Paris, Paris!

— Oh shit, Chuck, that’s really your clothes! — Jason drawled, staring at the neon-green tracksuit hanging on the mannequin. — You were posing in it yesterday!

— Well, didn’t I tell you! — muttered the brunette with tanned skin, brushing a lock of hair from her face. Her glasses slid a bit down her nose, and she gave a cat-like snort, fixing the purse that kept slipping off her shoulder. — That’s my tracksuit. Was. Now it’s showing off on a mannequin. And me — you can see for yourself who I am now.

— Chuck… — Jason shook his head, staring straight at her. — Do you realize you sound like a total psycho?

— At least I look like a tasty bitch, — the girl twisted her face into a smirk, stretched out her hand with a bottle of pineapple juice cut with alcohol, and took a greedy gulp. Her skirt rode up her thigh, showing smooth skin, making Jason clench his teeth. — Go on, tell me you wouldn’t stick it in.

— I still think this is just another prank from that asshole, — said Sam with a wrinkled nose, the tall one and the only voice of reason in this whole bunch of Chicago students who had decided to spend their vacation in Europe.

— A prank? — the girl snorted, catching the purse that was slipping off her shoulder. — A prank is your fat mommy screaming into your phone every time, “Sammy, did you remember to wear your hat.” A fucking hat! In Paris! In summer!

She burst out laughing as if it was the funniest joke in the world, then let out a loud belch. A few passersby turned with offended faces, someone muttered something in French and hurried away, and a couple of tourists even stopped to watch the scene.

— Shut the fuck up, idiot! — hissed Sam, stepping forward and clenching his fists.

His massive figure loomed over the girl, but she only gave a lazy smirk and swung her hip. The purse slipped off her shoulder again, and she hooked it with her elbow, swaying a little — the booze had already gone to her head, the old brain still refusing to accept that old doses were no longer possible.

— What’s this? You gonna hit a woman? — she sneered, pushing her hip out even more, as if deliberately provoking him. The skirt slid dangerously upward, and Sam turned his eyes away, clenching his jaw so tight that his cheekbones bulged.

— Not funny, Chuck, — he forced out through his teeth. — Not one bit.

— Ah! You heard it! You hee-eard it! — she yelled triumphantly. — Our skeptic himself admitted I’m still Chuck!

She spun around in place like a top, and a moment later flopped down on the asphalt, clutching the bottle to her chest like a baby. The sun hit her eyes painfully, and Chuck — now a brunette with long hair falling across her face — burst out laughing right there on the sidewalk.

— Oh, mademoiselle, soyez prudente ! (Oh, mademoiselle, be careful!) — someone called out in French while passing by.

— Mademoiselle! — she mocked, taking a loud gulp from the bottle and wiping her lips with a hand that had long black nails. — Chuck, for fuck’s sake, mademoiselle…

— Get up, dumbass, — Jason, the one with freckles and the eternal “Chicago Bulls” cap, stretched a hand toward her. — People are staring!

Naturally, she shrugged her shoulder on purpose and ignored him. The purse finally slipped off and smacked onto the asphalt, spilling out makeup, cash, and some tissues. Chuck just cackled:

— Oooh! Holy shit! Looks like I’ve got the full set here! — Chuck shouted with hysterical glee and, still sitting right on the pavement, started digging through her purse. Lipstick — bright red, lip gloss, powder, even a tiny perfume vial. She picked it up between two fingers and, bringing it theatrically to her nose, inhaled noisily. — Well, that’s it, guys, now I’m officially a fucking chick.

— And you act like a drunk chick, — Sam muttered, picking up the lipstick that had rolled almost to a passerby’s feet.

— And I am a drunk chick! — Chuck snapped triumphantly, shoving the lipstick back into her purse, almost dropping the bottle. — That’s what I am, take it or leave it!

And at that moment, right at the intersection under the sign Rue Saint-Denis, a whistle cut through the air. Sharp, commanding. All three turned their heads. A tall man in uniform was approaching — white shirt, blue pants, a cap with a cockade. On his chest shone a Police Nationale badge.

— Mademoiselle! — he said sternly, stopping in front of Chuck. — Vos papiers, s’il vous plaît. (Your papers, please).

— Ooooh! — Chuck drawled with a grin, pointing a finger at Sam. — Hear that? He called me mademoiselle! You heard it, right? Officially!

— Shut the fuck up, Chuck, — Jason muttered through clenched teeth. — We’re screwed now.

The officer — judging by the badge, Lieutenant Arnaud Lefèvre — frowned and repeated:

— Les papiers.

Chuck batted her eyelashes theatrically and pulled a lip gloss out of her purse instead of a passport. Waving it like a credit card, she stretched it toward the officer:

— Here, take it! Full set of lady’s documents!

