Fan Girl (9 page)

Chapter 10

A little less than eight weeks later, I'm stuffing my bags in the back of my morning assistant manager, also known as my best friend, Stacie's cherry red '69 Ford Mustang convertible. I’m wearing a brown loose-knit cardigan over a military-style white, button-down shirt, with black leggings and brown slouchy mid-calf boots. My brown aviator shades match a light brown and taupe scarf around my neck ... tied European style, of course.

“Is this everything? You're taking three bags for three days?” Stacie asks.

Stacie is a showstopper. She’s totally rockabilly in a blue and white, fifties style sleeveless polka-dot dress and mile-high blue pumps. Her hair is mid length down her back, jet black with tight rolled bangs pinned to perfection. She's way more tatted than I am. All along her arms, not sleeves, just strategically placed, and on her chest, back and one lone butterfly above her ankle.

“I think I have it all. I always leave something behind and have to buy it. I’m not too worried, I have all of my essentials,” I reply.

We get into the car and head to LAX. We don’t have to talk shop, because this trip has been planned for a long time. Six months ago when they put the dates up for the concert, I bought my plane ticket.

At the airport drop-off I kiss Stacie's cheek and hug her close. I could never leave while owning my own shop without someone like her that I trust to take care of it.

“Have a great time and come home with a shirt in my size, huh?” Stacie asks, as if that's not a given. I always bring shirts back for all six of my employees, also known as the Shell Girls. “Oh and try not to bump into Deklan in the city of love, kay?” She laughs, and I chuckle with her, hoping it doesn’t sound fake.

“Of course, dah-ling, of course.” I smile back and wave my hand grandly. She knows something has been bothering me for months now. I’ve been distracted and edgy. Maybe I can find some peace after this trip. I still have to tell everyone in the shop about the pregnancy. I’m thinking I have to tell Deklan first though. Somehow.

“Better get in there,” I say. I hop out of the car, pull my white alligator suitcases with black leather trim and fleur-de-lis out of the trunk and start walking. I love flying, but more particularly, people watching. Everyone having something to do, waving people off, searching for loved ones, and running to catch flights. I get in line and check myself in. The flight attendant smiles brightly, waiting to assist should I need it.

I’m dressed comfortably, but covering up my tattoos. My hair is down, covering the ear piercings there. I know that TSA 'doesn’t discriminate'. However, it's been my experience that I only get pulled to the side at security when showing skin. I also know that mothers don’t steer clear of me and pull their kids aside if I look like the normal public. I don’t take offense, I grew up with my parents after all. It takes a lot to get me riled up these days. I’ll just have to be a cool mom.

After checking my bags and going through the snail-paced grind that is security, I grab gum and a bottle of water in the gift shop and find my gate to people watch. There are mostly older couples, young couples, and business people on my flight. I’m searching for the crying babies that have the potential to make this a really long four-hour flight, before I change planes at JFK. I wonder how I’ll feel being one of those parents one day.
Ideally I would never fly with a kid, but how practical is that?
I see a toddler drop a pacifier, and the mom doesn’t notice. Usually I strictly watch, but that kid could be on my flight without the mute button, so I jump up and make sure she gets it back.

An hour later the flight attendant announces our flight is boarding. I’m first class, so I step up to the gate and hand over my passport and ticket. The young woman smiles, stamps my ticket, black lights my passport and waves me through. I get settled. I have a second row seat and hope I don’t have a row mate. This flight is long, though not as long as the overseas flight, but still I would love to stretch my legs. As people file past me, I clock three kids younger than five that have the potential to scream this into the worst flight it can be. This is an early morning flight, so it has us getting into Paris at around three o’clock local time. Kids aren’t going to sleep the whole time, like on a red-eye, if you’re lucky. It's not looking good.

