Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(16)

I instantly feel a twinge of guilt, recalling the fact that I did think that of her upon our first encounter, taking in her conservative clothing and high-strung personality. I inwardly pledge to make up for this harsh first impression by giving her a really good night. Despite her wealth and privilege, I still feel a little bad for her, having to trudge around in her parents’ shadow all the time. Besides, she’s a sweet girl, and it is nice to have a friend who forces me to open up and expand my horizons a little bit.

“Well, if you don’t judge me for being a sheltered small-town girl, I won’t judge you for being a jet-setting cosmopolitan,” I tell her with a wink, some of France seeping into my words more and more all the time. She giggles.

“Deal,” she agrees. The cab lurches forward suddenly and we both instinctively reach over to hold onto each other, our faces wearing identical expressions of panic. Once we look at each other we immediately burst into laughter at how jumpy we are.

“Je suis désolé,” comments the cab driver, glancing at us apologetically in the rear view mirror as the taxi slides into another lane.

“Pas de quoi,” answers Maggie with a wave of her hand.

The driver takes us down Boulevard Beaumarchais and then Maggie taps his shoulder to tell him to let us out at the next cross-street, which reads Rue Saint-Sebastien. He obliges, pulling to the sidewalk. I slide out of the backseat onto the pavement and look around, blinking in the fuzzy glow of the street lamps.

“Merci beaucoup, bonne nuit,” Maggie quips to the driver as she pays him, smiling. He nods and waves at us as he drives away, leaving the two of us standing alone on the street, far across town from our apartment and the relative familiarity of the most touristy area around the Eiffel Tower. I get the sense that we’ve now moved much closer to the heart of where native Parisians hang out, where the French go to evade the gawking stares of loud-mouthed, confused tourists and sightseers.

It’s dark and the air is getting cooler by the second. I shiver ever so slightly, suddenly feeling very small and out of place in this enormous hodgepodge of an ancient city. Maggie takes my arm and looks around for a long moment, surveying the area. Then she seems to get her bearings and starts leading me down the street.

“If I remember correctly from the map I looked at this morning, Rue Amelot should be right around this corner,” she says, thinking aloud. “Aha! I was right.”

We find ourselves across the street from a tiny bar with heavy graffiti coloring the shop front with indiscernible lettering and symbols. The words ZERO ZERO appear in weathered letters above the narrow doorway, and there doesn’t seem to be any light emanating from the place. However, we can certainly hear loud music sending thrills of bass through the ground to tickle our feet as we stand on the street corner. Maggie squeezes my arm.

“Ready to go in?” she asks cheerily.

I’m still surprised at how enthusiastic and brave she is for wanting to do this — at first glance she certainly doesn’t seem like the partying type. But I suppose all it takes is a miniature dose of courage and suddenly the reluctant wallflower can bloom into a vibrant rose.

I still feel more like I’m wilting rather than blooming, though.

Something instinctual in the back of my mind warns me not to step through the door. There’s a small, gloomy voice telling me that I’ve fallen too far off the beaten path, that I’m only two steps away from stumbling down the rabbit hole. And I don’t know if Wonderland is what awaits me at the bottom, or perhaps something much, much darker.

But maybe I’m just being overly cautious. After all, it’s just a bar. It’s a public place, and it’s not like I’m totally alone here. I’m with Maggie, who has both money and the ability to speak French. No matter what happens, the two of us will make it out okay. I assure myself that everything is fine and there’s no need to overreact. With a nod to Maggie, we walk up and open the door, stepping over the threshold into a dimly-lit bar scene.

There are neon signs on the walls, no chairs or tables whatsoever, and there’s graffiti absolutely everywhere. People are hanging over the bar counter, sipping cocktails and beers, while others are swaying and toe-tapping on the dance floor area. The whole bar could easily fit inside our little apartment, it’s so small. But what it lacks in size, it clearly makes up for in character. The crowd here is a little more edgy and hipster than what we’ve seen elsewhere, with jagged haircuts, tattoos, and piercings galore. Still, I don’t get a particularly bad vibe from the place, to my relief. It actually feels somewhat cozy, in a way.