30. Absinthe Cocktail
ABSINTHE COCKTAIL
*a few drops of saltwater really opens it up.
T wo hours later, I stood in front of Louis’s full-length mirror, barely recognizing the person who stared back at me.
Truthfully, I barely recognized either of us, though for Louis, that was just an average Saturday night. Technically, he wasn’t Louis at all right now, since the moment he put on the green sequined gown, towering heels, and multi-colored wig, he became Celeste.
“Outside the apartment,” he told me when I asked if he wanted me to refer to him by his drag name once he was fully dressed. “I’m not performing in here, but when we leave, then yes, I am Celeste, d’accord ?
My physical transformation was a bit more subdued. Still, the heartbroken girl had been replaced by a chic sex kitten in a leather skirt, a sheer burgundy top, and black heels that gave me an extra four inches.
“ Magnifique ,” Louis breathed from behind me as he slid an enormous pair of chandelier earrings through his lobes. “You have the, how do you say, very fuck me energy.”
“Fuck me, or fuck you? Tonight, I think I prefer the latter.”
He shrugged and adjusted his false eyelashes. “ Pourquoi pas les deux? ”
I smirked as I touched up my blood-red lipstick. Why not both, indeed?
It was the first time I’d chosen my own outfit from Louis’s theatrical wardrobe instead of letting him dress me like a doll.
The leather skirt was shorter than anything I’d ever worn, and the burgundy top was basically transparent over a black lace bra.
It wasn’t an outfit designed for the shadows or the corners, but one meant to get attention, even in a cabaret full of drag artists.
More importantly, it made me feel bold and a little dangerous, like someone who couldn’t be messed with.
“You look like you could eat men for breakfast,” Louis observed approvingly. “And maybe some ladies for lunch.” He struck a pose in the mirror. “We are the predators tonight, ma puce . Let them chase us if they can.”
The cabaret was in a basement in Pigalle, accessible only through an unmarked door next to a late-night crêpe stand. As we descended the narrow stairs, the sounds of music and laughter grew louder, mixing with the scents of cigarettes, weed, and alcohol.
“ Bonsoir , Celeste!” The doorman—or door person, I thought was more appropriate—was a massive figure in a leather harness and the most enormous tutu I’d ever seen. They kissed Louis —now Celeste—on both cheeks, and their eyes swept over me appreciatively. “ Et qui est cette belle ?”
“ C’est mon amie, Marie ,” Celeste said, then switched to English for my benefit. “She is exploring her wild side tonight.”
“ Va pour ca ,” the bouncer replied with a wink. “The wild side is the best side.”
I smiled nervously. My heartbeat was already picking up. “I hope so.”
Inside, Celeste settled me at the bar while the rest of the cabaret steadily filled up.
Drag artists were putting on a show on the small stage, but otherwise, the crowd was about as mixed as it got.
Sex was in the air, as heavy as the perfumes of all the performers, and people of all types took part in the revelry.
The floor was full of men dancing with men, women with women, straight or unlabeled singles, couples, or groups enjoying themselves with abandon. Everyone was just themselves.
And I didn’t want to hide. I wanted to be a part of it.
I turned to Celeste with a grin. “It’s amazing.”
“Not too much?” she asked, fully aware of my fears.
“Maybe a little. But I’ll just stay here until I’m ready to go.” I looked around. “I thought it would be more…”
“More gay?” she finished with a chuckle.
“I wasn’t going to say that. More exclusive, maybe. There are just so many people who look…well, like me.”
She laughed. “People can be whatever they want in here. You love who you love, you fuck who you fuck, you dance with whoever makes you feel alive in the moment, okay?”
She turned to hail a bartender, who sidled over to us in an array of rainbow-colored tattoos and equally colorful hair. “ Bonsoir .”
Celeste ordered two drinks in rapid French, then turned to me with a grin once they had been set before us.
“ La Fée Verte ,” she said as she raised her glass to cheer with mine. “It matches my dress.”
“The green fairy?” I translated.
“Absinthe. To open your heart. And relax it too.”
I swallowed nervously, unsure if now was the time to take up drinking again.
But what had that gotten me, really? All my life, I’d been terrified of the worst happening, had avoided drinking and socializing and places like this.
And my heart was still broken. My life still shattered.
Louis had never led me wrong before. I doubted Celeste would either.
