AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He went to speak and she cut him off.
“I know you know that, and this was your choice instead of a hotel. And I love it. I can buy food, I can cook for us. I can pay my own way otherwise. But if I don’t win, it’s going to take me a while to pay you back. And you know it’s quite possible I won’t even get an invitation to compete. Being in Paris is only one prerequisite. The performance tape I submitted might not be good enough. It shows what kind of place Lucky’s was. I might not be good enough. Cirque Du Soleil artists perform there off-season. If I don’t win, then you’ll have to wait longer for the money.”
“I don’t want your money, Flygirl.”
“It’s not about what you want. Same as what I wear isn’t about you.”
“But—”
“What are you going to say that doesn’t sound like I’m a rich guy so I get to call the shots?”
He shut his mouth with a snap that made his head hurt. She made his head hurt. Frustrating beautiful woman. He’d only been a rich guy for the last few years. He wasn’t entirely sure what the rules were but with Owen as his example he’d kept it as close to his regular life with one enormous exception—he could buy pretty much anything he wanted. Except, as it turned out, he didn’t want
much except the comfort of his girlfriend.
“You’re going to win.”
She snorted, took a sip of coffee and waited for him to bury himself by saying something dumb again.
“After I saw the flyer, I spent hours on the Madame Amour website. I watched competitors from past years and feature artists, I’ve watched you, and I know you can win. You know you can win or we’d be in Texas.”
“You were drunk when you watched me, Back Booth, and desperate to get laid.”
“I wasn’t that drunk or that desperate. I can tell you exactly what costume belongs to what song and how you wore your hair.”
She laughed.
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
“What are you trying to do?”
“Stop us from having an argument.”
“You mean win the argument. Maybe you should’ve stayed in bed.”
“Would’ve if you’d stayed there with me.”
She said nothing for long enough he was mentally stripping those tiny excuse for shorts off her body and he didn’t need a bed to do with her what he wanted, no argument about that.
“We should go out,” she said.
“We should.”
Argument averted.
Zarley changed her clothes because this was Paris and everyone dressed better. They went to the Louvre.
The Louvre irritated the fuck out of Reid. Hundreds of people taking pictures of the art, filming their experience for later instead of absorbing it now. You’d be looking at a painting and someone would pop in front of you for a quick snap and move on. Too whacked for words. And don’t start about the Mona Lisa. He had a reasonably clear view of the small painting above the crowd of people with their outstretched hands and selfie sticks. Zarley had no chance of seeing it, even standing on his shoes, and they gave up trying.
Hours later their feet gave up.
Back in the apartment, they chilled. She wanted to cook an evening meal and he thought better of stopping her. There’d been no word from the Madame Amour people and she was on edge, taking it out on the vegetables she chopped.
He sat opposite her at the counter. “You wore a little black skirt with pinstripes, you were a sexy secretary, and danced to that Bodyrockers “I Like the Way” song with your hair done in a bun with a pencil in it. There’s a line in that song about always getting it wrong.”
She put the knife down and turned to face him.
“You wore a bra with purple fringing and the tiniest bikini pants, and you danced to “Let me Think About It” with your hair all teased out.” He made a motion at the side of his head, wild hair, wild woman. “Yeah, you thought I was too drunk. I only got properly drunk after I saw you on stage. Want more? You wore this ripped-up red leather thing, stuck to you like a second skin, and danced to “I’m A Bitch,” and one night you danced to “Lightning Crashes” in a white corset, suspenders and stockings, with red butterflies in your hair. I swear you made half the men at your feet bawl like babies.”
