Everly After (2 page)

“What’s your name, pet?” My words are barely a whisper.

Her fingers hover above my hands on her knee. I keep my eyes anchored there as she slowly entwines them with mine. That spark people talk about when two people touch—apparently it’s not a heap of shite because it happens right at that moment and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know anything. Why I’m here with her. Why we’re not kissing. My name.

“Everly.”

I don’t want to shake off her touch, so I stay still. I want to hear her whisper again. That soft, lovely voice, nothing like the loud American girls I’ve known. This one smells like sugar, and her voice is just as sweet.

I should say it’s a pretty name, but I don’t. I pry my eyes from the sight of our linked hands and meet her gaze. “Hi,” I say lamely.

She’s still, so still that I’m not sure she’s heard me. Her face is the perfect mask, not revealing if she’s feeling what I am. My world’s just been inverted.

I lift up the corner of my shirt to see if the blood has stopped. Everly doesn’t wait. She jumps down and throws back the rest of her beer as she marches toward the fire escape.

“The party…” she starts.

The words die out between us.

“I’m leaving, unless—”

“No, I can leave. I want to leave,” she says, speaking over me. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

That’s the most she’s said all night.

“Not your scene?”

She makes an odd noise in her throat. “I don’t want it to be.”

I follow her down the fire escape, back into the crowded flat. I’m waiting for her to glow neon like the others, but her skin is smooth under the black lights, untarnished. Her top is illuminated to an electric blue, and her shorts spark with dancing light. I’m too distracted to notice she’s slipped away.

“Have you seen her?” a girl asks in French, throwing herself at me. Her hands tighten over mine as she tips forward. She’s wearing Minnie Mouse ears and giant furry boots. I thought people knew how to dress in Paris. “Have you seen her? I swear she’s here.”

My mind is repeating her question when she curls her hand over my shoulder and brushes up against me. Her blinking, glow-lit earrings are freaking me out.

“Do you know?” the girl asks again. Her voice sounds warped, like someone’s messing with the playback of an old French pop cassette. “Hello?”

My palms are sweaty again. I need air. I need to breathe.

A hand reaches back into the crowd and circles my wrist in a tight grip. The music pulsates around me, the room stifling. A glitter cannon shoots off across the room, raining silver over the dancers, disco balls, and black lights. The hand never lets go.

Everly breaks our touch and sprints down the hallway as soon as I emerge from the flat. There’s glitter and confetti scattered in her hair. Ridiculously large sunglasses cover her face now, and she’s still not wearing shoes. She waves for me to follow, but I don’t understand the rush until the door opens up behind me.

“Her,” someone yells. “I swear it’s her.” A small crowd spills out into the hallway, snapping pictures with their mobiles.

I rush forward and throw Everly over my shoulder, racing down the stairs until we’re outside and around the corner from the building. I take another corner and another, until my lungs are burning. The city starts to fade back in around me like the lines of a coloring book, and my heart stops drumming.

My body does this sometimes. It moves without my mind catching up. It’s survival. Did I need to throw a complete stranger over my shoulder to escape a crowded rave? No. But I haven’t adjusted yet and this is what happens. I make an idiot of myself. No one is shooting. There aren’t roadside bombs here by a shitty flat in Montmartre. No one is going to hold a gun to my head and threaten to kill me as they duct-tape my mouth shut.

I’m safe now, here in Paris.

I unfold her from my shoulder, lifting her straight out from my body so she doesn’t slide down my front. I’m not about to torture myself.

Everly peeks over the large rims of her sunglasses at me, one side of her mouth kicked up.

“What the hell was that about?”

She ignores my question. Again. “Want to get coffee, Beckett?”

I’m not waiting to wrestle out another detail about this girl, who she is, who she’s not. I’m not sure I care. I want another beer, my flat, the sound of typing while I write.

I brush my hands over my T-shirt, trying to clean off all the glitter, but it won’t budge. It only covers more of me now. “Goodnight, Everly.”

