now. It’s as though he can see into me, understand what makes me tick. The thought is terrifying, but I don’t break his stare. If he wants to look, then he can. If he wants to judge, then let him. Everyone else does.
Nadine glances between us. “Do the two of you—”
“No,” I rush out.
“Yes,” Beckett says over me. He laughs at my denial. “Guess I didn’t make much of an impression.”
I keep my mouth shut because no good can come out of what I want to say.
“Back to work, Everly.” Nadine points to me, then to a crowded table in the corner.
“No, it’s okay.” Beckett waves Nadine off. He doesn’t stop staring, and it makes me want to throw up. “But maybe you should have one.” He lifts a dripping espresso cup from my tray and shoves it toward me. “Seeing that you’re drunk at work and all.”
I’m better than pleading innocence when I have a marker X on my hand, smell like I’ve bathed booze, and have eye makeup smudged over my face from last night. Or two days ago. Still a little fuzzy on that.
I want to yell at him for the other night. For the fact that I can’t get him out of my mind, even as he challenges me now. I want to shout at him for presuming so much about my life when he knows nothing. I try, but nothing comes out.
I grab the espresso out of his hand and chug the lukewarm liquid until the small cup is empty. I slam it down on the tray and meet his dumb, you-don’t-fool-me stare. He doesn’t say any more and I don’t want to risk Nadine firing me, so I grab the tray and retreat back into the kitchen.
For the rest of my shift, Beckett is at the bar, flirting with Nadine, and I dream of fleeing Paris, pretending I never met him.
Beckett
My day turned a bit more interesting with a pair of hot pink lips.
I haven’t been hoping to see her again, but I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit to thinking about her this past week. I’m still finding glitter all over my flat. That’s reminder enough—of how close I was to her lips, of her body pressed against mine, of those sad eyes.
She’s a nice distraction from Nadine falling all over herself for me on the other side of the bar—although I’m not going to stop her, either. We have a nice arrangement.
When I’m in Paris, Nadine’s in my bed. Except this time, I’m not in Paris for a weekend. I’m here indefinitely. I’m not looking forward to having a talk with her soon to explain that, just because I’m here, it doesn’t mean she can move in with me. I don’t want a girlfriend. I don’t want an attachment. I don’t want to be fucking stuck here or in London at a desk, chasing after deadlines on a stupid municipal beat.
I don’t want to do much of anything except hole up in my flat and write. Nothing really makes sense but words to me lately. Words will help me handle the rest until it’s not a problem any longer. I don’t need to deal with shit because it’s all going to be fixed. Writing will fix it. Learning how to relax and enjoy myself in Paris will help it all.
And if Nadine wants in my bed every now and then, it’ll help, too, and I won’t complain.
There’s still this stabbing pang of curiosity, though, that I can’t beat back. I keep dunking my over-steeped teabag in the mug, trying to submerge the image of Everly waiting tables in a pair of expensive heels. And those damn hot pink lips.
I try, but I can’t.
“Where is she?”
Nadine looks up from the café’s budget, a chewed pencil in her hand. “Who?”
I keep my eyes fixed on my tea. “Everly.”
I’ve done a right good job of ratcheting up the tension between the two of us with that question. I haven’t invited Nadine over for a few nights, and now I’m asking after her employee.
The pencil
tip snaps and shoots across the bar at me. “I should fire her. For today.”
I nod and stare at my phone. I don’t care, right? My foot bangs against the bar in a steady rhythm of booted thuds until Nadine whacks her hand down on the counter.
“Stop.”
I flinch at the noise, taken by surprise.
I returned to Paris where everyone is normal. They live their lives untouched by what I’ve seen. Like my reality is nothing significant. Like I’m trapped in a replay of their worst nightmare. They wake up a little shaken, but still whole. They move on, and I’m stuck.
My world shatters, my heart breaks, and someone pushes through the café door to order a medium coffee, black. They do something so fucking simple, so fucking ordinary, but the possibility of it is colossal to me. To be able to live my life again as though I haven’t written about others losing theirs.
Shit.
She’s right, I should stop. I’ve spent too much time down here, leading Nadine on when I should be writing. And I spent more than half the day watching Everly, trying to make sense of that complicated mystery.
There’s more to her than the sad girl from the party and certainly more than the irresponsible employee from today. She doesn’t make sense, and I need to figure out why. I blame it on my journalistic instinct. I have questions, she has the answers, and I want them all until I know the end of her.
I know she is a horrible idea for me, but I want her anyway because I’m selfish and she’s beautiful. If she’s a beautiful liar, then I’ll find her truths. That’s how I make my living. I can find them without getting in too deep. Without caving in to my want. Without ever kissing her.
When I walk outside, Everly is sitting on the stairs to my place in the alley behind the café. Her head is tucked tight against her knees, a cigarette in her hand.
“Now what?” she sighs as I freeze up, standing before her like a scared little boy. Again.
“My flat. I can’t get by.” I curl my fingers over the railing, staring down at her long legs and that tiny gold dress.
Everly After Page 3