Amelia and I are riding across town together on the Métro to an old movie theater in Montmartre that plays classic movies. Although Amelia could easily take a hired car wherever she’d like to go, she usually prefers to take public transit. She calls it anadventure. I call it a pain in the ass.
“Can we stop by the club?” she asks, pulling out her phone to check her messages. “I got a shipment of centerpieces in, and I need to approve them so they can put them out for an event tomorrow.”
I shrug. “Sure. Can I wait outside?”
With a laugh, she shakes her head. “It’s just a club, Frey. It’s not going to hurt you.”
“I know it’s not going to hurt me,” I reply. “It just…intimidates me a little.”
Placing her phone down, she screws her lips up in contemplation. “That’s not good. The whole idea is that it’s not supposed to intimidate anyone, especially women.”
I’m starting to feel uncomfortable with the conversation. Amelia knows everything about me and my lack of experience. She never judges or pushes. In fact, she says my choice is empowering and my virginity makes me like some badass goddess. I don’t know about all that. I think it just makes me horny and unsatisfied. “Not all of us were brought up in super sex-positive and liberating environments, Amelia.”
“You make it sound like your parents are prudes. I’ve met them, remember? Your parents are the coolest.”
I wince, trying to forget the time Amelia got into a forty-five-minute discussion with my mom and dad on the history of the Kama Sutra and the importance of sex positions in female pleasure and liberation. She’s right that my parents are not prudes or even really conservative, but I think Amelia sometimes forgets that the world she grew up in is nothing like the world the rest of us did.
Or that my experiences are seriously lacking.
She nudges me, noticing me gnawing on my bottom lip. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.”
“No, I’ll come in,” I say, feigning confidence. “I’m just going to stick by your side.”
“Fair,” she replies, resting her head on my shoulder.
My phone buzzes, so I pick it up and see a response from Archer. Apparently, while I was chatting with Amelia, the two of them were making plans without me.
Archer: We’ll even let Mr. Fancy Pants pay.
Julian: I assume I am Mr. Fancy Pants.
Archer: Naturally. So what do you say? If I live through my fight tonight, let’s go out to eat to celebrate. Some place casual.
Julian: Fine. I’ll get us a reservation at Bouillon Chartier at 8:00 p.m. I’ll make it for three if you live. Two if you don’t.
Archer: Don’t worry. I’ll win. And I’ll be seeing you tomorrow at eight.
“You’re smiling again.”
I put down my phone and stifle my grin, but it’s not easy. The idea of being back together with them both again has me wanting to break out in a happy dance.
Of course, for Archer more than Julian. Right? Archer is the one I’m attracted to. The one I’d like to go home with.
So why does the idea of being with both of them excite me more than being alone with Archer?
The Métro stops at our station, so Amelia and I climb off together. As we come up the stairs to our street, I follow her to the club. It’s still early in the evening, so even if it’s open, I’m sure it’s not as bustling as it will be in a couple of hours.
It’s a short walk to the club, and as it appears at the end of the quiet street, I marvel at how discreet it is on the outside and how much it hides on the inside. The sign on the outside of the building has French appeal, appearing like any other club or restaurant in the city.
Amelia nods to the security, and he opens the door for both of us, greeting her warmly as we pass by. We walk through a small lobby where a woman is stationed, ready to check our membership. Of course, Amelia just breezes past her with me in her shadow.
Once we reach the inside, I bristle. This part of the club really seems more like a regular bar than anything else. And as much as I wish Amelia would stop here, she doesn’t. Instead, she continues down the stairs to the more salacious level downstairs.
I’ve only seen it once when I first came to Paris and she brought me to show off. It’s been renovated since then, and I’ll admit it does appear more geared toward the everyday person instead of the rich and famous, but I’m still not comfortable here.
When we slip through the curtain at the end of the hall, the room gets darker and the music a bit louder. There’s a slow, sexy song playing in French, but the dance floor is empty.
I know what normally happens on that dance floor, so I’m grateful that everyone is staying in their seats tonight.
