No Place That Far (21 page)

Chapter Twenty

Marcus should've known Lady Luck wasn't entirely on his side.

His passport had grown legs and hidden underneath a pile of bills that needed to be shredded or filed. He got on the freeway just in time to get caught in Boeing's third-shift traffic. It took four tries to find a long-term parking lot that didn't look like a shady front for a ring of car thieves. And that was to say nothing about getting through the security cattle line that had no business being that long at three in the goddamned morning.

But finally, with his bag thoroughly searched and his passport safely tucked inside his jacket pocket, he made it to his gate.

Just in time to find out his flight was delayed due to mechanical problems.

He paced beside the window, his stomach turning. The only thing racing faster than his heart was his mind. There wasn't time for this, damn it. What if the flight was canceled? What if… God, so many what-ifs.

Every time another plane sped down the runway and took off, his chest tightened a little more. He wanted to be onboard. Didn't matter where the plane was headed—at least it was in the air, which was a step closer to Paris than this hunk of junk idling outside his gate.

Finally, almost forty-five minutes after the plane was supposed to take off, the door opened and people started shuffling onboard. Inside, they took their sweet time arranging their forty-seven pieces of carry-on, completely oblivious to how badly he needed them to sit down, shut up and let this plane get moving.

As the plane started taxiing, Marcus threw back a couple of sedatives. He doubted they'd help—he was just too wound up to sleep—but with the time change, and with the need to be focused and articulate when he landed, he'd take all the help he could get.

And as it happened, exhaustion combined with the sedative, and before the plane had even reached cruising altitude, he was out cold.

The airport was huge, but Marcus had been pretty much in a daze ever since he'd gotten off the plane. Thank God he didn't have to wait for suitcases; all he'd packed was a backpack, so he was probably through to the other side first. Immigration gave him a side eye, but he was too tired to be very annoyed.
Yes, I'm American. Sorry.

Onward. He located the taxi line, as Julien had advised him. Getting to where he wanted to be by train would take longer than just grabbing a taxi, and he was too dazed and tired to negotiate tickets and stations anyway.

The taxi driver greeted him in what seemed surly French, but nodded when Marcus held the piece of paper under his nose. The drive to Belville took about half an hour, give or take, and the area looked nothing like the glossy pictures of Paris. In fact, the area seemed somewhat run-down, with lots of graffiti, though the area seemed more colorful than unsafe. People on the streets seemed a good mix, and not exclusively white. Something of an “alternative” part of the town, then.

The taxi driver grunted at him and gesticulated. Marcus peered out of the window and spotted the bar. Chez Claude. The taxi driver looked a bit dubious, but Marcus spotted a number of backpackers strolling along the street, so he should be all right? Yes? He'd just regroup—Julien had told him while older Parisians sometimes treated you like a leper when you tried to communicate in English with them, certainly the younger generation was willing to help.

He grabbed his backpack and paid the driver after he'd navigated the strangely colorful euro bills. Yeah. This area looked nothing like those grand boulevards he'd always associated with Paris.

But he wasn't here for the architecture.

He walked toward Chez Claude. It looked like a mix between a bar and a café and a restaurant, though not quite. Marcus's French didn't reach beyond his kitchen French, and most things on the menu were simple and hearty. Only about four choices, and then twenty wines and spirits. The French had their priorities. A couple of older men were sitting outside on the pavement and playing cards. Marcus walked past them, his heart already beating up into his throat.

The wall behind the shabby bar showed photos pinned against the wall—something of a history of the place, with what seemed to be entertainers on a stage, painted and costumed in straw hats and suits. The forties? A jazz band too, and patrons. Though, against the spirit of the times, no uniforms anywhere. Maybe before the war? After?

Somebody grunted something French at him.

Marcus jumped a little and found himself facing a grizzled-looking fellow with gray whiskers and dark, mistrustful eyes.

“Hi. I… Could I have a coke, please?”

The proprietor reached behind himself for a bottle and glass, and placed both before Marcus, clearly expecting him to pay, drink and piss off. Marcus found the price list and placed some euro coins on the counter.

