Chapter 9
Freya
Archer: I was wondering if you two would like to ride more elevators with me? Perhaps tomorrow night?
Freya: I’m never riding another elevator again.
Archer: Okay, fine. Then how would you like to ride an escalator with me? Or the Métro? What is the sideways cable car thing in Montmartre called?
Julian: It’s called a funicular.
Archer: He speaks!
Archer: Let’s all go ride the funicular.
Julian: No.
Archer: Okay fine. Dinner?
Freya: All three of us?
Archer: We trauma bonded, Freya. Also, you never finished your story about your restaurant.
Julian: That is not what trauma bonding means.
“What are you smiling about?” Amelia asks, trying to peek over my shoulder to read my texts.
“Nothing,” I lie, placing my phone face down on my lap.
“It wouldn’t happen to be that hot pilot you got stuck in an elevator with, would it?” Her mischievous smirk creates dimples in her cheeks.
“He was hardly a pilot. More like an unstable boxer with a serious lack of self-preservation.”
She nudges my shoulder. “Okay, but a hot unstable boxer with a serious lack of self-preservation.”
I shake my head with a laugh. “You need to get your priorities straight, my friend.”
Amelia and I are riding across town together on the Métro to an old movie theater in Montmartre that plays classic movies. Although Amelia could easily take a hired car wherever she’d like to go, she usually prefers to take public transit. She calls it an adventure. I call it a pain in the ass.
“Can we stop by the club?” she asks, pulling out her phone to check her messages. “I got a shipment of centerpieces in, and I need to approve them so they can put them out for an event tomorrow.”
I shrug. “Sure. Can I wait outside?”
With a laugh, she shakes her head. “It’s just a club, Frey. It’s not going to hurt you.”
“I know it’s not going to hurt me,” I reply. “It just…intimidates me a little.”
Placing her phone down, she screws her lips up in contemplation. “That’s not good. The whole idea is that it’s not supposed to intimidate anyone, especially women.”
I’m starting to feel uncomfortable with the conversation.
Amelia knows everything about me and my lack of experience.
She never judges or pushes. In fact, she says my choice is empowering and my virginity makes me like some badass goddess.
I don’t know about all that. I think it just makes me horny and unsatisfied.
“Not all of us were brought up in super sex-positive and liberating environments, Amelia.”
“You make it sound like your parents are prudes. I’ve met them, remember? Your parents are the coolest.”
I wince, trying to forget the time Amelia got into a forty-five-minute discussion with my mom and dad on the history of the Kama Sutra and the importance of sex positions in female pleasure and liberation.
She’s right that my parents are not prudes or even really conservative, but I think Amelia sometimes forgets that the world she grew up in is nothing like the world the rest of us did.
Or that my experiences are seriously lacking.
She nudges me, noticing me gnawing on my bottom lip. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.”
“No, I’ll come in,” I say, feigning confidence. “I’m just going to stick by your side.”
“Fair,” she replies, resting her head on my shoulder.
My phone buzzes, so I pick it up and see a response from Archer. Apparently, while I was chatting with Amelia, the two of them were making plans without me.
Archer: We’ll even let Mr. Fancy Pants pay.
Julian: I assume I am Mr. Fancy Pants.
Archer: Naturally. So what do you say? If I live through my fight tonight, let’s go out to eat to celebrate. Some place casual.
Julian: Fine. I’ll get us a reservation at Bouillon Chartier at 8:00 p.m. I’ll make it for three if you live. Two if you don’t.
Archer: Don’t worry. I’ll win. And I’ll be seeing you tomorrow at eight.
“You’re smiling again.”
I put down my phone and stifle my grin, but it’s not easy. The idea of being back together with them both again has me wanting to break out in a happy dance.
Of course, for Archer more than Julian. Right? Archer is the one I’m attracted to. The one I’d like to go home with.
So why does the idea of being with both of them excite me more than being alone with Archer?
The Métro stops at our station, so Amelia and I climb off together. As we come up the stairs to our street, I follow her to the club. It’s still early in the evening, so even if it’s open, I’m sure it’s not as bustling as it will be in a couple of hours.
It’s a short walk to the club, and as it appears at the end of the quiet street, I marvel at how discreet it is on the outside and how much it hides on the inside. The sign on the outside of the building has French appeal, appearing like any other club or restaurant in the city.
Amelia nods to the security, and he opens the door for both of us, greeting her warmly as we pass by. We walk through a small lobby where a woman is stationed, ready to check our membership. Of course, Amelia just breezes past her with me in her shadow.
Once we reach the inside, I bristle. This part of the club really seems more like a regular bar than anything else. And as much as I wish Amelia would stop here, she doesn’t. Instead, she continues down the stairs to the more salacious level downstairs.
I’ve only seen it once when I first came to Paris and she brought me to show off. It’s been renovated since then, and I’ll admit it does appear more geared toward the everyday person instead of the rich and famous, but I’m still not comfortable here.
When we slip through the curtain at the end of the hall, the room gets darker and the music a bit louder. There’s a slow, sexy song playing in French, but the dance floor is empty.
I know what normally happens on that dance floor, so I’m grateful that everyone is staying in their seats tonight.
Amelia heads straight toward the bar where a young, hot bartender flips a bottle to impress some of the patrons seated around him. He has on a pink vest over a black shirt, and his hair is slicked back, a silver earring in his left ear.
“Hey, West, did a box come in for me?” she asks.
“Oh, hey,” he replies, setting down the bottle and tossing his towel over his shoulder. “Yeah, it’s in the back room. Want me to grab it for you?”
