Authors: Nicole Williams
“Where to?” he asked, not sounding like he cared one bit, before slamming the accelerator down.
My back slammed against the bench seat and I’m pretty sure I felt my brains crash against my skull from the sudden momentum. “The airport.”
“Of course,” he said, “the favored escape for cowards everywhere.”
I glared through the windshield while my body bounced to the beat of the potholes that lined the Hayward’s driveway, trying not to think about everything I was leaving behind.
It didn’t work.
“Could you please turn that off?” I asked, not masking my voice.
“This is my favorite song,” Patrick replied, sounding happy with himself. “You got something against a little classic rock and roll?” I refused to look at him, but I could tell from his tone his eyes were pulled tight, as was his smile.
“Fine,” I said, slamming my index finger against the on/off switch of the Bronco’s CD player. “I’ll do it myself.”
“You’re touchy tonight,” he said, but didn’t turn the CD player back on. His intended effect had worked anyways; William’s favorite CD brought back an avalanche of memories, from him singing at the top of his lungs, to the ones where his mouth had been incapacitated from singing by my lips.
Patrick let out a sharp laugh. “Actually, you’ve been touchy all day. William’s clammy body is testament to that. Although I don’t think it’s the general ‘touchy’ he so enjoys.”
I wanted to say—yell, actually—so many things, but I didn’t because I knew I deserved every cheap shot Patrick took at me. He wasn’t dishing out anything I hadn’t earned.
The lights of the Missoula International Airport came in view, the red, green, and white lights beckoning me, promising to take me to a place far away from here, swearing my life would never be the same, warning me there was no going back.
I retracted my arm from where it’d hung out the passenger window the past couple hours, my hand soaking up the Montana air so I could take it with me wherever I went.
Patrick screeched the Bronco to a stop in front of the passenger drop-off, drawing the attention of a few attendants.
He turned in his seat and hooked an arm over the steering wheel, a sly smile covering his face. “Could you look in the glove box for me? I forgot my cell phone back home and I think William leaves a spare in it.”
I did as asked, not having the energy to question why he wanted to make a call, but I figured it probably had something to do with me. It didn’t matter, though. I’d be gone soon, exiled from Montana for the rest of my eternity.
A few maps fanned out as I sorted through the glove box, fingering around for a phone, when something popped out and fell at my feet. My heart sank and broke at the same time when I took a closer look at the item that had fallen out. The square box was small, covered in black velvet, and closed shut by a delicate silver clasp. I knew what it was a moment before I felt Patrick do an internal dance of wicked joy.
“Hopefully it’s returnable,” he said, as if he was referring to nothing more significant than a bag of potato chips.
My fingers shook when I reached for the box. When they wrapped around it, I thought I felt my soul shattering. Knowing I didn’t deserve to see, let alone wear, William’s promise of his faithfulness to me, I tossed it back in the glove box as if playing hot potato and slammed it shut.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, pausing before retrieving my backpack from the backseat. “Thanks for
everything.
” Not knowing what else to say, but knowing there was so much more I should, I swung the door open.
“Okay, you can stop the act now,” Patrick said, grabbing my shoulder and pulling my back down on the seat.
“What act?” I asked, trying to shake loose his hand.
“Oh, come on, Bryn. I know you better than you might think and I know you’re only doing this because you’re scared you’re going to end up killing him the next time he comes in contact with the radioactive woman.” His eyes gleamed and his smile was genuine—he really thought this was all some joke.
“It’s not an act,” I said, attempting again to exit the cab. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
His hand, yet again, stalled my retreat. “You’re not fooling—”
“There’s somebody else, okay?!” I snapped, straining my neck back so I could look him in the eye. “This isn’t just about me possibly killing him.” I tried to swallow, but my throat felt like it was packed with cotton.
The expression that darkened Patrick’s face was one I’d never seen on him, I’d never seen on anyone. It was one of hatred—the pure, unabashed kind. His hand tore off my shoulder as if my skin was burning him. an aYou’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he whispered, spewing his hate through his teeth. “I was wrong about you all along. You don’t deserve him.”
This, I’d always known.
“Get out of my sight,” he said, motioning me away with his hand. “You disgust me.”
I inhaled in an attempt to stall, racking my mind for something I could say to him. I should have anticipated it, but Patrick’s reaction was causing my already broken heart to shatter.
