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“Oh,” says Jordan, as an appetizer is placed in front of her. It’s escargot—a dish that’s a little dated, perhaps, but how can you go to Paris and not eat one of the classiques? “What is this?”
“Just try one,” I answer.
She dips the snail deeper into its bath of garlic lemon butter and then brings it to her mouth.
“Go on,” I say, and she finally pops it between her soft lips, her eyes opening wide and then closing as her head falls back. I watch her jaw line move as she eats the snail, and when she looks back at me her eyes are half-shut and a few loose strands of hair fall in her face.
“That was the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” she says wonderingly.
We’ll change that, I think.
“Have some baguette with the next bite,” I say, pushing the basket toward her.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks suddenly, sharply.
“No reason,” I say. Because I want to fuck you until you scream. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“No reason,” she answers.
“Jordan,” I say. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“No rea—”
“You don’t get to say that more than once,” I admonish her. “Tell me.”
“To get the hell away,” she says. “I had to get the hell away.”
“I understand.”
The restaurant is getting darker, and as she places her next snail on the crispy, soft baguette, I find myself feeling the buzz of the wine slipping its shadowy fingers around the parts of me with good sense, and wresting them away. I begin to fantasize about Jordan more openly and look at her more baldly, without apology. She sneaks looks back at me. Does she see me as an authority figure? A dirty old man? A creep? A sexy older man? I don’t know.
She herself changes in the light. The wine is getting to her too. She’s slurring a bit.
Our food comes, and the night gets a bit late, a bit blurry. Before I know it Jordan and I are tumbling out of the restaurant, full of delicacies and wine, and she’s on my arm, laughing up at me. We’re stumbling toward my car service. Her foot goes out in front of her at a funny angle and she nearly falls.
“Jordan,” I say, “watch it—” and she’s in my arms, and we’re facing each other, and looking into each other’s eyes. “Careful,” I whisper, and everything disappears. It’s just her, and me, and the light of the streetlamps, and the endless infinity of her eyes.
“Oops,” she says even more softly, and leans almost imperceptibly toward me when suddenly I hear a shout.
We pull apart. It’s someone yelling at Jordan. In French.
He’s calling her a slut, a piece of ass. He says go back to your room and touch yourself, you trashy bitch. She’s staring up at me now, her eyes alarmed and worried.
“What is he saying?” she asks. Maybe she truly is innocent.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, pulling her by the arm toward the car. “He just wants your money.”
Her face is doubtful; she’s not convinced.
“Are you sure? Because I thought—”
“I’m sure. Now come with me.” My driver pops out of his side and goes to open the door, and Jordan almost falls into the car. I try to help her, and then I hear the shouts again.
“You’re a lucky man aren’t you, a famous piece of ass like her?”
“Shut up and go home,” I tell the man. I’m bristling. I don’t want to get in a fight, but I won’t shy away if I have to.
“You fuck off, you go home,” he says angrily, and my driver places himself in between us. He’s trained in martial arts, so I know he’ll defuse any action against me, but it’s a mistake to rely on someone fully, no matter how trustworthy he or she might be. Justine taught me that for one.
