The Bar Next Door Page 19

  It means nothing.

  It means everything.

  The words repeat in time with his thrusts, rapid and unyielding.

  Nothing. Everything. Nothing. Everything.

  Suddenly, his hand is no longer braced against my back. I hear him spit, and then his wet fingers are reaching underneath me to circle my clit.

  I’m going to scream. I have to.

  I start to raise my hand to my mouth, making a fist I can bite down on. I need some sort of pain, some sort of distraction, or he’s going to make me explode.

  “Monroe.” His voice halts me, the rhythm of his hips slowing ever so slightly. “Just me. Just this. Forget everything else.”

  My hand shakes. His fingers move faster, hitting just the spot at just the right pace. It’s too much. It’s too good. I let out a deep, yearning groan, louder than any sound I’ve made tonight.

  I didn’t think it was possible, but he starts to fuck me harder, and soon I’m shrieking his name.

  “Merde. Oui. Comme ҫa.” He sounds painfully turned on as I continue to scream for him, his fingers keeping up their perfect pace. “Like that, chérie. Just like that. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

  If it’s anything like what he’s doing to me, then I know neither of us will last much longer.

  “Come for me,” he orders. “Come for me now. Now, Monroe. Now.”

  I feel him stiffen inside me, and it’s the last thing I’m aware of before I’m hurtling over the edge. It feels like diving into madness, like leaping off the ledge of sanity and leaving all trace of comprehension behind.

  There’s only this. There’s only him.

  Sixteen

  Monroe

  BALANCE: An impression of harmony and complement between the various elements of a wine’s profile

  “It doesn’t, um, what is the word? Creep you out? It doesn’t creep you out having Charles Dickens watch everything you do?”

  Julien’s prowling around my living room in his boxers while I sit on the couch wearing nothing but his shirt. I know he’ll need it back soon, but for now, I’m relishing every moment of being surrounded with his scent as I sip my morning coffee and enjoy the view of his fine French hass.

  He slept here last night. It wasn’t a gesture of intimacy so much as exhaustion when I took him by the hand and pulled him into my bed, but waking up wrapped around his furnace of a body made me realize exactly what inviting him this far into my life has done.

  When I wake up tomorrow morning and he’s not here, I’ll miss him. I’ve carved out a place in myself that’s shaped for him to fill. It may not be very deep yet, just the first few scrapes and strokes of the knife, but it’s there, and I know even now that it will take much longer to heal than it did to create.

  But I’ll think about that later. For now, he’s here with me. I’ll save missing him for when he’s gone.

  “What do you have against Charles Dickens?”

  “Nothing. I just think it’s a little creepy to have an old dead guy on the wall. He looks a bit like a pervert.”

  “Charles Dickens was not a pervert!” I insist. “He was a literary genius, and I am honoring his contributions to the world.”

  “I think Shakespeare was a literary genius, and I don’t have a picture of him hanging on my wall.”

  “Well now I know what I’m getting you for Christmas.”

  We both laugh, but there are questions lurking under the sound. Christmas is six months away. Will we even know each other then?

  Julien gives up on peering at Charles and comes to join me on the couch instead. He swivels me around so my back is against the armrest and tucks my legs over his lap before he picks up his own coffee where he left it sitting on the table. He’s already inspected all my stacks of books, made fun of my extensive mug collection, and invaded my sock drawer to see if every pair has polka dots on them.

  The answer to that inquiry was yes.

  “I wish I could stay all day.” He runs a hand along my shin and sighs.

  “I wish you could too,” I admit. “I wish we both could.”

  I’m already late for work, but this morning feels like a spell, and I’m not ready to break it with the twist of the doorknob just yet.

  “Tell me something,” I blurt.

  He gives me a questioning look.

  “Tell me anything,” I clarify. “Tell me something you never tell anyone.”

  I know I sound crazy, but I need something I can hold onto. I need more than this moment. I need a piece of him I can take with me today to remind me that this is real, that it’s worth holding onto.

  He looks puzzled and a little amused, but I can see his understanding starting to dawn.

  “You want me to tell you a secret?”

  “Sure,” I agree. “Tell me a secret.”

  He strokes my leg for a minute, circles the ball of my ankle with his thumb. I hum as he starts to knead the sole of my foot.

  “The secret,” I remind him before I can get too carried away to care.

  “The secret,” he repeats. “The secret is that...Well, if you want something I never tell anyone, then...I’ve never been to my father’s grave.”

  He keeps rubbing my foot, but his eyes are fixed on the wall across the room.

  “I couldn’t,” he continues, his voice eerily devoid of emotion. “I just couldn’t. They had the funeral in a church, and my mother cried on my arm the whole time, but when we got to the graveyard, I just...I couldn’t get out of the car. She begged and begged, but I just sat there. I knew if I watched them lay him in that grave, he would really be gone. I didn’t know what would happen to me if he was gone. Who would I be? What would I be working for? What reason would there be to keep building? It was always...”

  Him.