There are beautiful lies in this world, and it takes me being chased through a hallway at a rave to decide this girl is one of them.

But even the most beautiful lies aren’t worth chasing.

Everly

I’m staring into the bottom of my empty cappuccino cup. Again.

It’s getting to be a terrible habit. I can sit forever, watching the shadows change over the café table, listening to the busy sidewalk as the rest of Paris lives life. All while I stay rooted in my seat, staring into my empty cup as though it’s a busted Magic 8-Ball, refusing to give me an answer.

All truths burn bright and clear, but they won’t be in the bottom of this cup, no matter how long I sit. I’m still waiting in the dark.

I tap my cigarette over the ashtray and take another drag. A red scooter rushes past. The rumble of its engine fills me with energy, my heart racing in anticipation as if the driver will loop around the block and drive me far away. I still haven’t been to bed since last night’s party. It’d be great if he could take me back to my apartment. I’m glued to this seat instead, unable to shake the memory of a stranger’s touch.

I don’t want to think of how he used his shirt to clean up my scraped knee. Or how I gave up my name too easily as he stood between my thighs. His touch was unexpected, more a natural reflex for him than a cry for help from me. It’s mixed me up.

I remember the way his eyes pinned my body against the backdrop of Paris as if I were some rare butterfly in an exhibit box. I remember the way my heart jumped when he didn’t look away after I caught him staring. All morning I’ve caught myself closing my eyes and inhaling, pretending to smell him again—lemon and cloves. Like a hot cup of tea.

I remember Beckett, even if I don’t want to—and I hate him a little bit. I’ve never had someone walk away from me before. No one leaves an heiress on the sidewalk in the middle of the night without shoes.

I flag down the waitress for another cappuccino, greedily sipping it once it arrives. I should be getting back to my apartment. I’m sure it’s a disaster. Or maybe the party is still going and I can spend the rest of the afternoon losing myself again. Except the yawn burning at the back of my throat reminds me I’m here in Paris for a reason. I’m here to put myself back together, to figure out what to do with my life now that I’ve graduated college. I thought it’d be easy to do in Manhattan, but things happen. Life happens, and my mistakes are just holding me back. I’m better off here, where I can start fresh and move forward.

I believe the lie, too. For a few minutes at least. I close my eyes and dream of another life, another girl. I see myself smiling, the sun fiery against my tanned skin, my hair twisting into golden spirals in the summer breeze. I don’t know where I am in this dream, but I seem happy. I want to be there. I want to be her.

Then lips cover mine, warm and soft, tasting of salty caramel. My body tenses as a tongue licks the seam of my mouth, parting my lips and stroking my tongue without hesitation. I know these lips, this mouth.

I part my eyes slowly, watching the man kissing me, careful not to break our connection. I give in for a few minutes and chase his lips with mine, losing myself in our kiss because it feels good. He bites down on my bottom lip, hard, and then his eyes flash open.

He doesn’t let go, which is familiar too. It’s selfish. His teeth drag over my swollen lips as I pull away. I don’t miss the brown eyes in front of me, but sometimes I miss the kisses.

“Is that how you say hello to every girl sitting at a café?” I slump back against my chair and sip my cappuccino, washing away the taste of him.

I don’t want to see Hudson. I don’t want him here with me in Paris. I don’t want him staring at me as if he knows something I don’t.

“Only you.” That wicked grin spreads across his stupidly handsome face. “Hello, Ev.”

I clamp my eyes shut, a dry laugh escaping my throat. He always was the charmer.

Hudson leans forward, his dark hair falling across his forehead. He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear as my eyes pop open and meet his cocky smile. It’s a stolen touch, one that I didn’t invite but he thinks he’s welcome to. His eyes focus on my lips. I know he wants to kiss me again, but he pauses.

That’s not like Hudson.

