Chapter 29
Where Do Broken Hearts Go
Bastien had opted to search for her on foot.
The clock was creeping ten and if the streets weren’t already crowded with vehicles, they would be as soon as the shows ended and the clubs spilled their revived and elated patrons back out into the city.
He had thought that would make his search easier.
One heartbroken girl scouring an empty city—how hard could that be to find?
As it turned out: obscenely.
Bastien rounded a corner, wondering if Celine’s heels had tired her and she had entered one of the clubs. But which one? Pigalle was known for the sleepless nightlife that buzzed on every street. There were at least ten cabarets in his line of vision, partially blinding him.
Trying his luck, he entered the first establishment he saw.
She was not there. Viciously cursing himself, Bastien stalked his way out the door. The second cabaret proved fruitless as well, and so did the third. At last, Bastien stomped into Le Rat Mort. If Juliana was working tonight he could ask her to keep an eye out for Celine.
It occurred to him that he wouldn’t even be stalking every single club in Paris had he been less of a prick.
But he didn’t know what to call the feelings he had for Celine.
He had felt vulnerable up on that roof. And then he had become defensive.
Celine had been prodding and pushing him to confess and Bastien couldn’t take it anymore.
He despised that—having others impress upon him what they expected of him.
He had thought Celine, of all people, would refrain from doing that, but she, too, had created a version of Bastien in her head and he had to shatter those expectations.
He couldn’t keep watching her build sand castles while Bastien was just letting wet sand drip from him fingers to form whatever shape it wanted.
Rubbing his chin, he wove through the club. Remnants of cigarette smoke hung above the poker tables. The singer up on the stage was dragging her last notes, the performance drawing to an end, and the patrons were already getting up. Bastien shouldered past them, towards the bar, then halted.
Celine was resting her head on the counter, running a lazy finger around the rim of an empty glass. It took Bastien every kernel of self-control not to rush to her side like a maniac.
A hand on his shoulder stopped him before he could think of moving again. “I reckon she’s here because of you?”
Bastien craned his neck to peer at—Jules. He winced. “Do not give me that look.”
“She seems pretty miserable.” Juliana raked her eyes over him. “And so do you. What happened?”
“Too long of a story,” he said, “which you will hear another time, Jules. Excuse me.” Pushing past her, Bastien eased into the chair next to Celine, nodding at her glass. “What are you drinking there?”
Celine blinked up at him absently like she was trying to remember who he was. Her face set into a scowl when she recognised him. She lowered her hand from the rim.
“I’m not sure,” replied Celine, words slurring a little. “I finished those glasses over there a while ago, but no one was coming to bring me another one”—her lips formed a little pink pout—“so I just reached out my arm.”
“And drank half a bottle of rum?” Bastien exclaimed. He turned sharp eyes on Juliana.
She shrugged. “I have a job, Bas. And it is to please my patrons, not restrict them.”
He rolled his eyes. He had already received a diatribe from Celine; he really did not need a second one from Juliana.
“You better take her home,” she said, her dark lips thinning. “She might be less inclined to strangle you tomorrow if she doesn’t wake up at a smelly bar.” She craned her head back. “I gotta go. My set is next.”
Squeezing his shoulder, Juliana disappeared into the crowd. A second later she was shimmying up the stage. Bastien returned his attention to Celine. Shrugging off his jacket, he swung it over her shoulders. “Hey. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Celine yawned. “But I still hate you.”
“Good. Then you’re not that drunk.” He nudged her shoulder, careful not to push her entirely off the chair, and Celine was on her feet in seconds. Well, barely. She was swaying like she was walking the deck of a ship. “Find your balance later. We’re leaving now,” Bastien urged.
They made their slow exit through the main entrance where a group of patrons had bottlenecked the gate. Bastien managed to get out first, but in the haste to pass through, his grip on Celine slipped.
He threw his head back with a groan. “You are such a hassle, Celine LeBeau.”
He was about to enter again, when Celine reappeared—stumbling over a ripple on the carpet that lined the threshold, colliding with his chest. Bastien caught her quickly, lifting her upright.
“Oops,” she squealed through a procession of giggles that got swallowed by the hubbub of the boulevard.
The lights were harsher out here, the entire street flaring bright with colour.
“Ohh, pretty!” Celine’s lips parted in a drunken smile as she pointed at the flashing sign up on the awning.