Jason squeezed his eyes shut. Sam exhaled:

— God, she’s gonna get us killed.

The officer frowned even harder, but his gaze lingered — and for a long time — on her legs, on the skirt that had ridden up again after the sharp movement, showing more than it should. At that moment Sam couldn’t take it anymore; spotting a document sticking out of her purse, he grabbed it and handed it to the officer.

— Voilà, monsieur, — he said curtly, trying not to look at Chuck, who was already sprawled shamelessly on the asphalt.

Lefèvre opened the passport, ran his finger along the page, and raised an eyebrow slightly:

— Élodie Martin, vingt-deux ans… (Élodie Martin, twenty-two years old…) — he read aloud, then lifted his eyes to the girl standing before him, comparing the photo.

— Élo… who? — she started, reaching for the document, but Sam caught her hand just in time.

— Keep quiet, you crazy bitch! — he hissed in her ear, making Chuck whip her head around at him with a sulky face.

— …Résidente de Paris, dixième arrondissement, rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis… (Resident of Paris, 10th district, Faubourg Saint-Denis Street…), — Lefèvre recited, once again checking the photo before raising his eyes back to her.

— What the hell is he babbling!? — Chuck, eyes wide, jerked toward the officer, but Sam gripped her hand so hard she winced.

— He’s reading the address, — Jason translated flatly, never taking his eyes off the cop. — Like… your new home, Chuck. Or whatever you’re supposed to be now…

— Mademoiselle Martin, il est interdit de consommer de l’alcool dans la rue. La prochaine fois — une amende. (Mademoiselle Martin, it is forbidden to drink alcohol on the street. Next time — a fine.) — Lefèvre said firmly, handing the passport back to her.

— Une amende ? Mais t’es complètement fou ! J’ai rien fait de mal ! (A fine? You’re completely crazy! I didn’t do anything wrong!) — Chuck yelled, not even noticing she was speaking fluent French — and of course not paying attention to the fact that even Sam’s eyes went wide at that moment.

Lefèvre pressed his lips into a thin line, clicked his tongue, clasped his hands behind his back, and slowly turned away.

— Faites attention la prochaine fois, mademoiselle… (Be careful next time, miss…) — he threw over his shoulder before walking off, his boots striking sharply against the asphalt.

— You… you heard that?! — Jason clutched the brim of his cap like he was trying to hold his head together, which refused to believe. — You just… you just yelled at a cop in French! And he understood you!

— Hein? Quoi? (Huh? What?) — Chuck blinked, staring at him blankly, the bottle still dangling from her hand. — Je comprends pas… tu dis quoi, Jason? (I don’t understand… what are you saying, Jason?)

— That’s the crazy part! — Jason nearly screamed, looking at her like she had turned into an alien instead of a girl. — You understand me?! In English?!

Élodie tilted her head to the side, pressing her lips together, and then, just a second later, suddenly screamed.

— Exactement! Parle putain en anglais ! (Exactly! Speak fucking English!) — Élodie shrieked, her voice breaking, and only then slapped her own lips with her palm. Her eyes went wide. She froze.

— Chuck… — Jason blinked. — You just did it again… in French.

Élodie stood there for a few seconds, trying to process the new data and fit it into her already pretty drunk brain. Her eyes shifted from Sam, then to Jason, and finally landed on the street sign. She squinted, moving her lips. Moments later, her mouth was once again wrapped around the bottle of alcoholic punch, this time pouring into her with furious force. Élodie gulped greedily, as if she wanted to drown the whole world and all that rising awareness inside her. Drops slid down her chin, catching on the hollow dip between her breasts.

— Give me that! — Sam yanked the bottle from her and tossed it into the trash bin by the billboard.

— Hé ! Rends-moi ça ! (Hey! Give that back!) — she reached for the bottle, but instantly swayed and nearly toppled over. She clung to Sam, hanging on him like a cat clutching a tree. Her hot breath burned his neck, her hair tickling his cheek.

— Christ, Chuck… — Sam grimaced, struggling to keep her steady. — You’re wasted, and there was barely any booze in that shit.

Élodie went still in his arms, tilted her head, and pressed herself against him. Her eyes were shut, her legs buckling, and a second later she collapsed like a rag doll. Sam barely caught her under the arms, the weight of her unexpectedly soft body hitting his palms and chest.

— Shit… — he muttered, looking down at the girl in a tight top and short skirt. — She’s out cold.

— Chuck?! — Jason crouched beside her, shaking her shoulder. — Hey, man! Wake up!

— Man? — Sam shot him a glare. — Are you even looking at her? What fucking man?!

Élodie stirred slightly, her lips moving, and in her sleep a faint mumble slipped out:

— Je me sens maaal… je veux dormiiir… (I feeel siiick… I want to sleeeep...) — she moaned, and a second later her whole body jolted violently.