“Nah,” she says, waving a hand at him. “I’ll get it.” Then she turns toward me. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I open my mouth to object, wanting to tether myself to her with one of those leashes parents put on their children in amusement parks, but she’s gone before I get the chance to argue.
“Have a seat,” the bartender says. “Want a drink?”
I keep my eyes unfocused, darting around on furniture and fixtures, afraid of accidentally making contact with another person. “Um, sure. A…whiskey sour, please.”
“You got it.”
As he turns away from me, I refrain from pulling out my phone, although the urge is intense. Amelia informed me that cell phones are no longer allowed on the lower level, which makes sense.
I’m not normally so shy. In any other setting, I pride myself on my confidence and firecracker personality. But that’s all a facade really. In life and in work. I pretend that I have it all figured out because I don’t know what it feels like to actually have it all figured out.
The same applies to the bedroom. With men, I want to be a confident, dominant vixen. The truth is I am far from it. I’m no vixen. In reality, I need a partner who puts trust in me, letting me harness my own sexuality without feeling vulnerable or mocked.
Otherwise known as fictional.
The truth is I’ll never have the confidence to walk into this club and approach anyone with any semblance of courage. It’s easier to just keep my head down.
Sitting alone, I tap the bar with my fingers, keeping my gaze down when I see a familiar gait across the room.
Watching Julian disappear into a dark corner of the club, I slide off the barstool and slowly follow him.
A man smiles at me as I pass him by, so I keep my eyes down to avoid having any awkward encounters.
When I reach the back corner of the club, I realize what is back here that Julian was headed toward. It’s the wall he spoke about in the elevator. It’s empty, so I feel a sense of comfort and courage as I walk up to it, eager to know what it would be like to touch it.
There are cuffs randomly placed around the metal framing, so I let my fingers graze across one with curiosity. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I feel someone approaching.
“Are you stalking me?” his silken voice whispers in my ear.
In my periphery, I can make out the familiar, silver-toned blond hair and those sharp blue eyes. “Julian,” I gasp, spinning around to face him.
I get the sense that I’m trespassing, but his features don’t show it. Instead of giving me a cruel expression, he seems almost…happy to see me. There’s a hint of delight in his eyes as he leans closer, his long, ring-clad fingers fixing a strand of his hair.
“So are you? Stalking me?”
My spine straightens as I tilt my head to the side. The warm, rosy lights down here bring out the sharp edges of his face. It dawns on me, once again, just how striking he is. As beautiful as a venomous viper.
Rather than playing the innocent prey, I decide to match his wit.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” I reply. “I decided I would have to lurk around every corner until after your parents’ anniversary party. You know…in case you decide to try and take it away from me again.”
He leans in, a coy smirk playing on his lips. “That seems fair. Are there snipers in here right now?”
“They’re just waiting for my signal.”
“What’s the signal?” he whispers, leaning closer.
I lift a hand, delicately tugging on my own earlobe.
Julian licks his lips before glancing around him, as if waiting to be struck down in his own club. Turning back toward me, he gives a lazy shrug.
“You caught me. I was bluffing.”
Julian’s gaze dances around the features of my face, first on my eyes and then trailing down to my lips. He’s flirting with me, but then again, I’m flirting with him too.
Then he pulls away to take in my entire outfit. “You look nice,” he says. “Where are you going tonight?”
“How do you know I wasn’t coming here?” I ask, looking at my short leather skirt, dark tights, black combat boots, and kelly-green sweater.
Julian chuckles. “This isn’t your scene, Chef.”
He uses the pet name as a joke. It’s really more Archer’s style to use it. Hearing it on Julian’s lips makes me instantly miss our third.
That was a weird thing to think, wasn’t it? Our third.
What’s even weirder than that is why Julian is suddenly treating me with kindness and respect when before the elevator, he treated me like dirt beneath his shoe.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask bluntly.
He steps away from the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets. “What did Archer call it? We trauma bonded.”
“And why are you agreeing to this dinner tomorrow? What’s the point?”
The more Julian looks at me with those eyes, giving me the warmth of his attention, the more I feel increasingly drawn to him. It has me wondering what those lips would feel like. Or those long fingers against my skin, gripping me tightly.
Okay, I need to get out of this sex club.
“The point?” he repeats my question. “Because a wise woman once said…if I ever got stuck in an elevator with two perfectly nice people again, I should consider making a connection. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“Very funny.” I want to tell him that when I suggested that to him, I wasn’t implying he needed to include me.
But deep down, I can’t fight this feeling that I actually enjoy being around Julian in some strange way.
I like being around both of them. As if Julian’s cool temperature counteracts Archer’s blazing heat.
As if the connection between three people is somehow stronger than the connection between two.
“Okay, done,” a sweet feminine voice chirps from behind Julian.
Julian glares at his sister as she approaches my side. “It’s Monday, Mel. You know, my day.”
“What?” she asks with her hands up in surrender. “I just had to check on those candles.”
“It couldn’t wait until tomorrow? What if you walked in on something you don’t want to see?”
There’s a strange, cold feeling in my stomach as he says that. Images of him with some stranger against the wall course through my mind. Why do I hate that vision so much? My brows knit together as they bicker, and Julian glances my way, noticing my sour expression.
“Next time,” he says, “stick to your own days.”
Amelia scoffs with a roll of her eyes. “Fine. Let’s go, Freya.”
“See you tomorrow,” he whispers to me as I move out from between him and the wall. His hand lingers on my spine before I follow my friend out of the club. Julian’s gaze warms my back until I disappear through the curtain.