The Fall of Troy Page 5

  I was so lost in irritated ramblings that I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking—not that that should have made a difference since the store was still closed—but it did. Turning down the aisle I was supposed to be stocking, I ran into a wall, except I knew that there was no wall there. At least not for the past dozen trips…

  I stumbled backward with a small shriek and a domino of unfortunate incidents happened after: I staggered back, the weight of the thick, eighteen-by-twenty-four newsprint pads adding to the imbalance. My socks, which were fine for normal walking, provided zero traction on the carpet as they began to slip out from underneath me.

  All in all, the scene played out like the rest of my life. I smacked blindly into a situation that sent me reeling backward, flailing and falling, with the rest of the world crashing down on top of me.

  Or, in this case, ten sketchpads that came crashing down on my chest.

  What. The. Hell.

  I groaned loudly, my face… chest… back… everything screaming in protest from the spill. My hands were in the process of trying to extricate myself from the paper that covered my head when the heavy shield was lifted off of me with a word that sounded like it was a curse but was no curse word that I’d ever heard.

  “Merde.”

  Blinking twice, I found myself squinting up at Mr. Frustration himself.

  God.

  No, not god—no matter how much he looked like one. The chiseled lines of his face were even more pronounced up close: jawline, cheekbones, ridge of his brow. He looked like royalty—like an angry king who’d just been bumped by a peasant. Peasant. Freshman. Close enough. His expression was even harsher—like he’d been the one that had just been attacked by newsprint not me.

  His full lips thinned as his gaze trailed precariously over me, like a sword tracing over my skin. The gentle sensation almost as unnerving as the sharp threat of being sliced by his thoughts. And then the subtle intimidation was gone as he spun to scan the shelf. Finding their spot, he set the four sketchpads—that he easily gripped with one hand—onto it.

  Meanwhile, I pushed myself up. He hadn’t offered me a hand and I wasn’t going to wait around for it; this was embarrassing enough. My hands did a quick scan, feeling my head and my hair, smoothing down my shirt—suddenly conscious of everything about me, especially the obnoxious thudding of my heart.

  “I’m so sorry,” I bit out hoarsely. “I didn’t see you there.”

  His eyes whipped back to mine and glared right through me. There was no mercy, no softness in his stony expression, so I knew there would be none in his reply either. “Of course not. You had paper in front of your face.”

  I sucked in a breath. His r’s rolled and his h’s were mostly missing. I’d listened to enough French poetry to know a French accent when I heard one. But it was the displeasure in his voice that altered its lilt far more than the accent ever could.

  Of course, he was being rude, he was French.

  But instead of offending me, those deep, guttural r’s of his rudeness pulled goosebumps out from every corner of my body like they were itching for a fight. For some reason, my body found the displeasure pleasurable, the metal of my armor melting into a molten vat inside my stomach.

  “Is zis all of it?” he asked flatly.

  I knew he meant them—is this all of them… I knew he was talking about the paper. But my heart thudded as though he’d been asking about me—if this was all there was to me.

  And my body jolted with the need to scream no—no, this was not all of me. I was so much more than the girl who might currently be lost and confused. I was smart and strong and determined and I was going to be something.

  Strange how a careless remark was the first thing in six months to spark a desire to define myself once again. But he didn’t deserve to know that.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I didn’t bother to hide my laugh at the way his ‘th’ sounded like a ‘z’ as I replied, “No. I still have four more boxes to unpack.” I nodded over my shoulder. “If you’re taking this class, you’ll have to come back later to get all of the required materials.”

  A curt dismissal. Just because he was French and so was the professor didn’t mean he was getting any special treatment. I was not going to open every single box just to get out one pad for him. He could wait until I was done.

  “You work here?” His eyes narrowed like I wasn’t good enough to have this job or worse, incapable of having it because he’d been the one to stand in my path. Also, ‘here’ sounded like ‘ear.’ And it sent fire shooting up my spine.