I shouldered my bag and stepped out of the cab, knowing I’d never be a passenger in it again. I shut the door behind me. “See you around, Patrick.”
He sniffed and I heard him shift into gear. “I certainly hope not.” The Bronco’s wheels squealed away from me, leaving me with nothing other than two streaks of black as a farewell.
I tried to pull my shoulders back and inhale a dose of bravery, but I’m sure my shoulders slumped lower than before and the only thing I breathed in was the bitterness of what-could-have-been. So this was how it was going to be. Oh what I had to look forward to in my eternity. Although I had one thing: the knowledge that he’d be safe. I had that and it would have to be enough.
The sliding doors whirred open as I entered the airport, making a beeline to the departure screen a couple hundred feet down the terminal. It was late and, although Missoula International was a long stretch from fitting a jet-setter, there was still a broken line of zombies streaming through the terminal from the just-arrived red-eyes.
I halted in front of the black screen, scanning down the list of departures that would be boarding in a few hours when the early morning flights commenced. Letting fate have its way with me, I employed a technique I’d used months ago and a lifetime back.
I closed my eyes and circled my index finger in the air. My erratic circle making stopped and I pointed at some location in the world that would become home sweet home, or at least home sweet now. When I opened my eyes, a laugh escaped my throat, although it sounded everything but benign. “Paris,” I muttered, shaking my head.
Perfect,
I thought
The city of love . . .
Score: Fate—1, Bryn—Zippo.
PARIS
It took five weeks and three days to deplete my roll of cash. Pretty sad considering the wad of ones, fives and a few twenties were my life savings. A one-way ticket from Missoula to Paris hadn’t been a bargain and my apartment—if that’s what you’d call a structure with walls consisting more of patch plaster than the original drywall—on the Rue St. Denis had blown through the rest of my cash.
Knowing Rue St. Denis’ reputation—and it wasn’t for its croissants or berets— from a vacation I’d taken with my parents when I was sixteen, I’d expected to find a space to rent for next to nothing.
Like most things, I was immensely mistaken.
I couldn’t comprehend how an eighteen by twenty square foot studio with a mouse hole for a bathroom in the red light district of Paris could go for as much as one of those zippy little Cessna’s I dodged on a daily basis. Given what I paid, one would have expected they’d found the sole mansion on the Rue St. Denis, but as the cobwebs and cracked window in my apartment’s one and only room proved, my living quarters were a wrecking ball’s dream.
Being Immortal, I could have saved myself the Clorox and money and moved from street-bench to street-bench, not having to worry about inclement weather or hooligans. I pitied the person who put an unwanted hand on me, not knowing if I’d kill them with the same ease as I had the last one.
Here was the thing though, roaming in a foreign land, alone and feeling exiled made me feel more animal than human at times. Having nowhere to call my own other than the park or bench I rested my head on would have sent me into the world of barbarianism.
So that’s why I couldn’t lose my apartment—dilapidated in the extreme, its existence threatened by a strong windstorm. It was the last fiber weaving me into the world of warm-blooded beings. And maybe I felt such an affinity for it because, just like me, the apartment was trying to make it, one day at a time.
However, all nostalgia aside, I was going to lose it if I didn’t find a way to scrounge up some money. Soon.
The door of the café chimed, announcing my arrival. I’d only taken a year and a half of French, but it was enough so I could make out the sign in the window that loosely translated to,
Help Wanted
.
“Bonjour,” the woman behind the counter called out, continuing to layer chocolate-dipped biscotti into the display case.
“Bonjour,” I greeted back, trying to sound cheery, hoping it would bode well when she discovered I wasn’t a paying customer but a job applicant. I didn’t even have one euro to buy a shortbread cookie. “Je m’appelle Bryn,” I began, approaching the woman.
She looked up at me, a note of impatience in her expression. My brain shut down, losing purchase of the phrase I’d memorized weeks back when I’d first gone hunting for a job. I attempted to reboot it, but it sputtered short and shut down again. “Je . . . need,” I stuttered, cursing myself for throwing in an English word. “Je—Je voudrais . . .” I tried again, sounding like I had a stuttering problem. The impatience on her face grew pronounced, so I pointed at the sign in the front window and blurted out, “I’m here about the job.”
