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It was time to trade in our convertible for something custom, something American.
“Dude, it’s six in the morning. Please speak English.” I closed the door behind me, then popped a couple painkillers into my mouth and chugged them down with water. I’d gotten about four hours of sleep, and I’d slept in a weird position because Shan had been clinging to me.
Julien sucked his teeth and threw away his cigarette. “Fucking Americans, you come here and expect everything to be like home. You think I don’t know what time it is, huh? I had to leave my house at four because a mad Irishman had a special request.”
“I’ve missed you too, mate. Show me what you got.” I patted his cheek and gestured for him to lead the way.
The entire hotel—consisting of a long row of ground-level apartments—was made of stone, including the driveway in front of each apartment. The building was older than the Queen but newly renovated, unlike the Queen, and climbing rosebushes were fucking everywhere.
The light flicked on automatically as we reached the cars, and the rented convertible was completely dwarfed behind the gleaming black SUV Julien had delivered.
“My brother gave you the estimate, yes? It doesn’t include tip.”
I grinned and twisted the cap onto the water bottle again. “You’ll get your tip after you’ve given me the spiel. Did I get all the features I asked for?”
“Most of them.” He bobbed his head and opened up the back. “Okay, yeah, so—you get the Yukon XL as discussed. My countrymen will hate you on sight.” That was the American size I’d asked for. “Hated by the French.” I joined him behind the car, and impressed was an understatement. In a vehicle typically designed to seat nine people, they’d turned it into a slice of heaven for two travelers. “Custom-fitted bed by DUX—the good shit.” Including linens, duvet, and pillows. Pristine white against the tan interior. “TV comes down from up here.” He pointed at a compartment in the ceiling. “Skylight—you can control the, uh, what you call it, the tinting? Like Boeing does with the Dreamliners. Yeah?”
I nodded absently, checking out the counter-like divider that separated the front seat from the rest. “What’s that bar that the pillows are stacked against.”
“Ah—it’s a nightstand bar, but you… Where’s the remote?” he muttered to himself, finding it in a pocket compartment at the foot of the bed. “Here—you press here.” I watched as the bartop lifted and revealed a fridge, fully stocked with mini bottles of booze and wine. Mixers and snacks too. Fuck, there was even a pocket full of ice, so that had to have its own cooling system. “I couldn’t get the hot plate or blackout curtains, but the windows in the back are automatically tinted when the sun is out, and you can afford to eat at a restaurant.”
That was fine. I’d just rambled a bunch of shit, wanting to make it as comfortable for Shan as possible.
“That’s about it for the back,” he said. “Luggage goes underneath the bed from the side when you open the middle doors.” After closing the trunk, he motioned for me to check out the front seat. “You could’ve saved about two thousand euros a week if you’d just rented an RV.”
“If I wanted to drive a fucking RV, I would’ve rented one.” This way, I’d be able to see Shan when I drove. He’d be right behind me, hopefully resting comfortably, while I followed the GPS toward Bordeaux, not counting a few detours along the way. Shan had expressed an interest in visiting Limoges, and I wanted to check out Le Puy on the way for my favorite blue cheese.
The front of the SUV had fewer surprises and only one request, which I got. A custom bench seat that was still comfortable to spend several days on. Technically, it didn’t have to be a bench seat; I just wanted to be sure not to get stuck with a giant center console in the way.
“This is fantastic, mate. You’ve earned your tip.”
“Now we’re talking.” He turned to me and handed over the key. “It’s yours for two weeks, and as agreed upon, you’ll let us know when and where to send one of our guys for pickup.”
Fuckin’ A.
After I’d returned the convertible, bought us breakfast, loaded up the SUV, and checked us out, it was time to wake up Shannon.
I’d prepared an easy-to-grab, somewhat respectable by Shan’s standards outfit in the car, a nice pair of chinos and a shirt I knew he liked, but I was hoping he’d take my advice first and let go of his rules for a moment.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and threaded my fingers through his hair.
This could play out multiple ways. Sometimes, he woke up with a migraine—though usually only after bigger breakdowns. Sometimes, he woke up angry or cranky. Sometimes, melancholy had a tight grip on him, and other times, he was introspective.