  “No, I just wear the shirt because it’s super sexy,” I retorted tartly with a smirk, watching as his eyes flicked down to the school’s logo on my chest and enjoying the tick of his jaw as my reward for equally frustrating him. Belatedly, I hoped that he couldn’t see how my nipples hardened from the brief attention.

  “Zis should be done already.” His arms jerked out and I swore steam came out of his nose as he huffed impatiently. “Classes start on Monday. Incroyable…”

  We were locked in a battle to see who could be more cordially miserable. I didn’t care who was winning, there was a twisted enjoyment that came with the superficial outlet for some anger.

  Lies. I cared who was winning.

  “Zis,” I mocked him with a hiss. “Is going as fast as I can.” Like a century-old feud, there was no reason to justify this amount of anger between us—between strangers—but at the same time, it felt completely rational.

  Fire lit in his gaze—like warning flares in the deepest blue sky. Maybe that was a step too far, but then again, so was his cold disapproval like his critical opinion was at all necessary. It wasn’t. He wasn’t my boss. He wasn’t anyone.

  “Jesus Christ.” My chin ticked up one more defiant notch as I caught the curse under his breath. “Well, it’s not good enough.”

  Another unknowing jab sent me gasping for air and caused my angry armor to falter. You’re not good enough.

  I held his gaze in silence. There was nothing else to say. I was going as fast as I could.

  With more muttered expletives and a jab of his fingers through his hair, I expected him to stalk off—no, I expected him to walk right through me like he had to all those people in the coffee shop earlier this week. I even stepped to the side so I didn’t risk any more embarrassment. But instead, he stopped next to me and bent down to retrieve the other six pads that lay strewn on the floor. Gathering them in one smooth movement, he easily lifted the stack up onto the top shelf where long, lean fingers pressed them back flat against the others. My mouth watered as his back and shoulder muscles stretched against his white shirt that was only slightly less wrinkled than the one from Tuesday.

  I waited for it—the urge to smooth it, to ask him if he owned an iron or, hell, if he looked in the mirror before leaving the house in the morning. But no, the urge to press flat the rumpled fabric never came, instead only the seizing need to peel it off his body completely.

  Just like his anger and melancholy, I wanted to strip it from him and marvel at what was underneath.

  My mouth parted at the unexpected gesture from the man who’d just insulted me—several times, I was pretty sure. Like evil flowers—like love and loathing—the two actions didn’t seem to mesh and yet still made sense. His head jerked in some semblance of a nod and then he carefully walked around me, not bothering to wait for the ‘thank you’ that was still stuck in my throat.

  Merde.

  Miserable place.

  Miserable people.

  Professor Léo Baudin. I scowled at the name plaque on the door, figuring I’d give it a week before I ripped it off. They could use their brains if they wanted to find me.

  My bag crashed onto the desk in the office I’d been given for the semester. It was a big mahogany monstrosity. Big desk. Big bookshelves. Big window overlooking this dismal city.

  C’était trop. It was too much.

  I preferred my hole at L’École des Beaux-Arts
de Paris. I needed chaos to keep me sane. Having space meant space to think—and that was the last thing I needed.

  Actually, the last thing I needed was la petite culotte, the spitfire who made my already-black blood boil. I remembered her from the coffee shop the other day—the place managing to serve an above-average American attempt at espresso. Not hard to do when it usually came out tasting like brown piss.

  It irritated me that I remembered her because she shouldn’t have been worth remembering. Her oval face with a chin that was just a little too pointy. Almond eyes—in both shape and color—that were slightly too large for her face (and for her own good). A disproportional lower lip, trop grande for the thinner, arched upper mate. Her hair the color of the dirty bronze David sculpture by Donatello I’d been contracted to teach these insolent children about.

  She wasn’t gorgeous, yet she’d caught my eye. She wasn’t mesmerizing, yet I couldn’t look away. Details about her stuck in my brain like the coffee stain on my white shirt. Details that my body had its own demanding opinions about.

