I emerge into the bright air again, feeling dirty and disgusting. Now I know this is definitely not the Paris I was imagining. This is not the world I was imagining when I thought about traveling. All I want to do is take a shower and lie down in my own bed, not the strange bed in the strange room. I reach in my pocket to pull out some money to buy something eat, but I realize I’m no longer hungry. I feel numb. Then I see what I’ve pulled out of my pocket is Mr. King’s card.
I could call him.
It would be nice to see a familiar face.
I finger the paper for the hundredth time since he gave it to me. R. King, it says. I could call him; he said so. Before I left, he wished me bon voyage, through my parents. Said again that if I got into any trouble while I was in the city I should let him know and he would be happy to get a call.
I sit down in the large square, leaning against a lamppost. The architecture of the Louvre is simultaneously welcoming and forbidding—its sheer size, the beauty, the modern entrance protruding up from the expanse.
I’ve somehow missed the vendors; where are they? I figure there must be some here. Hungry or not, I should probably eat before I faint. Fingering the card again, I weigh the pros and cons of calling him. It’s only a simple call to your family friend, a little voice in my head says.
A gorgeous family friend. A gorgeous older man, says another. You know your motivations aren’t entirely innocent. Do you really want to wrap yourself up in someone else, someone who would never think of you that way? Especially after just being assaulted?
I don’t know if I could even entertain such a thought of being with anyone after that drunk pushed himself against me in the subway, though.
But Mr. King isn’t anything like that, the first voice tells me.
I bet he knows some really nice restaurants. And he’d probably invite me, too. My cell phone seems to jump into my hand when I root around in my purse for some candy or a mint. It’s the perfect size for my grasp. Why am I thinking of Mr. King’s cock?
He’s your dad’s friend, he doesn’t see you in that way. He can’t. Besides, you’ve only just graduated from Kelsey. Can’t you stand on your own two feet? Do you have to leech onto someone else? Your dad’s friend?
It’s not leeching if he offers.
Someone looks at me on the square and points, saying something and nudging his friend. I look down at myself. Did that drunk guy mess me up? I don’t think so. I look fine. Then another person shouts something. I look behind me, but there’s nobody there.
This is really starting to freak me out. It’s probably nothing, but I don’t know why people are making a fuss over me. I clutch my cell phone in my hand as fear clenches my heart. I scramble t
o stand up so I’m not vulnerable, just in case someone comes at me again.
This isn’t going the way I thought at all.
“Now listen, Jordan,” my mother had said when I insisted I wanted to go to Paris. “Are you sure you can handle it? You’re not exactly Indiana Jones!”
Indiana Jones? Jeez. “I’ll be fine, Mom,” I scoffed, trying not to show how nervous I actually was, how much I wished Kelsey was still with me—still in the world, for that matter—and on this trip.
“Well, if you’re sure, but I don’t want you getting into any situations that are hard to handle.”
“We support you, honey,” my dad piped in, “but we love you and don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Maybe it’s best to call Mr. King?
I avoid everyone’s eyes and my stomach rumbles so loudly I’m afraid it’s booming across the square. Turning my face to the wall, I quickly dial the numbers on the card as stars start to swim in front of my face. I must have stood too quickly.
“King,” I hear as soon as he picks up.
“Mr. King,” I say. “It’s Jordan.”
“Where are you? I’m coming to pick you up right now.”
God help me, my core contracts in pleasure.
Chapter 4
Raleigh
If we both leaned our elbows on the table, we would be close enough to kiss.
In the light of the small restaurant, Jordan looks like a shy goddess. The warmth makes her skin glow, and the subtle flashes of the candlelight play across the tops of her breasts, which peek out of her neckline.