KING OF THE FLEAS

ONE MONTH LATER

BRIELLE

I flop down on my bed like a starfish. Fitting, since my room at l'hotel Cap Estel overlooks the Côte d'Azur. Though it was only a short flight from Paris to Nice, I’m exhausted, and I contemplate taking a nap, but I’m as excited as a puppy when her master comes home, so I do not believe that sleep will come.

Restless and full of nervous energy, I get to my feet and open my bag. It’s early enough in the day that I won’t need to be at the rehearsal for several more hours, so a swim and a relaxing wine by the pool are in order.

I pull out the swimsuit Piaf made me buy. It’s far too revealing with hundreds of little straps in the back and is cut so low that it almost shows the top of my arse. I’m not even sure I know how to get into it without instructions, but on my third attempt, I have the suit on, or as close to a suit as these skimpy little scraps of fabric are going to get. I throw on a flowing emerald green dress, and complete the look with dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat to protect my face. I swipe my phone, and my key card, and leave, certain there will be hotel towels by the pool.

There’s a secluded beach and a deck with sunbeds below my room, but I head to the pool of the main building instead and select a lounge not too far from the outdoor bar. Though it’s a chilly fourteen degrees, the sun is warm so I remove my dress, and lie out in it. Cap Estel is small and private but is no less teeming with men and women so rich diamonds practically fly out their mouths when they laugh. I try not to be intimated. I grew up wealthy. My parents were very well situated in Paris, but when my father had his stroke, his partner screwed him out of his half of the business, and we lost everything. Now maman and mon père barely have enough to keep them stocked in all of the medication he needs.

A server comes to take my drink order, and I ask for wine and charge it to my room.  Before long, a group of men that look as if they definitely don’t belong here slide up to the bar. Two are blond, very well built, and the other is dark. All are heavily tattooed. I recognise the dark-headed man as Cooper Ryan, my employer for the weekend, and I want to go and thank him for allowing me this opportunity, but I’m near naked in my suit and think that perhaps this is not the best place to approach him. Instead, I watch the three men closely.

There is a language between musicians that regular people do not share, a camaraderie that runs as hot and thick as blood through our veins. When you play music with another, it can never be just a job, just a thing you agree to do because you’re good at it. Non. It comes from your soul, and in the process of sharing that with others, those souls become intertwined, bonded, familiar. These men share that connection. I see it in the way they laugh, in their shared grins, and then a fourth man joins them, and the dynamic is thrown completely off balance. This man also has dark hair and tattoos. A lot of tattoos. He’s handsome in a reckless, devil-may-care kind of way that has my insides tightening, and it seems I’m not the only one feeling suddenly uncomfortable. His presence puts his bandmates on edge too, though I’m sure for very different reasons than my own.

I sip my wine and watch with rapt attention as the three others exchange a look and the newcomer rudely orders the server to bring him a bottle of whisky. After a minor disagreement, in which the waitress refuses to serve him, and the man stuffs a wad of crumpled up bills in her breast pocket, she scurries off to fulfil his drink order.

Must be nice for millionaire rock stars to be able to throw some cash around and get whatever they want. This is exactly why I avoid dating musicians. They’re spoilt, and I haven’t met one yet who deserves such entitlement.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” the more muscular of the two blonds says, clapping Tall, Dark and Dangerous on the shoulder.

“That’s what he said,” he replies and straightens in his chair. Why is he so drunk? And more than that, why is he being such an arse? Weddings are supposed to be a happy occasion, but none of these men appear joyful at all. Tall, Dark and Dangerous looks as though he’d rather be dead than attend this wedding.

“You’re going to be sober enough for the ceremony, right?” Cooper remarks, sipping his beer.

The man just looks at him, all daggers, and barely caged aggression. “Not if I can help it.”

And avoiding Tall, Dark and Dangerous at all costs just became my new plan for Cooper Ryan’s wedding.

I shouldn’t be watching this exchange. I should be in my room practising, but I hear Piaf’s voice in my head when she’d shoved me out of her car at the departures terminal, “Go! Enjoy the sun, drink, find a hot rich sugar daddy and have sex with him on the beach.” I definitely wouldn’t be doing the last thing on her list, but I could handle a little more of the first two.

I get to my feet and toss my sunglasses and hat onto the daybed. Then I walk to the side of the infinity pool and dive in. The water is warm, and I swim the length of it and back. I head to the edge and glance at the Cote d'Azur below. It’s hard to believe I’m in paradise right now. I duck my head under again and climb out, regretting the swim because the chill in the wind is freezing. I glance up and discover that Tall, Dark and Dangerous is lying on my daybed. Surely I am mistaken. I look around for my belongings and find them secured in two heavily tattooed hands. There is something intimate in the way he fingers the fabric of my dress. And then I notice the sleek black screen of my phone, and panic. Logically, I know he cannot access any of the information within, because it’s password protected, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about him holding it hostage.

I march over. “What exactly do you think you are doing?”

“Just enjoying the South of France.” His eyes trail to my pussy and linger there. I suddenly feel very naked, and curse Piaf for making me buy this stupid suit.

“You are in my seat.”

“Am I?” He grins. My nipples that were technically already poking out from the cold harden even more and my insides tighten because he might be an arrogant, drunk son of a bitch, but that smile could unlock even the most secure chastity belt. Without a key. “How would you like me to be in something else?”

I give a sardonic smile. “That depends, are we referring to jail, because I believe you’d fit in there just fine.”

“Why are the girls in France always so angry?”

“I imagine it’s because they want you to go away.”

“Nope. That’s not it.” He shakes his head, and his brow crinkles in the centre, as if he’s deep in thought. “Maybe it’s because for all their talk, French men just don’t make very good lovers.”

“Why don’t you sleep with one then and find out? It’s the only way you’ll know for certain.”

He laughs and rises from the daybed. I am taller than the average woman, but he has many more inches on me. “I like you, Angry French girl, but I don’t do dick. I have been called the king des puces a time or two.”

I raise my brow. “King of the fleas?”

“Pussy.” He looks annoyed now, and I can hear just the hint of a slur in his voice that he’d previously hidden so well. “I’m the king of pussy.”

“Aww, how nice for you.” I set my jaw and hold out my hand. “Give me back my phone before I call security.”

“Give me your room number and you’ll get your phone. I’ll even bring it right to your door.”

“Very well.” I lean in and beckon him closer. The stench of alcohol is intoxicating in its own right, never mind how green his eyes are. I snatch my phone from his grip while he’s distracted. “Je m'en contrefous que tu sois le roi de la chatte ou le roi des puces! Jamais je ne laisserais un enfoiré de ton genre me toucher.”  

“I don’t speak French, but I’m pretty sure you didn’t just give me your room number.”

The boy catches on quick.

“Meow.” I purr and walk away, feeling his eyes on my arse the entire time.