Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Joëlle and Gwen are by my side, Cosette grabbing a fuzzy throw blanket and tossing it over me. Gwen takes one look at my bloodied cheek, screams in fury, then turns and kicks the prone body of the man on the floor.
“Back down, Gwen. Leave him to me,” the humungous guy breathes through flared nostrils.
My attacker’s eyes are comically wide as he crouches in the corner of the room. “My God, my God,” he says in French, bringing up his hands to cover his face.
“Turn away, honey,” Cosette says. “We’ll leave Monsieur to deal with him. You come with me. Let’s get you cleaned up and a nice, hot cup of tea.”
In a daze, I allow myself to be led to the doorway. Behind us, whoever Monsieur is lifts the man up by his hair. I hear the sound of his heavy fist landing like a brick. As I’m nearly carried out the door, I hear my attacker beg for mercy.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on Cosette’s bed, wearing borrowed clothing. I hold the teacup with both hands, but I’m trembling so much I’m afraid I’ll slosh it all over me.
“There, there,” Cosette says, her brow furrowed in concern. A tall, thin blonde with kind green eyes and a freckled nose, she looks like a little porcelain doll, in such sharp contrast to Gwen’s bold and brazen black hair and red lipstick they look like they could play the angel and devil on my shoulder. Cosette strokes her hand down the length of my hair. “I hope he killed him.”
There’s no hint of exaggeration in her eyes.
“Killed him?” I whisper, even as my heart begins to beat faster. Maybe he can help me. Maybe he’s the ticket…
I keep my tone steady with difficulty. “Who was he?”
Gwen paces the room, cursing and muttering. “He was planning this. He knew you’d call for us, and he managed to not only lock the door but hide the master key. I hope Monsieur makes him hurt before he ends him.”
“Ends him? I feel like I’m on a reality TV show or something. Is this how you crazy French girls do things? Girls, girls, please. Tell me who he is. You can’t just kill someone.”
Gwen pauses and stands in front of me. She blinks in surprise. “You can’t. I can’t. Monsieur Gerard? He can. Don’t you know?”
Excitement builds. I tap my foot to get rid of some of the energy.
“Gwen, honey, I don’t believe anyone ever really told her…” Joëlle grimaces.
“Told me what? Honestly, this is maddening.”
Joëlle twirls one of her bright red curls and bites her lip as she looks over at Gwen.
“He’s the owner,” Gwen says. “The very proud, very stern, very scary owner of our establishment.” She pauses. “He takes the safety of his girls extremely seriously.”
“I’ve heard that. It was one of the reasons I came here to begin with.” Okay, so I’m not totally in the dark. Not long ago, Cosette and I were college roommates before tragedy struck. She was the one that brought me here. She promised me safety, and so much money I wouldn’t know what to do with it all.
It was a good reason to come.
“Nicolette,” Gwen says with a sigh. “Monsieur’s last name is Gerard. You don’t know the name?”
His name hangs in the air with the weight of a rain cloud, but I have no idea why.
She waits for recognition to hit. When I shake my head, she groans.
“She’s American, Gwen,” Cosette reminds her. “She’s new here.”
“Didn’t you tell her anything?”
“I know some things,” I protest, not wanting my friend to be ridiculed any further. “Just tell me who he is.”
She looks at the doorway, then at Cosette.
“Tell her,” Cosette hisses.
I want to know. I need to know.
“He—”
Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway outside the door. Gwen, who is afraid of literally nothing and no one, blinks and stares at me. Cosette jumps to her feet. Joëlle stares at the door. We all start at the sound of a loud, confident, resounding knock.
“Yes?” Cosette squeaks. “Who is it?”
“Fabien. May I come in?”
Fabien? I mouth. Gwen only nods.
“Yes, yes, of course, come in!”
The door swings open, and Monsieur Fabien Gerard makes his entrance.
Under duress, my vague impression of him was some sort of hurricane-fueled monster with fists of steel and enough authority to make a full-grown man wet his pants. Now, though, calmed by my friends’ tender care and the warm tea, I’m in a better frame of mind.
He carries himself with an imposing air of self-confidence—tall, sturdy, he’s taller than every other man who’s entered this establishment, yet he walks with surprising grace. I’d guess it has something to do with the utter confidence in his stride, the certain knowledge that he not only owns this workplace but commands the respect of all those who defer to his authority.