Just as he was considering how to broach the subject, a couple of men entered the bar. And it seemed the temperature in the room dropped noticeably. Marcus noticed the three men were all shaved neatly, hair cropped very close to their skulls, and two of them were black, the third possibly Arab. There was a tangible air of
don't fuck with us
that made Marcus's balls want to up and creep back into his body. They were young, the black guys both broader than the Arab, but all of them looked like they'd been cut down to the very basics. They didn't need to wear uniforms for Marcus to know exactly what they were.

Marcus flagged them down. They eyed him warily—who the fuck was this scruffy American, and why was he talking to them?

He gestured at his own head, then theirs. “You're military? Legion?”

The Arab nodded. He said something in rapid-fire French with a very not-French accent. Marcus didn't catch any of it, except one word did sound a lot like “Legion”.

“I'm looking for…” Marcus studied them. They studied him. Shit. He didn't speak a lick of French, and none of them had volunteered any English. He needed another approach.

Then he remembered the semicharged phone in his pocket. He made a just-a-second gesture—those were universal, right? He hadn't just flipped one of them off or cursed their mothers, had he?—and dug out his phone. He quickly thumbed through some photos and pulled up one of Julien, Chris and Timur.

He held up the phone and pointed at Timur. “Is he here?” Even if they didn't understand the words, maybe they could at least parse what he wanted to know.

The Arab shook his head. Then the second man. Then the third. They exchanged glances and shrugs.

One of the two African men craned his neck and called out something to the bartender. He pointed at Marcus's phone.

The bartender leaned over the bar and held out his hand in a sharp give-it gesture. His brow furrowed, and Marcus's heart sank, especially as the guy shook his head and set the phone down.

He was just reaching for it to take it back when the bartender snatched it again, muttering something in French as he put on his glasses. Then he looked at the picture again.

And nodded. “Timur?”

Marcus's heart damn near exploded. “Yes. Timur. You know him? Is…” he struggled to conjure up any of the French phrases he'd heard Timur and Julien exchange, but it wasn't happening, “…is he here?”

The man pointed above his head. Then he pulled a telephone out from under the bar, pressed a couple of keys and waited. A second later, he said something terse in French, and Marcus was sure he heard Timur's name in there.

The bartender hung up the phone and shoved it under the bar. He waved a hand toward the doorway then went back to cleaning glasses. The other three legionnaires walked away, toward an empty table in the back.

Marcus stood there like an idiot, alternately staring at the three soldiers and the grouchy bartender. What the hell? That was it? What did any of that even mean?

The bell on the front door jingled as someone came in.

“
Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?
”

The voice stopped Marcus in his tracks.

He turned around.

And there was Timur. Marcus's legs almost gave with relief. Julien had told him of this place, said it was cheap, Legion friendly and a bit out of the way, and that Timur would likely go to ground here for a couple of days. But actually seeing him here was a different matter. Alive. In one piece. Not yet reenlisted.

Marcus struggled to find words, then managed to clear his throat. “How…how are you?” Okay, that was a rare form of stupid.

Timur frowned and nodded at him. “You're all right?”

“I don't think being an idiot is terminal.” Marcus took a deep breath. “I…I was an idiot. I shouldn't have let you go.” Another deep gulp. “Can we talk about this?”

Timur nodded, still looking concerned, and reached for Marcus's arm, gently pulling him to the side. Once they'd stepped out of the way, Timur lowered his hand, though seemingly reluctantly.

Just put your hand back on my arm. God, touch me anywhere.

“Did anything happen?”

“No. Yes. I just realized I'm a coward and a fool. I didn't…trust any of this. Didn't trust my feelings. I tried to be smart, you know, and I was too worried I'd repeat all my mistakes, and fuck, but I almost did. I shouldn't have let you get on that plane.”