“Do you suppose they found a dead rat here and decided to honour him?”
Bastien grimaced as some of the patrons tossed them questionable looks. “She’s only joking.” Grabbing her arm and lowering it, he gritted, “How about you keep your thoughts to yourself until we’re out of here, hmm?”
“Grump,” Celine mumbled, booping his nose with her free hand. She started tracing an outline from his nose to his mouth. Her fingertips seared his lips when she touched them. “You look like a dark knight right now.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Oh, it’s good. It’s veeeery good,” she said. “Everyone knows he is better than prince chaaaaarming.” She threw her head back again to let out another string of giggles.
“Alright. Maybe you are drunker than I thought.” The lights alone seemed to inebriate her more. Every eye had turned on them now. He had better get them somewhere quieter before someone called the garde municipale on them. “Let’s get you home.”
“No!” Celine protested. She turned several shades paler at the thought. “My mother will murder us.”
“Well…” he trailed off, unsure what to do. “Let’s go find my car, at least.”
“Ohhhh,” Celine whispered. “A mission.” She straightened her spine as if acting upon orders, and started marching onward.
“The other way,” he called after her. Promptly, Celine changed directions.
As long as she is walking straight. Rolling his eyes, Bastien caught up to her and they wound their way out of Place Pigalle.
The lights were dimmer out here. But Celine was still hyper, and now she had turned into a chatterbox, yapping in his ear about how she was still upset with him, that he shouldn’t touch her even though she risked tripping over the curb if she walked on her own (she claimed she would prefer that over leaning on Bastien), then she switched the subject to her heels and blisters.
“You should count yourself lucky, Bastien, that I never send you up on that catwalk in a pair of heels.”
Bastien’s only reply was a mindless, “Mhm,” while his attention focused wholly on keeping Celine from colliding with trees.
“And to think,” she segued, spotting a closed confectionary store coming up ahead. “I didn’t even get to taste that gorgeous cake.”
Breaking free from him, she pressed herself against the storefront, pouting at the desserts “trapped” on the other side of the glass. Bastien had to peel her away by force.
“I will buy you all the cake you want if you just stop for five—” Bastien brought them to a gradual halt, along with his words. “Oh, merde.”
“What?” Celine slurred.
The staircase at Rue Foyatier spread before them: two hundred something stairs of certain neck-breaking. In her current state, Celine would barely descend two before tumbling down the rest. But the car was parked somewhere by the last landing and to go around would just be a waste of time.
“Hold on tight,” Bastien instructed.
“Hey—”
Hooking his arm beneath her legs, Bastien hauled her up in his arms. He tried not to think about the soft curve on her waist, where his hand fit perfectly or the warmth that emanated from her body. For the first time in his life, his cheeks heated up.
“Bastien Ménard!” she screeched. His name came out in drunken clusters of letters. “Put me down right now!”
The nerve. “You can barely walk. Be thankful I’m not letting you roll down those stairs.”
“Thankful!” Celine huffed through a hiccup. “I don’t even want to look at you right now. If you must hold me, carry me on your back instead.”
“Do I look like a horse to you?”
She did not answer. But she did squirm again. Bastien took the first step with a grunt.
“I suggest you stop moving—I swear I will drop you down the stairs, Celine.”
“You wouldn't dare.”
“Don’t test me.”
“Oh,” she scoffed, “he even acts like a dark knight."
“Wasn’t that a good thing?” He flexed his grip underneath her, pressing Celine closer to his chest, hoping she was drunk enough not to comment on the war drum that was thundering within his ribs. “I thought you wanted to be angry with me.”
A pause. Celine’s brows furrowed as though she was trying to plow through her thoughts for an answer. “I don’t even know what I am anymore,” she mumbled.
Giving up her attempts to free herself, she dropped her head into the crook of his neck, breathing softly against his skin.
Bastien’s entire body succumbed to goosebumps.
He felt her lips press a tiny kiss to his neck, then move up, to a hidden spot behind his ear. His body burst into shivers.
“Celine—” His voice wavered. “Unless you want us both to break our necks, I recommend you stop doing that.”
“Mmmm. But you smell so good when you don’t smoke.”
His foot faltered on the next step, but he managed to keep his balance even with Celine giggling under her breath and lifting her head to lick his cheek.
“You even taste good!”