The Stranger

1. Primrose

PRIMROSE

“God, I love Paris.” I turn my face to the sky as the sun bids us a lingering goodbye, gold and crimson cresting the roofs of the Gothic buildings around us. “Her beauty, her history, her champagne, her long summer days.”

“Je préfère her long summer nights.” By my side, Sabine gives an impish grin.

Welp, okay, I think, as I tug at the hem of my short skirt, wondering why it appears to have shrunk right out of my comfort zone.

It would appear we’re lost, judging by the way Sabine is hunched over her phone. But I’m not stressing. But that might be the champagne.

I’m here in Paris to spend some time with my bestie, Emmy, who at the last minute ditched me.

That’s not strictly true. The family she nannies for refused to let her leave when her replacement didn’t show up.

So enter Sabine, my sister’s friend, with a timely invitation to a super exclusive party tonight. And I thought, why the heck not?

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Sabine slides her phone into her purse, then slips her arm though mine as we begin to walk again. “A lover, perhaps?”

“Er, no.” I give a nervous laugh. I don’t know Sabine well enough to have those kinds of conversations. “Sadly, my last boyfriend suffered a terrible fall.”

“Mon dieu!” Her grip tightens on my arm. “Did he…?”

“Die?” I shake my head. “Which is a shame really. His fall was broken by his co-worker’s vagina.”

“Oh, you are very bad!” she exclaims with a laugh.

“That’s exactly what he said, right before I stabbed him in the head.”

“Another joke, I think.”

“I did consider it.” And I still imagine it from time to time, not that anyone would believe it from a nice girl like me. “But you can’t be a doctor and a murderer, sadly.” At least, not officially.

“I cannot believe Lavender’s little sister is a doctor.”

I ignore the admiration in her tone and the usual prickle of discomfort that comes with any kind of praise. “All I need to do now is complete another nine years of on-the-job training to consultant level.”

Sabine’s expression twists. I mean, I get it. It’s a lot to put yourself through but I can’t wait to hit the wards next month, even if all I seem to have done lately is work and study, study and work. Which is why I’m in Paris to let loose a little.

“Then perhaps we will find you a body to practice on.”

I give a nervous laugh.

“Maybe a body belonging to someone tall, dark, and ’andsome.”

“And older.” We move closer on the pavement to allow a couple coming the other way to pass.

“You like an older man, huh?”

“Particularly the over seventy-fives.”

Sabine’s lip curls, and I try not to laugh. “Primrose, no…”

“Yes, really.” I give in to a belly laugh. “I’m an elderly care doctor. Oldies are totally my jam!” It could be because I’m a big fan of tweed pants and cardigans. Or because we’re on the same wavelength.

“Lavender did not tell me her sister liked to joke.”

“Probably because she doesn’t think I’m funny.” By Sabine’s expression, neither does she.

“D’accord! Tonight we will find you a French man. An older but not old Frenchman.”

“We’ll see. Where is this party supposed to be anyway?” It seems like we’ve been walking an age. Blood simmers in my veins like champagne bubbles. I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to go out.

“Here, I think.” She looks up at the ornate wooden door set into a high stucco wall. “Yes, here.”

“Isn’t this, like, a residential area?” My gaze slides to the row of swanky Hausman buildings flanking the other side of the street. We’ve passed by designer boutiques, foreign embassies, and by-appointment-only jewelry stores. And houses. Big, fancy ones behind high walls.

“Oui. It is the 7th Arrondissement.”

“I thought we were going to a club.” I frown at the heavy, unfriendly-looking door. I can’t hear any music, just the noise of cars whizzing by.

“It is more, how you say, a private event.” Sabine raises her fist.

“What makes you think they’re going to let us in?” My stomach twists uncomfortably. “Do we even have invitations?”

“It is not that kind of party.” She slides a sultry glance my way.

“Really?” Because this address seems to be the heavy cardstock, velvet ribbon, wax-sealed, and hand-delivered invitation kind of place.

“It’s not an illegal rave, is it?” I demand as the thought hits.

You read about this kind of stuff, people returning from vacation to find their homes ruined.

I can’t be involved in that kind of thing!

“Non! This is a very exclusive event and we ’ave invitations from Jay.”

Jay is Sabine’s current crush, judging by the way she’s gone on and on and on about him and his music all night. Which is, apparently, a whole vibe.

This time when she lifts her fist, she thumps the wooden door hard. The echo of her knock seems to vibrate inside me. Or maybe that’s just my anxiety.

“The party’s obviously not here,” I say. Hope.

“I will check Google Maps again.” She sighs and, head down, inputs… whatever. Her thumbs barely lift from the screen when the app’s android voice fills the air between us.

“You are at your destination, Ardeo Lifestyle Club, Paris.”

My heart skips an actual beat. “Sabine? Why did it say lifestyle club—what kind of lifestyle are we talking here? Sabine?”

“Comment dit-on…” she mutters, barely glancing up. “My English is not so good.”

“I understand French,” I remind her.

Her mouth flattens. “Alternative, I think you would say.”

“Lifestyle—a lifestyle club. As in a sex club?” I’m not a complete hermit. I have Netflix. “I can’t go to a sex club,” I hiss. “Are you listening to me?”

