Page 49 of Frenched (Frenched 1)
“OK, ready,” I said, coming out of the bathroom. From the closet I grabbed my little black clutch and switched a few things to it.
“Really? God, you’re quick.” Lucas came around the corner from the sitting area. “And fuck, you’re hot.”
Smiling, I faced him. “Thank you.”
“I can’t believe how fast you get ready to go, and you look this good.” His eyes swept over my hair, my bare shoulder, my fitted pants.
“I’m usually pretty fast, unless I blow out my hair. That takes a lot of time. Otherwise…” I threw up my arms. “What you see is what you get.”
“Lucky for me.” He snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me in for a kiss. “Hey, you’re tall.”
I laughed. “I have heels on tonight.”
He looked down and groaned. “Mia, you’re killing me. Come on, let’s go before I lose all control.” Glancing over his shoulder, he went on, “And it’s a nice room and all, but being here with you feels a little weird.”
I patted his cheek. “I totally understand. You don’t have to come here again.”
We took the Metro to the base of Montmartre and climbed up hundreds of steep, narrow steps lined with cool old lampposts and iron railings. My feet didn’t hurt nearly as much as I thought they would in my heels, probably because I was so taken with the scenery. The winding cobblestone streets and sweeping views were probably charming and picturesque during the day, but tonight, with mist hanging in the air, the ground dark and shiny from the rain, and the lamp lights glowing through the fog, Montmartre seemed straight out of an old-fashioned noir film.
Taking my hand, Lucas led me to a restaurant off the main square and right away I heard the reason he’d brought me here. The sound of guitars filtered out through the open doors, and I squeezed his hand as he led me to a small square table near the back of the large, half-filled room.
When we were seated, I studied the three musicians playing with interest. They sat in a semi-circle, and I’m not sure what I expected a gypsy to look like, but it wasn’t three portly middle-aged guys in jeans and plaid shirts with electric guitars plugged into amplifiers behind them. In front of them was a small table with a stack of CD’s, a little basket of cash, and three glasses of beer. They looked like any regular shmoes busking for tips on the street corner.
But the music.
I’d never heard anything like it before, the way the two rhythm guitars kept up a percussive, driving rhythm with constant strumming on every beat. “My God, their wrists must kill them,” I said to Lucas.
He smiled. “They’re used to it.”
The lead guitarist, the one in the middle, had fingers that flew so quickly over the strings his hands appeared blurry. I’d never seen anything like it.
“Can you play that fast?” I asked.
“Ha. I wish.”
I elbowed him. “I bet you can.”
“Listen, I’m all right. But these guys are the real deal. That guy there?” He pointed to the musician in the center. “As good as any jazz guitarist I’ve met in New York.”
We drank wine and ate steak frites and salads and listened to the music, Lucas occasionally answering my questions about the name of a song or the style of the music. It was so much fun I almost forgot about sex.
Almost.
But sometimes I’d look over at Lucas and catch him watching me, and he’d give me a slow smile that meant you know what I’m thinking. And once he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I can’t stop thinking about the shower,” causing my face to get hot and that swooping rush in my core.
At the set break, I was surprised when the lead guitarist wandered over and shook Lucas’s hand. They conversed in French, of course, so I had no idea what they were saying, but I smiled and offered my hand when Lucas introduced me. The guitarist’s name was Stefan; he had black hair, dark eyes, and a warm, gap-toothed smile. After he shook my hand, he said something to Lucas that made him laugh before heading over to the bar.
“What did he say?” I demanded.
“He said he’s never seen me in here with a girl before and figures I must really want to impress you if I brought you to hear him play.”
“Oh.” I hid my satisfied smile in my wine glass.
“So did it work?” Lucas sat back and regarded me with playful eyes.
“Yes.” I was impressed, but mostly I was happy to hear that Lucas had never brought a girl here before.
On his way back to the front, Stefan stopped and put a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. He asked a question, and at first Lucas shook his head, but after some prodding, appeared to waver. He looked at me. “Stefan is asking me to sit in.”