— Hey, hey, wait! — Sam tried to set her on her feet, but it was too late. She made a muffled sound and threw up all over him.

— For fuck’s sake!.. — he jerked back, but still held her so she wouldn’t crash face-first into the asphalt. Warm puke splattered his shirt, slid down his arm, while Élodie hung limply on his shoulder.

— Putain… j’vais crever… (Fuck… I’m gonna die…)

Jason winced and glanced at Sam:

— Did you catch a single word of that?

— Yeah, — he nodded grimly. — She said she’s gonna die. Check what it says in her document. The cop mentioned some address, — he finished, holding Élodie up even though the stench was making him gag.

Jason, scrunching his nose, pulled the passport from her purse. The photo page stared back at him calmly — a young Parisian woman with straight hair and a faint smile. Under the picture it read neatly: Élodie Martin, 22 ans, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, Paris.

— Well, there you go, — Jason lifted his eyes. — Can you read it?

Still bracing Élodie with one arm across her back, Sam looked at the passport page. Right then he was glad he’d studied French in school.

— Yeah… — he rasped. — Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis.

Élodie let out a weak moan, her legs buckling, and if Sam hadn’t been holding her, she would’ve collapsed right into her own vomit on the pavement. Without thinking twice, he bent down, hooked her legs, and lifted her into his arms. The body was unexpectedly light, soft, warm. Élodie squirmed faintly, then pressed her cheek against his shoulder, wrapped her arms around his neck, and started snoring softly like a little girl worn out after a carnival.

— Holy shit, — Jason exhaled, scratching the back of his head. — Like fucking “Sleeping Beauty,” man.

— Shut it, — Sam muttered, grimacing at both the stench and the damp stain on his shirt. — Grab her purse and passport, we’re getting out of here.

The guys moved along Rue Saint-Denis. Paris lived its own life — tourists laughing, the smell of roasted chestnuts, café doors slamming shut. Élodie, clinging to Sam’s neck, stirred slightly and mumbled something:

— Mmm… Sam… plus doucement… (Sam… slower…)

— What’d she say? — Jason asked.

— Told me to carry her more gently, — Sam translated darkly. — She’s giving orders even in her sleep, can you believe that.

They stopped at the corner, and Jason pulled out his phone to call a taxi.

Soon a yellow cab pulled up to them, the driver, an Arab around forty, raised his brows in surprise.

— Mademoiselle… elle est malade? (Mademoiselle… is she sick?) — he asked, staring at Élodie.

— Nooon… pas malade… trop de vodka… — Sam answered wearily, picking through his French words.

Élodie stirred a little, cracked her eyes open and managed to push out in English, with effort:

— Ai… I’m… fine… just… sleeeep… — the words came with a heavy accent, like she had to drag each one out from deep in her memory.

Jason smirked:

— Whoa, she said “fine.” Chuck, that you?

But the girl was already out again, lips pressed against Sam’s collar.

— Jesus, this is fucked up, — Sam muttered, shoving her onto the backseat, then slid in next to her, while Jason climbed up front.

The taxi started moving. Storefront lights flashed by outside, the Eiffel Tower glowed in the distance, lit by spotlights. Élodie slept quietly, pressed so tightly against Sam’s shoulder he could feel every breath. Her hair tickled his chin, her warm breath touched his skin, and he just couldn’t make himself relax. His head was a mess. On the one hand, this was a sexy girl — soft, warm, smelling of booze and vanilla. On the other — it was his buddy Chuck, with whom just a week ago he’d been scarfing down burritos in Chicago and arguing about who could sprint faster back to campus after the pub.

— Fuck, — Sam shut his eyes and leaned the back of his head against the window, trying to ignore her tits pressing rhythmically against his side with every breath. — None of this is normal.

— Not normal? — Jason twisted around from the front seat, smirking, but clearly nervous. — Dude, this is some fucking movie shit. This doesn’t happen. This isn’t “not normal,” this is fucked beyond belief.

Sam stayed silent. Élodie, in her sleep, clenched his shirt like she was afraid he might let her go and pressed closer, burying her nose into his neck. A warm scent of alcohol mixed with something sweet came off her — maybe perfume, maybe just vanilla lotion. Sam tensed up even more, feeling her breasts sliding against his side with every inhale.

And Paris. Paris flashed in the windows, shifting between storefronts, streetlamps, noisy cafés, and the occasional passerby. Sam sat motionless, with Élodie’s soft body pressed against him, feeling more than ever that all this was unreal and real at the same time. Jason stayed quiet, crushing his cap in his hands. The cab carried them down the narrow streets toward the address that now was her home, and with every meter it grew clearer: there was no road back.