Chapter 4
Chapter Four
P ierre’s blazing eyes shot to me. “Shit.” He pressed his finger to my lips, shushing me. “It’s my wife.”
I clutched my hands over my breasts. “But . . . but you’re divorced.” My throat tightened.
“Yes. Divorced four times. Married five.” He said it like he was counting his toes.
My heart deflated like a shot balloon. Nausea curled up from my stomach.
“Sorry.” Clutching my arm, he dragged me toward his back balcony.
My gut lurched. My head spun.
“Please don’t say anything. Please.” He sounded whiney, pathetic.
The cool air hit my heated flesh. “What the hell, Pierre?” I clutched my breasts, but it was as useless as putting Band-Aids on my nipples. “Get my clothes.”
Pierre dashed back inside. Seconds later, he threw my clothes out, and I gasped as they went right over the balcony railing—my pants, shirt, and my new sexy lingerie. The whole lot disappeared .
Next second, my shoes and socks were tossed at my feet.
Pierre slammed the door shut and yanked the drapes closed. A tiny gap in the pink curtain provided a slice of light onto my new living hell.
Fuck. Fucketty. Fuck.
I squinted at the surrounding buildings. Hundreds of them. With thousands of windows. It was dark, but I knew people were watching me. Millions of eyes all looking at my wobbling flesh. Laughing.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to die.
Slinking back against the wall, I heard Pierre greet his wife. They were speaking in French, and although I didn’t understand their conversation, I understood their tone . . . it was friendly. She was laughing.
It was a million miles from what I’d expected.
Who was I kidding? I had no idea what I’d expected.
This . . . whatever this was, was fucked up.
I grabbed my socks and shoes and shoved them on.
I usually looked ridiculous. I’d just tipped into the fucking crazy category.
Completely naked, except for my Converse sneakers and tiny ankle socks, I paused. My thumping heart dominated all sounds.
But then I heard something that had my mind exploding. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears. I wanted to scream from the top of my lungs. I wanted to jump off the balcony and take my chances with the vegetable patch in the courtyard below.
No! No! No! It can’t be true.
Crawling on the floor with my boobs scraping across the lovely mosaic tiles, I inched toward the glass doors and sneaked a glance through the curtain.
My eyes bulged. My jaw dropped .
Pierre’s beautiful wife was on the bed, on her hands and knees, totally naked.
He, too, was naked and fucking her from behind.
Next second, he did something that took all my remaining sanity and shattered it into jagged little pieces. He looked at me—right at me. Like he’d expected me to be watching.
I jumped away. But I was too late. Because in that instant, I’d seen something that had fury raging through my body. Pierre had smiled at me.
The dirty fucking bastard had actually smiled at me. He was enjoying this.
Shame blazed through me like a lit firecracker.
“Bastard.” The word hissed off my tongue.
His wife was loud, but with each pump of my heartbeat, she got louder—grunting and groaning like a wild animal.
I shoved my hands over my ears, desperate to block out the sound I’d heard from my parents’ bedroom a hundred times over. But at least my mother and father had known of the other’s infidelities. Pierre’s wife was probably clueless.
The rage shooting through me skyrocketed.
I stood, inhaled a deep, bracing breath, and with my jaw clamped and my brain spinning, I yanked open the door. “You fucking bastard!”
I strode straight at him, my boobs slamming side to side.
He pulled out of his wife, and with blind determination I ignored his cock and her private parts.
I slapped him. Hard. Right across his handsome fucking face. I turned to the woman whose wild eyes shot from me to her husband. “He’s a cheating rotten bastard. I’m so sorry.”
“Who are you?” He spoke in English. His eyes all wide and darting. “Je ne sais pas qui elle est,” he said pleadingly in French to his wife.
Asshole! He was pretending he didn’t know who I was .
“Fuck you, Pierre.” I slapped him again and turned to his wife who was clutching the bedcover over herself. “I’m sorry. He told me he was divorced four times. I didn’t know he was married.” I had no idea if she understood English. But when her face morphed from shock to fury, I got my answer.
Snatching up the first piece of clothing I could get my hands on, I scrambled down the stairs, hardly able to breathe. Tears flooded my eyes, blurred my vision. My throat constricted. My heart ached. My brain cried.
I was inhuman.
Nothing would make me whole again.
Pierre’s wife blasted him with shrill rage. Some of it I interpreted, like fucking bastard . Some I didn’t.
Before I reached his front door, I heard a slap. Judging by the sound, it would’ve hurt. Pierre deserved a thousand times worse.
I slinked into the street wearing just my sneakers. Both times I’d seen this quaint little street, it’d enchanted me with its pretty, discreet lighting.
Now it was like every single light was on, bathing me in a million watts of illumination.
The stark reality of my situation hit me like a million bullets.
Above me, people sat on their balconies, overlooking the cobblestone laneway, sipping wine. I unraveled the shirt I’d snatched from the floor and died all over again.
It was his apron.
Faarrrrkkk.
I pulled it on, and with my tits bouncing to my chest and my ass out on full display, I sprinted up the street, desperate to get away from the fucking asshole.
Ahead of me was the main street and lucky me, it was bumper to bumper with traffic. My mind screamed at me to stop and make a plan. It took my feet twenty yards to obey .
I ducked into an alcove and with my bare ass pressed up against someone’s wooden door, I panted for air.
