“You want me to walk you back? We can hop on the Métro,” he offers, which is very telling of the kind of guy Rex is.
“Nah, I’ll grab a cab. Thanks, though.”
We slap hands and part ways. I assume Rex is headed to any place where he can find a willing bed partner for the night. He’s got the looks and charm for it, so I have no doubt in his abilities. As for me, I head toward a bustling street nearby where I will have no problem finding a cab to take me back to the 8th arrondissement.
It’s only January, so the night air is biting and harsh. Shoving my gauze-wrapped hands into the sleeves of my hoodie, I walk against the wind toward an open cab parked near a row of restaurants.
He rolls up his window when he sees me coming, and I’m not the least bit surprised. I know how I look. Busted lip and swollen eyebrow. I’m not dressed well for this weather, and I probably have blood on my jeans.
Before approaching his window, I pull out the black Amex in my wallet and flash it at him. Suddenly, the window goes down, and he waits for me to tell him where I need to go. I’m not ignorant to the privilege of being a rich white guy. Wait until this guy sees where he’s about to drop me off.
“Avenue Montaigne,” I say, bending over to speak through his open window. The driver’s eyes narrow as he scans my appearance, and then, seemingly deciding against his better judgment, he unlocks his car.
“Très bien,” he replies with a nod.
“Thank fuck,” I mumble, my lips feeling frozen as I grab the handle to the door and climb in. His cab is warm, and I shiver in my seat while he drives, glancing skeptically in his rearview every few minutes to make sure I’m not about to pull a weapon or try to steal his money.
Paris is beautiful at night, and I watch it slowly roll by on the ride back to my apartment. My brother tried to get me to settle down in Amsterdam with him and his family, and Lord knows my mother would have much preferred I come back to the States with her and my dad, but I can’t stand the thought of cementing my feet to the ground anywhere.
Nowhere feels like home, and yet at the same time, everywhere does. I wasn’t born in a helicopter, but I might as well have been. I’m not meant to live on the ground.
I’ve been in Paris for a couple of months now, and I’m already thinking it might be time to run again. Run from what? I don’tknow. All I know is that I have to keep moving or someone or something is going to catch me.
I must doze off because I snap my eyes open to someone barking something at me that I don’t understand in French. Picking my head up, I see the total on the cab’s payment machine and the familiar building that is my home through the frosty glass, so I tap my credit card to the machine and climb out, not bothering to mumble a goodbye.
Half-asleep and so hungry my stomach is churning, I stumble up to my building. The doorman opens the double-set, heavy mahogany door for the guy in front of me, mumbling something to him in French before noticing me coming up behind him. There is a flash of alarm on his face, so I put up my hands in surrender.
“Hey, Félix,” I greet him, and I instantly hope my voice, regardless of how gravelly and tired it is, jogs his memory so he realizes it’s me. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve strolled home gory in the middle of the night.
“Oh, bonsoir, Monsieur Wilde,” he says to me with a nod of his head.
As he holds the door open, the man in front of me turns back with vigilance. The moment his icy blue eyes land on me, he stares at me like I’m a cockroach stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
I’ve noticed him in the building before. He’s young, probably around my age, with nearly white hair and the face of a Bond villain thanks to scorn-filled eyes and sharp cheekbones.
Ignoring his hesitant expression of concern, I brush right past him and march unbothered toward the elevator. The attendant presses the button for me, and I give him a polite nod. Behind me, I hear the soft whispers in French that I assume is Mr. High and Mighty asking the doorman to confirm that I’m actually a resident and he didn’t just let in a vagrant criminal off the streets.
With exhaustion, I roll my eyes. It’s currently somewhere in the vicinity of three to four in the morning, and the sleepyapartment lobby staff don’t need me or anyone else giving them hell. So I turn my back on the blond and hope he takes the stairs.
I’m never so lucky. Instead, he stands right next to me.
When the elevator doors open with a soft ring, I climb on and avoid eye contact with the prick getting in after me. His attention keeps drifting my way, and it takes everything in me to keep my cool.
But when he glances at me again, I snap.
“Do you have a problem?” I bark at him.
His evil eyes narrow. “You smell like urine,” he bites back.
“Probably because my sweatshirt was on the ground in an abandoned Métro station. Is that good enough for you?”
Just then, the door opens, but as soon as I take a step to exit the enclosed space, he slams a hand over the opening. My eyes connect first with his hand, a collection of rings on his delicate fingers. Then my gaze travels up to his face, and I grit my teeth as I glare into his arctic-cold eyes.
“Mind?” I growl.
“Are you a criminal?” he spits. “I’ll call the police.”
“Don’t waste your breath, pretty boy. I’m just going to sleep.”