  Julien doesn’t say the word, but I hear it all the same. I suspect this may be the first time Julien has let himself think about his father this way, that he’s working to understand what happened that day even as he shares the memory with me.

  I stay quiet, giving him space to think, space to breathe. Eventually he shakes his head and asks with an edge of bitterness, “Isn’t that embarrassing? I couldn’t even hold my mother as they buried her husband.”

  “It’s not embarrassing, Julien,” I urge. “It’s...tragic. Losing someone like that is always tragic, and everyone handles grief in their own way. It’s not something you can prepare for. It’s not something you need to feel embarrassed about.”

  He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

  “Look, if you want to talk about embarrassment, let me tell you something that’s really worth being embarrassed about. You want to know my secret?”

  He looks at me with raised eyebrows. I take a deep breath before I spit it out.

  “Mary-Lynne.”

  I watch him stare at me in confusion, and then I see the exact moment when it clicks.

  “Non.”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “They didn’t.”

  “They did.”

  I have the birth certificate to prove it.

  “My mother used to be a practicing psychologist.” I drag my hands down my face, groaning my exasperation. “She of all people should have known how detrimental it would be. She had to have been high on whatever post-birth drugs they were pumping into her. As for my dad, well, I don’t know what his excuse is. He says he thought it was cute, and maybe it was—back when I was, you know, a baby. It’s less cute to name your daughter after history’s number one sex symbol when she doesn’t actually grow up to be a sex symbol! I’m not even blonde, for Christ’s sake!”

  I collapse forward, resting my forehead on knees as the mix of frustration, fury, and mortification I feel whenever I think about my name takes over. The worst part is that I know how funny it is. I can understand why people laugh.

  “Hey.” Julien pats my head where it’s bowed down in front of him. “Hey, listen. Your parents are crazy; I won’t lie about that. But you know wh
at?” He slides a hand underneath me and grabs my chin, coaxing me to sit up again. “Even before we’d actually had sex, even before I knew you at all, given the choice between sleeping with you and sleeping with Marilyn Monroe, I would choose you every damn time, chérie.”

  “Ha ha, very funny.”

  He twists my chin to make me shake my head back and forth.

  “I’m not joking, ma belle. I’ve always thought Marilyn Monroe is highly overrated. I’ve never understood the hype. Also, I much prefer brunettes.”

  He tugs my chin closer and leans in for a kiss.

  * * *

  A few days later, I’m sitting on a milk crate in the alley behind Taverne Toulouse. Spending ten minutes in this dank and shadowy alcove that always smells like garbage and spilt beer is my attempt to give myself a little sunshine and fresh air. I’ve been cooped up in my office all day, pounding away at paperwork, and the letters were starting to blur in front of my eyes.

  I pull my phone out to give Roxanne a call. We haven’t had a chance to catch up in way too long, and of course, there’s no way I can actually let myself sit still without finding a way to multitask. Hopefully she’ll pick up and we can get a quick chat in before I head back to my desk.

  “Wow, look at you, done work by 5PM!” she greets me.

  “I’m not done,” I admit. “I’m just taking a break.”

  “Monroe,” she chides, “5PM is not break time. 5PM is home time.”

  “What a beautiful dream that is.”

  I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “And Cole says I’m a workaholic.”

  “How is Cole?” I ask. “How are you? How is everything? That’s why I’m calling. I feel like I have no idea what’s going on with you right now. I’m so sorry.”

  She chuckles into the phone. “Ma belle, you don’t have to be sorry. Thanks for thinking of me, though. Everything is comme d’hab. Nothing to report. Cole and the band are going on a mini tour soon, and my work has been as busy as usual. I’m sure you have more exciting news than me.”

  A sly note slips into her voice, and I know exactly what she wants to hear about.

  “Yes, I’m still seeing him. It’s going...well.”

  “Well?” Roxanne repeats. “Well? What kind of a word is ‘well?’ Give me more than that.”

  “It’s going very well,” I deadpan.

  “Smartass,” she shoots back. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t kiss and tell. I already know you do.”

  “Fiiiine.” I make a show of giving her more information. “He slept at my place for the first time last week.”

  “Wow. You guys are moving fast.”

  “I know, I know,” I admit.

  “I didn’t mean it like it’s a bad thing. At the poetry slam, you guys seemed so...You seemed like you fit.”

  I go to lean back against the wall of the alley and then catch myself. I don’t want whatever is on these bricks to end up on my shirt.

  “It does feel like that,” I reply. “It feels...It feels so right. It feels like I can trust him, like he can trust me. I want this to work, Roxy. I want a shot at seeing where this goes.”

  “I want that for you too. I really do, Monroe.” I can hear the conviction in her voice, and I’m grateful for it, but I know she spots the giant obstacle in my path. “Have you guys talked about...?”

  “The fact that Julien is building a business which, by nature, is meant to take my business out?”

  “Yeah, that,” Roxanne agrees.

  I sigh. “We haven’t talked about it as much as we should—as much as we need to, but...I have some ideas.”

  Roxanne laughs. “Of course you do.”