I’m thrown off, searching for words. I really should get some sleep soon—my eyes are burning. “I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”

He crowds closer, his hands bracing on the table either side of me. His lips brush against the curve of my ear as he whispers, “Who else would you be kissing?”

If I give in to him, I’ll lose everything, so I’ve built up a wall between his advances and my heart. It’s withstood a lot over the years. We’ve practically been engaged since we were five. Our parents want our wedding more than anything, and I want anyone other than Hudson. It’s our constant battle.

My fingers rest on his chest, the fine poplin of his suit shirt soft to the touch. “Depends on the day, really.” His heart is racing. I search his eyes to see what he wants, but they’re only deep pools of chocolate-brown.

This is surprising, too. I’ve always been good at reading them until now.

Hudson eases back into the opposite chair, studying me. “I don’t believe you.”

I shrug, taking a deep drag of my cigarette, grounding myself in this moment, this chair, as Paris blurs by me. I blow out a curling cloud of smoke, happy that, for a second, I can’t make out his face. I liked today better when I was staring into my empty cup. Alone.

“You’re smoking again?”

I nod, hating that he says “again” as if he knows me. I guess he thinks he does. Hudson grabs it and inhales, waiting for my shock, but it never comes. Nothing about him shocks me anymore.

He takes a few more drags, then drops it onto the concrete patio and grinds it out with his John Lobb. “I heard you had a party last night,” he says. I don’t set down my cappuccino. It might come in handy if I need something to throw at his face. “And you didn’t call me?”

“I didn’t know you were in Paris.”

I hate the way he’s taking over the bistro chair as though this is his café, like I’m his…whatever. He’s not usually so well-behaved. He’s a fucked-up mess on the best of days. I’m waiting for
that
Hudson because I know he’s coming. He’s never far behind from the lie I’m faced with now.

“I’m staying around the corner.”

Whenever he’s in Paris, he likes to stay at the same upscale hotel. At least this I expect and know.

I roll my eyes and slump back into my chair. He doesn’t even try to be charming. I expect him to come right out with it next:
Fuck me, Everly
. He wouldn’t be polite enough to make it sound like an invitation.

“I’m not going back with you.”

Even without knowing Hudson was in the city, I’m not sure why I’d come here of all the cafés in Paris. If I really cared about getting on with things, I wouldn’t visit places where Hudson likes to prowl. Last night, though… It’s Beckett’s fault. After he left me, I found some shoes and grabbed my clutch, walking the city until it was light out. And now here I am at Café George V. But I don’t belong on Avenue des Champs-Élysées anymore, not when I’m waiting tables in Montmartre. I’m dead-broke, an heiress with a moral compass and no more trust fund.

“Of course not.” His smile widens like he’s uncovered my dirty secret. “Do you want a ride back to your place?”

I take a sip of my cappuccino only to be met with another empty cup. Damn him. “No.” The cup rattles as I slam it down onto the saucer and frown.

He laughs to himself, suddenly taken with the passing traffic crawling toward the Arc de Triomphe. He scrubs his face, his stupid, handsome face that I don’t find at all attractive.

Well, a little bit.

“Julia’s been asking about you.”

Panic constricts my throat. I don’t want to talk about her, don’t want to see her. I don’t want to remember last spring; my scars are enough. I push up from the table and block out his voice, focusing instead on finding some euros in my clutch so I can pay my bill and get away. I dig around until I grab a few and throw them next to my empty cup. His hand covers mine and pins me to the table. I try to wrestle away, but his free hand knocks under my chin, drawing my eyes up to meet his. I glare back.

“Fine, you win. We won’t talk about her, Ev.”

I jab my chin out and square my shoulders, but it’s hard to ignore the icy lump that’s lodged itself in my stomach.

“Let me give you a ride to wherever you’re staying. My driver is around the corner.”

I scrunch my nose, exhausted. I’m too tired for our game. His grip loosens, and I jerk my hand out from under his, nodding weakly. Maybe he understands. Maybe he’s not going to be a complete asshole.