by Julie Adams
"No, Mom, I'm okay here. Really. This is just a little hiccup along the way, life's full of them." Was it insensitive to call a man's death a hiccup?
She doesn't say anything and neither do I.
Finally she speaks. "Alright, if you're okay, then I'm okay. I love you," I know it kills her to say she's fine. I can hear the plea for me to come home just behind it.
"I love you, too, Mom. And... thanks for everything."
"It's just what moms do. Call me soon,"
I feel tears prickle my eyes and fight hard to keep my voice even. "I will."
The call ends and I let a few tears escape. Even let myself imagine giving it all up and going home and being taken care of. Of having the comfort of my mom for a little while more.
After several minutes I pull myself and my big girl panties up. The panties are Agent Provocateur. In my mind anyway, there’s no way I can swing those with my bank account.
I tiptoe around the apartment. It’s still early and by Brent's log-sawing snores they are still sleeping.
Once in the bathroom, I take a scalding shower. Washing away the night before and the chill that won’t leave. Standing there hoping the water can somehow heal me.
In the process, I’m washing away the scent of my savior. Whatever he wore it was masculine, mysterious and expensive. And so delicious I want wrap up in it.
Dressed in jeans, a thick pale pink cable knit sweater and over the knee flat boots I feel confident and cute enough to face the day. This is my modern day Wonder Woman outfit.
My stomach grumbles, I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. Now that I’ve recognized that fact.
I have about thirty minutes to get something to eat before I turn into a cranky mess.
I wasn't going to clatter around the kitchen and wake the lovebirds. I’m craving something that far eclipses my expertise in cooking anyway.
Out to eat it is.
Today, Paris is shining in all her gorgeous feminine beauty. A city built by men who loved women, you can see it in nearly everything. A city made for lovers.
The sun is warm with only a few wispy clouds drifting around it. The wind is calm and it feels like spring for the first time since winter.
I walk more in Paris than I ever did back home. Which is good because I've been indulging in all the savory foods and sweets and have miraculously managed to still fit in my jeans. Okay, they're kind of snug.
I venture to a little cafe Beth introduced me to, she has been coming here since she was a child. And like all things in Beth’s life, it’s daydream gorgeous. Little green wrought iron cafe tables and folding wood chairs with cream cushions, line the outdoor eating area. It looks like it needs to be snapped and featured in a magazine.
Inside it's all pristine white subway tile set off by a black counter. And the smell of fresh baked bread and lattes are orgasmic.
I opt for the outside, in the sun it's warm enough to be comfortable. I order a big buttery croissant with quiche and a big mocha with foam. Because of all the walking, I feel zero guilt. That and I’m learning to live a little more and if that means five extra pounds, so be it.
Waiting for my food, I tip my head back to the sun, closing my eyes. It all feels so good, being in Paris, the sun, a new day. I actually moan with happiness. It’s just a little one, like when you take a bite of really good chocolate.
I open my eyes and the waiter stands there with my drink. He’s not remotely interested in my moans and his face shows it.
Embarrassed, I take my latte quickly and thank him. Maybe the steam will cover my mortification.
He walks away muttering something to the effect of "Crazy American girls," In French.
"That's why everyone thinks we're stuck up," a deep chuckling voice says from over my shoulder. I turn and he walks into view.
Erickson.
He's wearing a black cashmere sweater and camel colored slacks and polished black wing-tipped shoes. He makes quite the image. It's not just the outfit, though. It's him.
What I didn't realize last night is he's cologne ad handsome. Brown hair and dark hazel eyes, pouty lips set off by a nice square jaw. His neck is thick and his shoulders wide and muscular, the sweater making that even more evident as it tapers down his waist.
He's handsome but still looks like he's been in a few brawls. And he's probably won them all.
"How are you today?" He asks coming around and sitting in the chair across from me.
I'm a little taken back by his confidence but maybe that's how people do things in France after saving your life.
"I'm okay. Thank you again, for last night." That sounded slightly sexual.
"No problem. Any idea what happened?"
"Detectives think suicide,"
"Hmm," he purses those yummy lips and watches the traffic. "Dramatic way to do it." I nod and sip my drink.
"Are you waiting for someone?" He asks.
Should I lie? I don't know him. What if he's some human trafficker?
Stop. I scold myself, he saved you last night. There hadn't any real threat, but he didn't know that then.
And I'm sitting in a busy cafe, he can't whisk me off straight from my seat, right? Right.
"No," I say, ignoring how awkward my silence had been.
"Mind if I join you? Looks like you got here just in time, the other tables are filled."
I glance around, he's right. He didn't want me, he wanted a seat and table.
The waiter brings my breakfast and puts it down like he can't get away fast enough.
"Excuse me," Erickson calls and the waiter turns back. "I'll have a croque monsieur, side of fruit and a coffee with cream." He orders without needing a menu.
The waiter stares at him for a moment. Erickson raises a brow. The waiter's head snaps upright and his eyes bulge. "Right away, Monsieur." He practically runs inside.
Does he recognize him, too?