  “It’s June. Fucking Félix Fournier’s due date for his decision on selling is coming up. He actually wants to meet with me today to discuss some things. I have all the numbers ready. Sales are up. It’s still in his interest to keep this place, and I...I’m not going to let him walk all over me, Roxanne. I know how to run this bar. I know how to make more money. He’s the one who’s slowing us down, and I’ve never stood up and told him that because I’ve been too scared of what would happen to everyone else if he fired me or decided to sell, but he’s already threatened to do both. I’m going to tell him exactly what he needs to do to make this place thrive, and then...then I’m going to offer to buy in.”

  Roxanne whoops on the other end of the line. “Like a share? Monroe, I’ve been wanting you to do that for years!”

  It’s true; she’s been on my ass about it forever, but as possessive as I am about Taverne Toulouse, I’ve never actually made a move to own it. I pretended I was content to be a manager, to make sure my little ship and its crew were set to sail the seas, but actually flying my own flag from the mast seemed like arrogance. It seemed unnecessary.

  Now it’s imperative.

  “I don’t know what he’ll say, but it’s worth a shot. I’ve got a convincing case.”

  “You do. No one knows that place better than you.”

  “And as for Julien...” I add because I know she’s trying to find a way to ask about it. “I’m going to ask him for something. It’s going to be hard for him to give, but I have to believe he feels the way I do about this. I have to believe he’s willing to try.”

  Roxanne clears her throat. “That was cryptic as fuck, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  My laughter bounces around the alley. “It’s not really my place to explain, but I think it’ll work. If I can show him there’s a way to keep us and keep our businesses, I think he’ll be willing to take it.”

  “Still cryptic as fuck,” Roxanne replies, “but you sound optimistic.”

  “I am. I think.”

  “Okay, maybe not that optimistic.”

  We both laugh. I hear the door opening at Roxanne’s place.

  “Cole just got home,” she announces, and then raises her voice to speak to him. “It’s Monroe! She’s alive! She didn’t get killed by French dick overload like we thought!”

  “You know I can hear you, right?”

  “Glad you’re alive, Monroe!” Cole calls out, making it clear they’re both aware I’m still listening. “Hope it was some good sex.”

  “Do you guys really have nothing else to talk about?” I ask.

  “We’re getting married, Monroe,” Roxanne answers. “We have to start getting ready to live vicariously through other people’s sex lives, since our own is now inevitably doomed.”

  “Okay, we both know that’s blatantly untrue,” I protest.

  As much as it grosses me out to think about Cole in a sexual way after being purely platonic friends for so long, the dude has got swagger, and from what Roxanne has told me before I shush her into silence every time, that swagger very much carries through to his performance in the sack.

  “I’m going to get back to work,” I announce, “and let you soon-to-be-newlyweds carry out your evening domestic duties.”

  “Mon dieu, don’t call sex ‘domestic duties.’”

  “I meant cooking dinner!” I inform her. “You’re the one with your head in the gutter.”

  “So be it.” She heaves a dramatic sigh before we both say our goodbyes with promises to meet up soon.

  I put my phone back in my pocket and get up off the milk crate, taking one last breath of garbage-tinged air before heading back inside. I’ve only just gotten settled at my desk when there’s a knock at the door. I pull it open and find Fucking Félix Fournier behind it. For once in his life, he’s early.

  “Salut, Monroe,” he greets me. “This is my lawyer, Monsieur Gauthier.”

  I look past the doorframe to find a guy in slacks and button down waiting beside him in the narrow hall.

  “He doesn’t have long,” Fournier continues in French, “so let’s get this over with.”

  There’s hardly room in my office for two people, so I lead them into the kitchen. I was going to suggest Fournier and I go to a restaurant tonight, somewhere we could have a formal and profess
ional business discussion without being crammed into a broom closet, but the two of them look too hurried to even consider it.

  There are no chits on the order board, so I ask the two cooks on duty to step out for a moment and tell them I’ll help out later if the orders get backed up. They comply with wary glances at Fournier and his accomplice.

  This is far from an ideal setting, but I still have a point to prove, and it’s a point I’m committed to making.

  “Let me just grab my reports,” I begin, still speaking in French. “I have a few things to—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Fournier interrupts. “I’m just here to tell you I’m selling. We’ve already got in touch with a few different buyers who seem interested. Monsieur Gauthier needs to go over some of the legalities of letting all the staff go.”

  The lawyer starts pulling out a few papers while Fournier glances around the kitchen, but I just stand there as the floor lurches underneath me. My vision almost seems to blur.

  “You’re...selling?” I echo like an idiot. My voice sounds raw, hoarse from the sudden dryness in my throat. “But it’s not the end of June yet.”

  So much for my collected and rational arguments.

  “June will be over next week. I made up my mind. I should have sold this place a long time ago.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “I’m selling, Monroe. It’s over. It’s time to let this place go.” He sighs like he almost regrets it, and that’s when my indignation finally flares and catches fire.

  “There are some things I’d like to discuss with you, in private, and as your employee of seven years, I think you owe it to me to at least hear them out.”