Timur still seemed more surprised than angry, and Marcus hoped that was a good thing, though now he worried if he'd misunderstood. No. No. He'd spent what conscious hours he'd had on the plane thinking this through, running their conversations through his head. Timur had tried very gently to tell him they were way beyond fuck buddies. And Marcus had only really responded by shoving his own head even farther up his ass, until he resembled a kind of Moebius band.

“You come all this way?”

“Yes. For you. I can't reach you any other way. If you still…want to try…unless you want to reenlist. Have you?”

Timur shook his head. “No. Bought tickets for Marseilles this morning.”

“That's good. If you want to try living with me…I'd be happy to try. I want you in my life, Timur. I really do. Like…I mean, there are no guarantees, right? We don't know whether it'll work out, but I'd take the risk.”

Timur held his gaze, and he looked dubious, his lips tight and the crevices between his eyebrows deepening. “You barely know me. Is what you said.”

“I know. I know. And I…” Marcus exhaled hard, shaking his head. “The thing is, I didn't know what I had until it was gone. Until you were gone.” He stepped a little closer, his senses tingling with awareness of the bartender and soldiers keeping an eye on them. “No, I don't know you very well. You don't know me very well. But I know I love you. And I…I want to know more than that.”

Timur's expression didn't change. His eyes darted to the side, in the general direction of the three soldiers. Then back to Marcus. “Julien sent you?”

“No. Well.” Marcus sighed. “He told me where to find you. And he told me what an idiot I was to let you leave, as if I hadn't already worked that out on my own. But, yes, he pushed me over the edge and made me realize I would be an even bigger idiot if I didn't get on the first plane to Paris and at least tell you how I feel.” He held Timur's gaze, which had never been quite so difficult. “So that's…that's how I feel. If you want me to go back, I will. If you want to come with me, you're welcome to. It's your call, Timur.”

As they stared at each other in silence, he realized the tables had turned since the other night. Now it was Marcus wanting to stay, and Timur who could decide if he stayed with him or got the hell out of there. If this was even remotely how Timur had felt the other night, Marcus swore then and there that if he had the opportunity, he'd make sure Timur knew—daily—how much he wanted him to stay.

Timur glanced at the other soldiers. The bartender. Marcus.

“Not in here.” He gestured for Marcus to follow him and didn't wait to see if he would. Timur was halfway to the door before Marcus remembered how to use his feet. He jogged after him, and they stepped out into the quiet afternoon.

In silence, Timur led him around the side of the building and back inside to a staircase. Their feet—Marcus's sneakers, Timur's weathered combat boots—made the steps creak as they climbed up to the second floor. Timur took him to the end of a short hall, keyed open a door and waved him in.

Marcus's blood pressure was all over the place. Timur was impossible to read right now. Did he want to do this in private so the other legionnaires didn't witness him reading an ex-lover the riot act?

Fuck, Timur,
Marcus thought as the man shut the door behind him,
would you just give me a sign so I know what—

Timur grabbed his shirt, pulled him in and kissed him. All Marcus could do was push Timur against the wall and kiss him for all he was worth. God knew what Timur's comrades had thought, but even the concept of somebody walking in on them didn't register. All that did register was Timur's lips on his and the fact Timur hadn't told him to get lost.

Marcus broke the kiss, mostly to breathe. “Yes? Will you come with me?”

“Seattle?”

“Yes. I don't speak much French. Not in the linguistic way.” Marcus smiled at Timur's blank expression and made a mental note to explain the joke as soon as was feasible—practical demonstrations included.

“But I cannot stay. No visa.”

“You can get in on a temporary work visa through Wilde's.” Liam would likely be willing to help. No doubt he would. “Or, if you want to go back to school, you could be on a student visa.”

Timur nodded. “Yes, maybe. Get a civilian job. Stay.”

“That's the idea. I know you'll lose your full pension, but…I'll make it worth your while. I won't just drop you to fend for yourself…even if we don't work out.” Marcus took Timur's hand and pressed it. “And if it does…if things stay good and we get to know each other more and everything's going well, there's always another option.” He looked into Timur's eyes and saw that Timur understood.