"The food is great. The service? Hit or miss."
"Do people always act like that with you?" I ask diving into my quiche.
"Like what?" His expression completely oblivious. How can he not realize?
"Like you're about to fire them," I reply, truly curious about this man.
"Ah," he says catching on. "I'm not sure."
"May I ask why? It would be nice to know whether or not I'm having breakfast with a Parisian crime lord," I joke.
He stares at me seriously. His eyes boring into mine.
Oh, shit. I really am having breakfast with a Parisian crime lord. Did I just break some unspoken rule by bringing it up? Am I going to end up with bricks around my legs in the Seine? Or do French gangsters do it different?
Just when I'm about to sputter apologies, he laughs. Big shoulder shaking laughs showing off his white teeth. No veneers here, they are slightly imperfect but in the most charming way.
"Kidding. I'm not a crime lord. Nothing that exciting, please don't have a panic attack on me, love."
I might be a bit more pissed off if it weren't for the way he says the word love. His tongue making it all soft and caressing. And now I’m wondering what else he can do with that tongue.
The waiter brings out his coffee and with it a French press and little pitcher of cream before scurrying off again.
"Good thing, because I'm FBI," I shoot back, just as serious.
"Can I see your badge?" He asks still smiling.
"Left it in my other sweater." I take a bite out of the croissant, it's all flaky and buttery, it practically melts in my mouth. Before I can stop, another moan slips from my lips.
He's watching me intently, his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to hide an amused grin.
"Be careful, you moan three times in front of a Frenchman and it's an invitation."
I nearly choke. Not what I was expecting. Then I laugh. Is he flirting with me? I so want him to be flirting with me. "I get special privileges when it comes to moans, being an FBI agent abroad,"
"I won't believe it until I see a badge or a gun. Or at the very least some handcuffs." Was that a purr when he said handcuffs?
"I don't show my credentials to just anyone. I don't even know your first name."
The waiter brings his food and it looks delicious. I might have to order that tomorrow.
"My first name is Nathan. I don't know yours," he nabs a bit of fruit with his fork.
"Lily." I wasn't about to give him my last name, the more people who know that the easier it would be to find me. No matter how hot he is, I have my defenses.
"Pleasure to meet you," he reaches across the table and shakes my hand. It's a good shake, not all limp like some men do when shaking with a woman.
I wonder what his hands would feel like gripping my hips. I shake my head clearing that image away. I haven’t had those thoughts much lately but with Nathan, they seem to be coming as easily as my food moans.
With everything that happened, it makes sense that I wouldn’t want to be intimate for a while. But it is also only inevitable that my libido would raise her head again at some point. I guess she found her muse. I'm sure he is many a woman's inspiration.
"Are you feeling okay?" Nathan asks.
Shit. "I'm fine," I say quickly taking a sip of my drink. Anything to avoid looking at him right now.
He nods. " What do you really do for work?"
"Right now I'm scouting bands for the theater. It'll be a concert hall as soon as renovations are through and Brent wants someone to draw in a crowd. Easier said than done, the concert scene is way more competitive than I had ever thought. And unfortunately, most of the competition wouldn’t make it on the bad auditions of reality T.V.”
"Yes, it’s a tough industry and the job you have can be frustrating," He narrows his eyes at me. "You've never done any kind of scouting before?" I shake my head no.
"It's all about who you know, whether it be a manager, producer, band, friend of a friend. To get started anyway." He advises.
"I'm learning that. You sound like you're speaking from experience,"
"Oddly enough, I'm in the business. I own a small record company and studio. I grew up surrounded by show business." He isn't bragging just talking.
"That's funny," I say not wanting to ask for tips or what bands he works with. And I definitely don't want to grovel for help. I'm sure he gets that a lot.
"You have my card, I would be happy to help you out." He smiles and it's like the devil offering me a deal in exchange for my soul. Or in this case my body, and it’s so, so, so willing to dive headfirst into that fire.
"Help? And what would I have to do for you?" I ask. He laughs at my skepticism. "I hardly know you, I've been trying to get a semi-decent band booked for weeks and no bite. Now you're here offering to help, I have to ask why,"
"Just trying to level my bad karma." I raise a brow. "If I were asking for those kind of favors, Lily, you'd know. I don't mince words and I'm not afraid of the word sex. Or fuck, for that matter."
I feel my cheeks warm. As well as other parts of me. "I wasn't implying just sex," I retort, "For all I know you could have been asking me to smuggle kilos taped to my body."
He laughs again. "I don't have to resort to seedy work for money and I don’t have to barter with women for sex." He looks at me as if that should be obvious. His hazel eyes the only tool he needs.
"That's good to know." I feel like this conversation has taken a turn on the tilt-a-whirl.
"You have my card, agent Scully. Do with it what you will. Just remember you're helping me with my karma and that's all."
"Wouldn't you say your karma's doing pretty good since you did break into a building to save me?"
"You didn't need saving, at least not right then. No karma points for me."
"If you say so,"
"I do." He checks his watch then opens his wallet and puts some bills down on the table. "I got to go. Call me." The way he says it is like a command. I shouldn't like it. But I do.