Chapter 11

The flight went surprisingly well. I go through customs somewhat energized. On the flights, I listened to the soothing sounds of old jazz and slept for most of the time. Picking up my bags and heading out to catch a cab, I tell the cabby in passable French to take me to Le Royal Monceau Raffles Paris. Rosetta Stone, baby. I picked this hotel because it's walking distance to the Eiffel tower, has a killer indoor pool, and is a five star hotel. When in Paris, get the experience. I don’t have that many days here, so I need to pack it all in. This hotel has a spa that I’m already booked for, and a world class chef. The indoor pool has a ceiling made of glass, while all walls, lounges and floors are bright white. I’m going to need my shades, but it's bad ass. Considering it's the beginning of April and a rainy climate, I’m grateful for the indoor amenities.

Upon arrival, a bellman opens my door and helps me out, while the cab driver pops the trunk to get my bags out. I walk through the hotel completely satisfied with the chic style of the lobby, and make my way to reception. Check-in goes flawlessly, and I get to my room and tip the bellman before shutting and locking the door behind me. Then I go explore. The carpet is pale gray, and the sitting room is decorated in a darker gray with light pink accents. Through the double doors is the bedroom with an overlarge gray headboard to match the chairs with pin tucked buttons in an even darker gray. The border is the same pale pink and the walls are the dark gray of the buttons. It's totally girly, and I love it.

I walk to the bathroom and am instantly blinded. I turn down the dimmer that I hadn’t noticed the first time and looked again. Holy shit. There are mirrors everywhere! The walls, floor, counter tops, toilet! No way am I watching the puke come back at me in the morning. Disgusting! I turn and march to the phone to dial the front desk.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle, comment un je t'aide?' a man answers the phone.

I tell him that this room is not acceptable because of the mirrored bathroom and could he please see if there is anything else available. He puts me on hold and comes back minutes later saying he could move me to a suite, but it would be a downgrade. I don’t care. Five minutes later, he sends up a bellman with my new room key and receipt to sign. He takes me down two floors to a standard looking space with no sitting room or double doors but a regular bathroom. I’ll take it. It's still a nice room, almost white grey carpet, white minimalist bed with no headboard, modern design, and smooth lines.

I unpack my bags and pull out what I plan to wear to dinner. It's a black, three-quarter sleeve, little black dress with a V neckline, and a black silk chemise underneath. I’m pairing it with four inch, black lace ankle boots and black silk stockings. My coat is a wool dress coat that comes to just above my knees, has a wider skirt, thick belt, and large lapels.

After unpacking, I shower and do my eyes smoky, the rest of me highlighted and bronzed. I’ve come a long way with my makeup. My hair gets curled with Velcro curlers, so that when I take them out, it’s not so much curled as just a ton of body. By the time I’m done and reaching for my coat, it's almost eight, and I’m starving. I grab my phone, ID and black AmEx card then head out. Down the escalator and through the lobby, I walk up to the bellhop holding open the front door.

I ask him in French, “Is there somewhere close I can get food?”

He exclaims about a red door four blocks away that is open this late, but that not many tourists know about. No sign, just the door. Can’t miss it.

I thank and tip him and am on my way, wondering if he just sent me to a whore house or underground fighting ring or something. I would order room service, but after being on a plane all day, I want to stretch my legs. I head down the street, and the farther I go, the quieter it gets. I can’t tell in France if this is a shady part of town. It's all old buildings, and it's after dark so it all looks the same to me. Just no people.

I’m about to turn around and head back when I see a red door between two lamp posts. The door is left in the dark, no light reaching it. I look both ways, cross the street, and climb the steps. Knocking, I look around. There is no one here, I’m an idiot. How I listened to a young man who gets paid to give out names, I don’t know. Just as I’m about to turn, the door opens and a large black-shirted man asks me in French if I’m coming in. Apparently, the door was unlocked. Well… I didn’t know that! It looks like a regular house door, so I wasn’t going to open it. I smile tightly to him and walk in. This room is a kind of mudroom with racks of hanging coats on both sides. He gestures for me to take mine off and hang it up. I do, then he opens a black door on the opposite side of the red one. Instantly the music is loud and vibrating through my bones.

At the bar I ask for a ginger ale and a menu. The dance floor is pretty dead, though it
is
early. I’m sure things will pick up later. The bartender hands me my drink and a menu. I order finger foods and check my phone. I have a few messages from my girls at the shop asking if I got in okay, I reply back to them. There’s also one from Redy wanting to know the same thing.