  My head jerked up at the knock on the door.

  “Entrez.”

  “Léo.” Jack’s grinning face appeared. I reached for his extended hand, tensing when he pulled me in for a hug. “Good to see you, my friend.” He looked me up and down with a raised eyebrow. “You look…” He trailed off with a laugh. “I know you French aren’t a fan of showers, but I assumed laundry was á la mode… or am I wrong?” His eyes gave me a once-over.

  “Ferme ta gueule.” Shut up.

  “You haven’t changed.” He laughed slightly because we both knew that was a lie. We’d both attended les Beaus-Arts together many years ago. He’d known me before her, he’d known me during, and he liked to think he knew me now. “Glad to see you’ve made yourself at home. I know you weren’t too thrilled about coming, but I think it’ll be a good break for you…”

  I felt a twinge as my jaw clenched.

  I didn’t want to leave Paris. But I hadn’t had much of a choice. Anger lay barely concealed below the surface, and when I’d thrown a chisel at a student last semester who talked back to me during my critique of his sculpture, it hadn’t gone well.

  True, la France wasn’t America; in ninety-nine percent of cases, such an action was completely acceptable. In the one percent of cases where the student was the son of one of les grands-hommes on the board of the school, it was not.

  So, it was either take cette perte du temps or waste my time on sabbatical in Paris with nothing to do but think and wonder and search for answers where time had already proven none existed.

  I’d told Jack I didn’t want to talk about the incident last semester avec le lancer, the ensuing conversation would have been another perte du temps.

  And I was so damn tired of wasting time. But that was what she’d turned my life into—me into—a waste.

  “Did you get the supplies sorted out?” he pressed. The old Léo who would want to catch up with his old friend fought with the new one who didn’t want to give a shit about anyone or anything.

  Not about friends. Not about my legacy. Not even about art supplies.

  And especially not about the attitude of la petite culotté who was stocking them. Cheeky little shrimp of a girl.

  My fist clenched at my side.

  “More or less.” I shrugged. “Not my problem.”

  He chuckled, picking up the textbook on Michelangelo I had open on the desk. “Take it easy on them, Léo. They’re just freshmen. You remember what that was like, right?”

  “Oui,” I clipped. “Too much work. Not enough wine. Same as now.”

  This time, I couldn’t stop the smile that appeared when he laughed. It used to be like this between us. Easy. Full of laughter.

  “Well, I’m already responsible for the work, I might as well chip in with the wine.” And then I saw it: la pitié. He’d lasted all of fifteen minutes before that vile emotion graced his face. “How about you come over for dinner tonight? Katie has been hounding me all week.”

  And just like that, I’d sooner accept an invitation to the eighth circle of Hell.

  “I’ll let you know,” I managed with. “I have… some things to still prep for Monday and I’m behind on a paper I’m supposed to be publishing at the beginning of March.”

  “Behind?” His eyebrow raised.

  Okay, there were certain things that he still did know about me. “Alright, fine. I haven’t even started.”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  We both looked to the door and if I ever had the inclination to hug someone, it would be whoever was on the other side; I didn’t want to talk about dinner anymore or my future—what ghost-like shreds remained of it.

  “Hello?” A chipper voice entered the room just before a small smiling face.

  “Oh, hi, Meg,” Jack exclaimed, ushering the intruder inside. Wavy brown hair swallowed her face that was already partially covered by large round frames. Similarly, her clothes seemed to swallow her. Painter. Judging by the patchwork of colors on her sweater. The eyes though, they looked familiar. I shook my head and stepped back against my desk. Probably just remembering a sculpture.

  My office that was quickly starting to feel much much smaller than I’d originally thought.

  “Meg, let me introduce you to a colleague and friend of mine, Léo Baudin—the expert in Italian sculpture but also quite formidable in his portraits. Léo, this is Meghan James, another professor in the department.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Léo—can I call you Léo? Please, feel free to call me Meg,” she exclaimed with a smile that was too big for her face but not her hair; she could call me whatever she wanted as long as it got them both out of my office sooner. “The whole department has been in a tither about who was going to teach this course. We’re so excited to have you here.”