I need to break my dry spell before I turn into a walking hornball. A sex-zombie walking around grumbling “Dicks.”
Only after his figure disappears into a taxi do I realize he has paid for my breakfast. I sit back in my chair completely blown away. He is a real modern gentleman.
Four
Nathan
I’m going to be late. When was the last time I was late for a meeting? Never. I had never been late, not once. I'm the boss and I have a certain standard to live up to. I was taught that from a young age. But here I am praying to gods I don’t believe in that I make it on time. And it's all because of her.
I hadn't expected to run into her so soon, or maybe ever again. I had handed my card out last night hoping that maybe I could lend my legal team if they needed it. If she needed it. I was trying to make up for my past sins, I hadn't lied about that. I had actually been very truthful at breakfast.
It would have been hard to lie anyway, to keep any kind of story in line. She looked so damn beautiful sitting in that bright yellow sunshine. She was distracting to every part of my body and mind.
Not that she noticed. She didn't seem to realize how striking she is. It’s always the prettiest of women who are clueless about it.
In the broad light of day, I could see the faint raised scars on her flesh, they looked like scratches. I had to forcefully keep myself from asking how she got them. I had no right to know. I shouldn’t even be speaking to her.
She’s funnier than I expected. Quick with her wit. She hadn't been impressed by me or my job. She didn't trust my offer of a favor. She was a smart woman. Not naive, not someone who could be taken advantage of.
I had lied a bit, it wasn't all about karma. I did want to see her again and that was what I was aiming for when I offered my services. I hoped it would work.
The taxi pulls up in front of my office building. I’m still impressed with it, from the street it’s three stories of smooth stone making it blend in with the rest of the 16th arrondissement. In the back hidden behind a high stone garden wall and shrubbery is a modern office facade. You would never guess the wonders of music technology inside.
Entering the building I'm greeted by the sleek and streamlined interior, shades of gray and dark wood, recessed lighting adding a comfortable atmosphere. I walk by the front desk, giving a nod to Andy our receptionist. I like him, he doesn’t try to make small talk, he gives me a quick “hello” or head nod and that is that. If only more people were that way, instead of always scheming trying to get ahead. If they put that much effort into their jobs, they'd be executives by now.
I walk down the long narrow hall, passing the heavy black doors that lead to soundproof studio spaces. Pushing through the glass door I enter the back of the building where darkness gives way to light, the furniture is still dark wood and gray but there are glass windows from three sides allowing indirect light to illuminate the place. The cubicles and offices are glass-walled. My office has shutters between the panes to allow for privacy when big shot artists came in with their even bigger egos and paranoia that someone might snap a pic or leak a headline. We don’t seek out top bands but our little indie bands make hits.
Often, I close those blinds to block everyone else out. I do my best work that way, in my own solitude. I’m a man that likes his own company. I have to be.
On my heavy mahogany desk next to my computer is a hot cup of coffee from the boulangerie on the corner, as it is every day.
My assistant, Caroline, looks up from the files she’s just placed on my desk. She’s an attractive woman in her early fifties, with short black hair and a permanent smokey eye. She’s the kind of woman who gets shit done and has enough work and life experience to anticipate my needs. If I keep the business running, she keeps me running.
"Morning, Boss," She greets, her French accent made raspy by years of smoking clove cigarettes.
"Good morning." She’s one of the few people who get a smile from me, mostly
because she delivers my coffee each morning. I settle in my chair and glance at the files. "What's first up today?"
She pulls out her work cell and runs through the agenda. "Shadows of Sins is coming in to use the studio and they requested to speak with you at some point in the morning."
"I can find time. Make sure they're well taken care of and that the studio fridge is stocked with the essentials." She nods tapping it out on her screen.
Shadows of Sins is one of the biggest rock groups in the U.S. and I was hoping to expand into that territory soon, having them as a connection could really help that endeavor.
"Then you have some contracts that need to be signed and renewed. A meeting at 1:30 and another at 4:00."
"Okay." I flip open one of the files and blow out a breath. Legal contracts are the worst. I always like to give them a quick read after my lawyers, just to make sure of what I’m signing. Another business tip from my stepfather, read the fine print.
"I'll let you get to it," Caroline turns to leave.
"Wait," I say, she spins to look at me. "I may be receiving a call from someone named Lily-" I forget her last name, I replay the conversation. No, she didn't give it to me. "If anyone named Lily calls put her through to me immediately."
"Sure thing, boss." No questions. That’s why she’s the best and I’m pretty sure she’s more in charge of me than I am of her. I’d pay her whatever she asked to keep her here. Luckily she’s reasonable.
The contracts keep me busy until lunch. By that point, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to hear from Lily.
I sit back in my chair and stare at the phone. To hell with it, if she doesn't want to call me she doesn’t have to. I’m not going to take it personally and I sure as hell won't hold my breath like some asshat.
After lunch, I go directly into a meeting with one of our artist's teams about branding her new album. I'm not looking forward to it.