“Bottoms up, Celeste,” I said before taking a gulp.
The alcohol hit my empty stomach like a pool of fire.
Aside from a piece of the onion tart, I’d barely eaten since leaving London, surviving mostly on coffee and a few baguettes.
Now, the combination of absinthe and whatever else was in my drink made the club’s lights seem brighter, the music more seductive, and the crowd a lot less scary.
“Celeste!”
We turned to find a woman with purple hair and floral tattoos covering her arms approaching us. She kissed Celeste on both cheeks before turning to me with frank interest.
“This is my friend, Marie,” Celeste said.
“Ah, la cheffe Américaine !” The woman offered me dual kisses as well as a swell of jasmine-scented perfume. “Celeste has told us all about you. Full of heartbreak, I hear. Finish this drink, and we will get you another to wash away whatever bastard put those shadows in your eyes, okay?”
I smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”
Celeste kissed my cheek. “Time for my show. You are okay?”
I nodded. The absinthe was rising to my head, an effect that was both heady and relaxing. “I’m fine here.”
“I’ll take care of her,” Sylvie called as Celeste wove her way toward the backstage area.
I sat at the bar with Sylvie, who attracted others in the club like bees to honey. Her friends were a mix of artists, students, and night creatures who seemed to exist solely to have a good time.
“Where are you from in America?” asked a friendly man with blue-tinted hair and kind eyes.
“New York,” I said, then corrected myself. “Well, the Bronx.”
“Ah, the Bronx!” Sylvie exclaimed. “Very tough, very real, yes? I see this movie, the Bronx Tale . Also, the Goodfellas , but this is Brooklyn, no?”
I smiled at the mention of the famous film that portrayed my neighborhood as a dark place riddled with mafia warfare. “It’s not really like that so much anymore. Different neighborhoods have different vibes. My sister still lives there.”
“You have sisters?” asked the blue-haired man, whose name was Riad. “How many? Are they as beautiful as you?”
“Four, and much prettier. Plus, I also have a brother, and some would say the same about him.” Words came easier now, helped along by the alcohol and the genuine interest on their faces. “They’re all very different; they’re all stronger than me.”
“I doubt that,” Riad said seriously. “You don’t look like someone who breaks easily.”
Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the way he was looking at me—like I was interesting, attractive, worth knowing—but I leaned closer. “Want to find out?”
His eyes widened, then crinkled with amusement. “Are you flirting with me, Américaine ?”
My heart gave a thump—whether in fear or anticipation, I wasn’t sure. “Maybe. Is it working?”
Lord, Joni would be so proud. She would also slide right into this place like she was slipping on a new pair of ballet slippers.
Before he could answer, a bass line broke through the crowd as the lights darkened, and a spotlight opened on the stage at the front. We all turned to see Celeste taking center stage while the band behind her played the opening bars of a familiar song: “Dancing on My Own.”
On the stage, Celeste turned to me and winked.
I knew then that the song was for me. A song about a wallflower, about the girl always on the outskirts, waiting for someone to see her, want her, choose her.
Her voice warbled as she started a crescendo that I felt in my soul.
I’m giving it my all, but I’m not the girl you’re taking home…
I slipped off the barstool and let myself get swallowed by the crowd, the bass vibrating through my ribs, through my bones. My limbs moved without thinking, just feeling.
I keep dancing on my own.
Because wasn’t that the moral of the song? The girl’s ability to keep going without her lover. She could let herself go and still acknowledge the pain, which was how she learned that even if she wanted to be chosen, maybe she didn’t need to be after all.
The thought was freeing.
“ Ma chére cheffe .”
I turned to find Riad, the blue-haired charmer, standing behind me, clearly appreciating my movements. Sylvie stood on my other side, looking as though she was doing the same thing.
I smiled. “ Ouais ?”
“Dance with me,” he called. “Not on your own.”
He closed the distance between us and kissed me to raucous cheers from Sylvie and other dancers around us. The kiss was soft, brief, friendly rather than passionate. When we broke apart, Riad was grinning.
I, however, froze.
Had I just kissed a stranger?
The bass line thrummed as if to confirm.
“You taste like sugar and absinthe,” Rian called over the music.
“Is—is that good?” I stuttered.
“A perfect combination. A little bit angry, a little bit sweet.”
The last word hit me like a hammer. Sweet. Just what Lucas called me. My sweet Marie .