“Primrose.” She pivots to face me, “Your sister, she would not have a problem with this. Lavender would say this is a great lark.”

That’s probably true, and for a second, I consider that Lavender might’ve set me up.

But she wouldn’t believe I’d still be standing here.

In fact, none of my family would. Not our Little Miss Goody Two Shoes.

They probably think I’m asexual. That my previous relationships were platonic.

But I just haven’t been interested in putting myself out there.

Boys, men. Relationships. It’s all too difficult.

And the truth is, I really hate doing things I’m no good at. Ergo, I don’t do men.

“It’s not remotely funny that you failed to mention you were inviting me to an orgy!”

“It is just a party.” As though I’m a small child on the verge of tears, she pats my arm.

“A party where people have sex.”

“Some people. But an orgy…” She shakes her head.

“If more than four people going at it, it’s definitely an orgy. Google it if you don’t believe me.”

“There is also a pool.”

“Why didn’t you say so!” I throw my hands up in the air. “I would’ve worn my swimsuit!”

“I think swimwear is optional.”

But I’m too busy hyperventilating to answer.

Naked people and a pool. People having sex in a pool.

A giant Petri dish—an ick-filled germ-fest!

I swing away, my heels hammering hard against the pavement.

I can’t believe an orgy is the reason I’m traipsing through the streets of Paris in shoes that are rubbing the heel!

Sabine is suddenly at my side. “Sex or not, we will be there for the music.”

“Not the soundtrack?” I adjust the strap of my tiny purse wondering again why I’m wearing it considering it’s too small to hold my phone.

“The party is in a huge villa—three floors. Different, how you say, levels for different activities.”

I make a noise, part disbelief, part disgust as I abruptly halt and thrust my hand into my pocket to pull out my phone. It has barely any signal and worse battery life. I forgot to charge it again. Mentally crossing my fingers, I pull up the Uber app… only for the screen to go black.

“Shit,” I mutter. I have the worst luck and an even worse sense of direction. Without my phone, I’ll end up lost. Murdered. My body thrown in the Seine!

“It is not such a big thing.” Sabine’s tone softens. “But I am sorry I did not tell you.”

“You should’ve been honest,” I snap.

“I was afraid you would not come.”

I bite my tongue from asking if she’s heard about me, which is ridiculous. Unless she knows my ex.

“You will come, yes?”

“No, I’m not coming to a bloody orgy!” No way. Panic flares inside me again. One look at me, and those sex-positive types would know they have an imposter in the mix.

It’s not that I’m not sex positive—I’m not judgy in the least. Provided what tickles your pickle isn’t harming anyone else, I say bang on!

Literally if you want. But banging is for other folk not me, because the only thing sex positive about me is I’m positive I’m no good at it.

The act. The intimacy. The feels. All of it.

“I cannot go alone,” she pleads.

“You should’ve thought about that before trying trick me.” I move to the edge of the pavement, scanning left and right for a cab.

“I am truly sorry. I promise you, Primrose, I did not think it would be a problem.”

I harrumph, rolling my lips inward against a softer response. “Ah. Taxi!” I raise my hand. Wave it. Then curse as it whizzes by.

“I cannot go alone.” She gives a sad sniffle.

A tiny ache lodges itself under my diaphragm. I will not feel sympathy for her, I think to myself. Being nice gets you nowhere. I know this, yet I can’t help be this. A soft mark. A people pleaser. A pushover!

Need your weekend shift covered? I’m your (easily manipulated) girl.

Have a pet that needs looking after while you jet off for a dirty weekend?

I’m usually your (unhappy) kitty-litter scooper.

I truly detest that I so often end up doing things I don’t want to do.

I’ve tried to break the habit, but something inside me always makes me give in.

I swing away from the curb, my heels hammering hard enough to break as I storm back along the street. Balls, balls, fucking balls!

“Where are you going?” Sabine calls out, jogging a little to catch up.

“To a sex club, apparently,” I bite out.

It’s just bodies, right? Maybe they’ll be in better shape and condition than the ones I usually deal with.

But I can’t let her go alone. Goodness only knows what might happen to her.

And if you can’t look out for those around you, then what is the point of humanity?

On the bright side, maybe I’ll learn a thing or two.

Academically, obviously.

Or maybe, if I’m really lucky, I’ll just spontaneously combust.

“Merci, Primrose!” Her relief is obvious and I find myself wondering what kind of dick this Jay is to invite a girl he likes to a sex club.

Moments later, we’re back at the forbidding gate.

“I’m only coming—” I close my eyes briefly. “I’m only tagging along to charge my phone, okay?” I really ought to do better at that.

“Bien s?r. Of course.”

“The minute I have power, I’m calling an Uber, and I’m out. Got it?”

“Whatever you say.”

“I say I must be crackers,” I mutter.

“You are hungry? Maybe there will be food.”

My nose scrunches so hard the tip almost touches the space between my brows. Nibbles at an orgy? Sounds super palatable. “I must be crazy—too soft for my own good!”

But beneath my protests and excuses, lurks something else.

An invitation to a sex club. Wouldn’t you be curious?