“It’s been filled,” she said in a rich French accent. I’d once heard you could tell someone was lying to you if they didn’t look you in the eyes. This woman’s were roaming in every direction save for mine. “Can I help you with anything else?” she asked, using her mocha colored eyes to give meaning to her question.
Even though I would never need a morsel of sustenance for the rest of my days, my stomach growled when I viewed the rows of éclairs, tarts, and croissants the woman was eyeing. “No,” I replied, turning to leave, sniffing the air in hopes I could get my fix this way. “Merci beaucoup.”
Out on the cobblestone walkway in front of the café, I stood there, not knowing which way to go. I couldn’t retreat back to my apartment; the first of the month had been two days ago and I’d found the second note slipped under my door this morning from my landlord. Like the first, it was written in French and although I couldn’t read it word for word, the meaning between them left nothing unsaid.
Pay or leave
had been the jist, minus the
Cher Bryn
and
si vous plait
that had been penned in yesterday’s slightly more courteous letter.
I had to find a job, but I doubted if my future attempts would wager any other result than the past thirty. The reasons for rejecting my employment had been as inventive as the entry to the Louvre. No work visa, couldn’t hire a foreign employee, you must be fluent in French . . . and my favorite of all; you have to look like you know what you’re doing.
I toed at one of the cobblestones, the muted gray of the sky creating a monotone quilt of color on the walk-way. Trying not to wallow in thoughts of the butterfly effect and falling dominoes, I looked up . . . and time stopped.
The bodies shuffling down the sidewalk, the cars jetting down the road, the stripped cloth awnings blowing in the wind—everything stilled as if I’d snapped a picture and frozen the moment forever.
The only movement was the blink of a pair of eyes staring into mine across the road. His face was frozen, but a showing of regret was apparent on it.
I felt the shock coursing through my body make its physical appearance. My breathing had just started its acceleration when he spun away and took off down the alley behind him.
“William!” I yelled, causing the freeze-framed world to break back into motion. I flung myself into the street, realizing too late there was rush-hour-like traffic crowding the streets. I made it to the second lane before one of the clown-sized cars careened into me. It didn’t stop me, though—it hadn’t even sent me flying to the ground. I swatted the car away from me as if were nothing more than a buzzing fly, winding out of the dent it had carved around my hips.
“William!” I yelled again, losing sight of him when he weaved down one of the alleys that twisted and turned like a maze through this part of Paris.
I didn’t stop to assess the damage of the car or its driver or to think about the consequence of the scene I’d just created. It’s a good thing I was flying solo now; the Council would have been more than irked to learn about this new predicament I’d put them in. Flattening a car when it should have flattened me . . .
I slid to a stop halfway down the alley, looking every which way, not wanting to zig when he’d zagged. I closed my eyes, trying to recall the way I felt whenever he was around. That electric, intimate energy that linked me to him.
I felt nothing. There was nothing but the scent of stale trash mildewing in the dumpster beside me and the bitter taste of losing him all over again on the tip of my tongue. Feeling like I was looking for a needle in a haystack, I shot down the alleyway to my left, praying with everything I had that I’d find him, not caring why I’d left him in the first place: to keep him safe and away from me.
I ran like I had nothing to lose, although I had everything to lose again now that he’d jettisoned back into my life. The wind cutting across my face felt like ice-picks stabbing my skin.
The alley came to an abrupt end, nothing but a tall brick wall painted with graffiti waiting for me. “No, no, no,” I whispered, wanting to yell them at someone. “Don’t do this to me,” I said, realizing I was speaking to the world I seemed to be playing some game of war with. To say I was losing was generous.
My desperation turned to anger and I punched the brick wall, feeling it give. A shower of brick and mortar rained down at my feet. I leaned my shoulder against the brutalized wall, refusing to hang my head for fear of missing a glimpse of him weaving through the maze of run-down buildings.
A door painted in flat black paint a hundred feet down swung open and my heart stopped. I sucked in a breath, willing his form to emerge into the twilight.
A female figure swung out instead, the light casting a figure with ample shape on the wall behind her. “You are a pig,” she shouted through the door, before making a spitting sound. “Bon Chance trying to replace all this,” she yelled, giving her figure an all-out shake. The door slammed shut behind her and her heels clanked down the alley away from me, verbalizing as many French curse words as she could fit in her sentences. Like most high-schoolers, the profanities of any language seemed to stick in my mind when nothing else would.