DirtyDozen: Made it safe, you would not believe the room they put me in.

RedyGo: That good or that bad?

DirtyDozen: It had a mirrored bathroom. I mean, everything. Walls, toilet, counters all of it.

RedyGo: That's kinda hot and gross at the same time

DirtyDozen: Right?? I made them change it. This one is much better

RedyGo: Glad you got settled in. Are you excited about the concert?

DirtyDozen: As excited as I ever am.

RedyGo: Doesn’t it get old?

DirtyDozen: No. I don’t expect you to believe me but I’ve seen those guys grow up and become what they are today. I couldn’t be any more proud.

RedyGo: I hope they appreciate all you do for them.

DirtyDozen: I don’t do all that much. I go see a show when I can and sing along.

RedyGo: All right well have fun!

DirtyDozen: I always do.

Just then, the bartender sets down my food and silverware. I look around. Everybody is happy, drinking, dancing, kissing, and laughing. If only I could be that carefree again. I want a drink. I want to be dancing with friends. I want a hot guy. But no, I sigh. It’s going to take some work to stop thinking only of myself. I choose a seat at the side of the bar opposite the waitress station so that I can people watch. There’s one stool between me and the wall, so I slide over, rest my back on the wall, cross my legs, and take a sip of my drink. The food is shit, but when you’re drunk, it doesn’t really matter.

I set my drink down and see movement out of the corner of my eye. There's a hand resting on the bar by my drink. On that hand is a tattoo that I know. I know it very well. I literally feel the blood leave my face and drain through my neck. It’s a YOLO tattoo on top of his knuckles. No freaking way. I look up. And die. My face is locked in the deer-in-the-headlights expression. Six feet four inches of man flesh in his prime. Huge, broad shoulders covered in a tight, ribbed black shirt. Dark brown hair is obscured by the slouching black beanie on his head. Green eyes like spring grass, five o’clock shadow, strong cheekbones and jaw, with tanned golden skin. Sigh worthy if there ever were such a thing. I quickly look back down then over again. Jeans that are doing wonderful things, and what looks like biker boots.
I definitely died.
I need to get a grip. I grab my drink and look back at my phone, nothing there but I keep looking like I’m totally absorbed.

“Anybody sitting here?" he says. Just that voice gives me chills. I have flashbacks of that voice telling me he wants to fuck me.
Does he remember? Should I tell him about the baby?
I
don’t know
what to do! I look back up and order myself to talk.

“Nope, all yours,” I say in a totally chill voice, which I’m mentally patting myself on the back for
. Well done, Ali.

“Thanks.” I look past him, ordering my eyes to not stare and try pretending I don’t know who's sitting next to me. Because he doesn’t know me, obviously. The bartender walks up and asks him what he wants to drink. The man of my dreams, and only my dreams, gestures to me.

“I’ll have what she's having.”

I panic. “Oh no, you don’t want to do that. This is ginger ale.” I smile wanly.
Yes I’m lame. Or just pregnant with your child. Shit.

He looks me over, then back at the bartender. “Okay then, gin and tonic,” he replies. I sigh and look back at my phone.
Is that was he was drinking on New Year’s?
I feel like I’m already drunk, but I know it is just Deklan going to my head and hyperventilation. The bartender hands him his drink, and I wait for him to get back up. He doesn’t. He's looking at me.

"What's your name?” he asks

“Alaina,” I reply, wondering why I just gave him the name I never, ever go by.
I’m not ready.

He does a chin lift and doesn’t say his name.
I should ask right?

“And you?” I ask, then mentally kick myself. I shouldn’t talk to him. He probably just wants to drink and have a quiet night, but then why would he be in a club? He wants to hook up.

He looks me over again and says “Deklan,” then watches me with his intense green eyes, that are reflecting off of the bar lights.
Waiting for me to react?

I nod. “Nice to meet you.” I take another drink and look away. Look back. He's still watching.