  “Madame.” I nodded with a shit smile. “Thank you.” I was forced to shake her hand when she extended it.

  Jack interjected, “Meghan James teaches many of the freshman painting courses as well as the Picasso elective this semester.”

  “Yes, so please excuse my appearance. I was preparing a few samples for Monday.” Her laugh made her look younger. Familiar, again.

  “Alright, well, we won’t keep you, Léo,” Jack said, noticing my irritation. More pity because I didn’t used to be like this. “Let me know about dinner.”

  He gave me a tight smile as he opened the door, again, holding it for Madame James.

  “I—ahh, actually wanted to talk to Léo about his VE course,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Give him the lay of the land.”

  Don’t leave, I glared at Jack.

  The tip of his head said there wasn’t much he could do. “See you later.” He shut the door behind him, leaving me to la bavarde. The Chatty Cathy.

  Salaud. Bastard.

  “Sorry, Léo. I won’t keep you for long.”

  Her face was going to break if she kept smiling like that.

  I nodded, dropping into the chair behind the desk. “I think I am well prepared for class…”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” She waved a hand at me. My eyes narrowed, hoping it would incite her to hurry up. “I wanted to talk to you, actually, because my daughter is going to be in your class this semester.”

  Merde. Even worse than dealing with students was dealing with their parents. Especially at this level of education. My job was to teach them, not babysit their feelings.

  “Madame, I do not give preferential treatment no matter who your child is,” I said tightly.

  “Oh! No, no, no.” Her hands flailed. “I certainly don’t… I mean…” She huffed and put her hand to her forehead. I expected to see smoke the way her brain seemed to be moving. Trop vite. “I just wanted to let you know that my daughter, Troy, has been… through a lot this year. I won’t go into specifics,” and then she proceeded to do just that—what was it with Americans? I had no interest in her family troubles.

  I certainly had more than enough o
f my own.

  But in the interest of self-preservation and not insulting my friend who had given me something to do to fill my time and earn me some good graces back at L’École, I kept my mouth shut.

  “She used to live with her father and… something happened. She’s okay—or better now. Yes, she’s getting better. She’s been seeing someone, I mean, a psychiatrist.”

  Jesus Christ.

  My fingers strummed on the desk.

  “I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I’m just so worried. I just wanted to let you know that Troy has been through a lot and I wanted to prepare you and ask that you be patient with her. She’s an excellent student, excellent artist. But she can give some pushback. If you have any trouble, please don’t hesitate to come talk to me.”

  I stared at her.

  Just what I wanted to be dealing with—a whiny brat. Because life is so hard.

  Forcing the bitter bile back down my throat, I smiled reassuringly—just like I had when I promised the administration I would never throw anything at a student again.

  “Of course, Madame.”

  “Merci,” she replied with an attempt that came out more Italian than French.

  I sat frozen until she let herself out. Dropping my head into my hands, my gaze would have burned through the papers on my desk, the words all disintegrating together into a black fog.

  What had I done?

  I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut, opening the top drawer of the desk and reaching for the small bottle of vodka that I put there.

  Troy. Who named their daughter after a Greek myth?

  Un fou.

  A fool.

  I sighed, feeling the liquid burn down my throat. I’d weaned myself off the stuff just in time for one year to roll around. Then it hit me all over again—she was gone and I was sentenced to six more years of meaningless, paralyzed existence—and I relapsed. And then there was the chisel incident. Alcohol had become my tank of oxygen. Without it, it got harder and harder to breathe.

  Deep burning breath.

  Feeling the liquid settle in my empty stomach, I twisted the cap back on and let my head tip up toward the ceiling. I only had a few more minutes before the thoughts came. I shouldn’t let them, but my eyelids drifted shut anyway. I expected to see blonde hair and traitorous blue eyes. I expected to see Amélie.