Not about to let the possibility that he’d escaped behind the black door go uninvestigated, I jogged down the alley and ripped the door open, giving it more force than needed since I expected it’d be locked. The area warranted locks, armed guards, and laser fields in my opinion. The door groaned open, welcoming me in, and I wondered if instead of trying to keep trouble out, it preferred to invite it in. Not caring if I was discovered as an intruder or potential prey, I rushed down the dark hall.
I exploded into a room that was only slightly brighter than the hallway I’d just emerged from. It certainly looked like the kind of place someone would go when they were looking for trouble. The walls matched the door—flat, black paint—although the smell of smoke was so overpowering I wondered if the walls were also shellacked with an inch-thick layer of nicotine. There were no tables or chairs, no mirrors or pictures, only a stage of questionable construction to the right of me and to the left stood a waist-high bar behind where bottles filled with clear or gold liquid were staggered on shelves and several untapped kegs were propped up on barstools.
“Boooon-jour, Mmmmm-Mademoiselle,” called out a voice that was as French as it was courteous. A man carrying a keg flashed a smile that was all ego in my direction before heaving the keg on the bar.
“Did you see someone pass through—”
“American,” he said, sounding pleased. He wiped his hands off on his jeans and hooked his leg under a bar-stool and slid it over, taking a seat. “Californian, if my male radar isn’t off.” He scanned me up and down and then winked.
And I’d wager my female radar that he’d never put a foot in California. It seemed men who hadn’t experienced the state except through television and their imaginations thought all Californian women were tall, thin, and edgy. Those that had visited knew the women were also gorgeous, blonde, and rich—none of which I was.
“New Jersey?” I snapped back, looking him head to toe in much the same way he’d just looked at me.
He grinned. “Attitude—definitely Californian. I like that in a woman.”
I glared. “Ego—definitely Jersey. I hate that in a man.”
He laughed, slapping his thigh. “I concede. I hail from Jersey, but I now call this seedy excuse for a bar home.”
I didn’t hold a lot of stock in stereotypes, but the man before me fit each and every one I’d heard of New Jersey boys. The orange tan, the hair styled as if each strand had been carefully placed, the painted on t-shirt, and the ego that stifled the room of air.
“Your turn,” he said, nodding his head at me. “Where you from, sugar?”
I hated I had to affirm his assumption. “Santa Cruz,” I muttered, scanning around the room, knowing if he’d been here, William was long gone. I couldn’t even picture him in this place with its filthy walls and sticky floors.
He clapped his hands together. “Boy, I’m good.”
I shot him one more glare before turning to leave.
“Hey,” he called out, interrupting my retreat. “Did you say you were looking for someone?”
“Nope,” I replied, not about to confess to him that I was looking for the man I loved, but had abandoned after nearly killing him, and, oh yeah, he just so happened to be Immortal. So not going there. “I was looking for some
thing.
”
“Oh,” I heard the bar-stool screech against the floor and his voice was nearer when he spoke next. “What were you looking for?”
I exhaled my annoyance. Persistent . . . so New Jersey. I had to give California boys points for walking away when a girl ignored them, whether or not it was a game of hard-to-get. There were other bikini-clad beauties in the sea. “A job.” I spun around to find him only several strides behind me. “But since I don’t see any of those hanging out around here, I’ll be on my merry way, thank you.”
“A job, huh?” he said, sounding every bit as New Jersey as he looked. “This must be your lucky day.”
The word lucky had never been one I’d used to describe my life, at least pre and post William. “Why’s that?”
He leaned against the hall and crossed his arms. “One of my bartenders got herself knocked-up and just started to show,” he said, sounding inconvenienced. “I just let her go, so I’ve got a bartender opening as of . . .”—he consulted his blinged-out watch—“ten minutes ago—give or take.”
“Thanks, but this isn’t really my scene,” I replied, pointing with my eyes around the hall.
“Too good for the Rue St. Jersey, are we?”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” he asked, knowing he’d called it for what it was. “You need a job, I’m handing you one.” His eyebrows peaked. “No thanks even required.”
I cleared my throat, stalling. “I really don’t think I’m qualified.”
“Please,”—he threw his arms in the air—“you know how to tap a keg?”
“No,” I answered truthfully.
His face lined with surprise. “You know the difference between tequila and vodka?”