Anger flooded through me, just as a round of shots arrived on a tray, which Sylvie quickly delivered to us and several others around us.
I tossed two down in quick succession. “No more sweet,” I declared to another round of laughter from Sylvie and Riad.
Sylvie threw back her own shot, then caught my hand and spun me around. The movement brought us close enough that her perfume washed over me all over again, and I could see gold flecks in her brown eyes.
“My turn to taste the American,” she said with a wicked smile, and before I could think too hard about it, she was kissing me too.
This kiss was different—softer lips, longer, with a friendliness that had nothing to do with alcohol. When she pulled away, I was breathless. And shocked all over again.
“How was that?” she asked, observing me carefully.
“Different,” I said honestly.
She laughed delightedly. “Ha! You are full of surprises, Marie de Bronx .”
I nodded. Was I full of surprises? I was certainly surprising myself tonight with the clothes, the drinks, the kisses, and the recklessness I had embraced.
But maybe I was this person now. Why not? Marie, the wallflower virgin, was gone, lost to late talks in a hot spring and a mind-melting night in a Mayfair flat. I’d never get her back, so perhaps it was time to embrace whoever came next.
A person with short hair and wide blue eyes caught my gaze across the dance floor. They moved like water, all fluid grace and controlled power. When they approached me, I didn’t shy away.
“ Danse ?” they asked.
Finding it harder to think straight, I nodded.
We moved together to the pulsing rhythm, their hands on my hips, mine on their shoulders. They were beautiful in a way that transcended traditional categories, with sharp cheekbones and full lips and eyes that seemed to glow under the flashing lights.
When they leaned in to kiss me, I met them halfway and closed my eyes.
This kiss was hungry, almost desperate, and for a moment, it was all too easy to pretend it was Lucas’s lips that devoured me.
Lucas’s tongue slipping in to twist with mine.
Lucas’s hands slipping around my waist to pull me closer.
But…no. It wasn’t him. I knew it the moment we broke, and the laugh, the feel of the person was lovely, but not for me.
With a regretful smile, I untangled myself from their grasp and turned back to my new friends, who were still dancing with each other.
I closed my eyes and gave myself up to the music, allowing the darkness to wash over me as I processed the three kisses.
Three different people. Three different ways of being wanted that had nothing to do with family schemes or business arrangements or anything other than simple human attraction.
It was freeing, yes.
But it also felt wrong.
I glanced down at my body, at the revealing clothing, the way I’d put myself on display. It was the opposite of the clothes I once wore to cover up.
But it was just another costume, no different from the dress Celeste put on, except the only difference was that when she did it, it was a genuine part of her on display for the world.
This person wasn’t me any more than was the girl who used to hide in skirts and sweaters.
Not really.
I tugged at the shirt, suddenly wanting to rip it off, right here in the middle of the club.
I wanted out. I wanted to leave.
I wanted to rip off my own skin if it would make this feeling stop.
“That was quite a show.”
The voice behind me was dark. Deep. Impossibly familiar.
I opened my eyes to the sight of Sylvie and Riad now making out in the center of the crowd, over which Celeste was now crooning a cover of Tears for Fears’s “Head over Heels.”
I turned, hoping the absinthe and the show were playing tricks on me.
But there he was. Lucas Lyons, in dark jeans and a rumpled white button-down, looking completely out of place among the drag queens and leather-clad club goers.
His hair was mussed, there were dark circles under his eyes, and I had to wonder if he’d come directly here from the plane or train or whatever he’d taken to Paris.
Paris. Lucas was in Paris .
His storm-gray eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that made my knees weak but also held me in place.
“Do I get a kiss too?” He cocked his head. “Seems only fair.”
I opened and closed my mouth several times, but nothing came out. The club continued spinning around us—music pounding, people dancing, life happening in all its messy glory—but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t hear anything beyond the thundering of my heart and the roaring in my ears.
Every instinct screamed for me to get out, but my legs were cement, locked in place as the world closed in. All the warmth I’d felt moments ago in the glittering magic of Celeste, the comfort of Sylvie, Riad, even in the arms of a short-haired stranger, fractured into noise and chaos.
I wasn’t dancing anymore. I was drowning.
“Marie—” Lucas started, taking a step toward me.
But his movement was like a button that had just been pressed, unlocking me from my stand.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t say anything.
I just turned on my heel and ran.