Think, Daisy.
I glanced down and gasped. My tits had wobbled out of the apron and the white fabric was wedged between them like it was a G-string. Tears stung my eyes as I shoved my boobs back in.
When I looked up, a man in a business suit was walking by. He nodded.
I waved. Everything normal here.
Not!
The second he was out of sight, another appeared. He waved too.
Everyone was so friendly.
Think, Daisy .
What would Roman do?
Fuck. I couldn’t believe my mind went to Roman.
Oh shit!
Even if I wanted to call Roman, I couldn’t. My phone was in my bag. I’d put my bag on Pierre’s bedside table. I didn’t remember seeing it go over the balcony. Fark! It was still in his apartment.
Think. I jabbed my forehead like that would help.
“Oh, hey.” I waved at yet another hot guy in yet another sexy suit.
He waved back.
Maybe my predicament was a regular occurrence in Paris.
Not helping.
Right. First things first. Clothes. They’d gone over the balcony. I had to get around to the back of these terraces to the courtyards on the ground floor.
Okay, that’s good. Now I’m thinking.
I peeked past my little alcove and glanced toward the congested traffic. No handsome men in dashing suits occupied that space. I looked the other way, and my eyes jumped out of my head. Pierre’s wife was racing right at me, her six-inch heals working at a cracking pace. Right behind her was the bastard.
He at least had his jeans on.
I dove back into the corner. My breath trapped in my throat.
One. Two. Three. Four.
She shot past, and by some miracle, she didn’t look my way.
“Francesca. Please wait.” His voice was shrill, pathetic. “You don’t understand. She seduced me.”
Oh, my fucking God.
I readied to kick my Converse sneaker into his balls if he got near me.
“Le stupide bastard.” Even her swearwords sounded sexy in her French accent.
Pierre shot right past my alcove, a desperate man.
That was my chance.
With those two racing toward the traffic, I dashed out of my hiding space, running the opposite way. My new plan was to go back to Pierre’s apartment, but each doorway looked the same. Blue doors, potted bougainvillea, parked Vespas. I could just imagine running up the stairs of one of them and slamming into a burly woman wielding a rolling pin.
I spied a light-blue Vespa up ahead, then I saw Mrs. Bauchenne on the balcony across from his door. My first thought was to turn around and forget my bag. But shit, that wasn’t an option. I needed my bag—my phone, company credit card, and passport were inside.
Swallowing the massive lump in my throat, I crab-walked toward Pierre’s door with my arms keeping my boobs in place and my bare ass to the wall, no doubt looking like a weirdo. A nearly naked weirdo.
I stopped in another alcove just shy of Pierre’s door and glanced toward the end of the street, where the crossroad was still overflowing with traffic. Two elderly men with walking canes were strolling my way, but not Pierre. I needed to act fast or I’d likely give those men heart attacks. I dashed around Pierre’s Vespa and rattled his door handle. Fuck. It was locked.
I rammed my shoulder into the door, my tits slamming against the wood. It didn’t budge. Shit!
A chill ran up my spine. I felt eyes burning into my bare butt. I spun around, hands over tits, bum against Pierre’s door, and shot my gaze to the elderly men. But they were gone.
I looked up and my heart sank. Mrs. Bauchenne was grinning at me.
She raised her glass. “ Bonsoir .”
Her casual acceptance of me and her brimming grin had me believing Pierre provided her with abundant gossip. This was my chance to add to it, I just hoped she understood English. “Pierre is a lying cheating bastard. He told me he was divorced.” Then with my hands clenched at my sides, I strode up the street—my ass on full display and my tits bouncing so hard it was a wonder I didn’t topple sideways.
A giggle caught in my throat.
Soon it broke free, and I was laughing like a crazy person who’d escaped a mental asylum.
I kept walking, hoping like hell I didn’t end up on the evening news. Or worse, one of those clickbait Facebook thingies where they choreographed my bouncing boobs to dreadful music.
The timing of my dash was perfect for introducing me to all the locals. I smiled up at them and waved, acting like it was all normal. They smiled and waved back like my appearance was an everyday occurrence. On the inside, I was dying.
At the end of the narrow lane, I paused, tucked my tits back into the apron, and glanced left and right up the new street. Confirming I wasn’t about to walk into a field of strangers, I turned and crab-walked along the brick wall. The end of the wall met with a timber fence. I inched along that, aware that one false step could insert splinters into my ass.
I reached the end of the fence without needing to add tweezers to my list of requirements and peeked around the corner. The back fence to the courtyards stretched forever and bordered onto a grassy playground with children’s swings.
Great . ‘Peeping Tom-girl’ flashed through my mind.
I scanned the park for movement. Bright lights created as many shadows as they did light. But at least I could confirm it was clear. No little kids and overprotective parents. No sexy men in expensive suits. No angry wives.
I walked sideways facing the children’s playground, my ass to the timber, my tits hidden beneath the flimsy apron.
I’d hit a new low.
Shrill sirens cut through the air.
I froze. The hairs on my neck bristled.
I glanced left and right, searching for the source of the squeals.
Forcing myself to keep moving, I picked up my pace and my crab walk became a weird sideways jump that had my bouncing tits hitting my chin.
The sirens grew louder. What if the sirens were for me? The thought hit me like a wrecking ball.
Faaarrrk.