Transformed: Paris

By Suzanne Falter and Jack Harvey

Elektra was just going to Paris for a vacation ... really.

Until she meets a British aristocrat with purple hair and a serious grudge against humanity.

Transman spy Charley travels to Paris to help break up a Neo Nazi plot to scatter dirty bombs throughout the city.

His older lover Electra comes along to study French. But she soon discovers Dickie Borque, a toe-tapping, sinister expat, may be behind the dirty bomb plot. Charley, however, is not so sure.

Meanwhile, she and Charley begin having love troubles when he suggests opening up their relationship to suit his pansexual desires.

After discovering that he may have been fooling around with his attractive new male assistant, Electra moves out in a huff. Soon Charley is wandering the quays alone, trying to find the dirty bombs while wistfully longing for his love.

Finally Electra enlists the help of Dickie’s feisty eighty-something milliner, Odile, to break up the plot.

But that’s when Electra disappears.

Now Charley must search frantically for both the bombs and Electra amidst the cafes, conversation, and the gleaming, rainy streets of Paris in winter.

If you love Paris ... you’ll love:

-Charley’s moody walks on the quays of the Seine ... watching the windows light up at sunset

-A sumptuous feast at Chez Paul, the quintessential French café, complete with handwritten menus

-Charley’s first encounter with a neo-Nazi – improbably in a British style tea shop that’s cozy beyond cozy

-The uniquely healing, only-in-France aperitif that Odile pulls out for special occasions ... and the secret story behind how it came to be

Dive into Transformed: Paris ... you’ll get lost in a perfectly delicious, and yes, page-turning way.

It’s fun. It’s a little wild.

And so very French!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Falter
• Release date: Sep 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9780996998116

Suzanne Falter

Suzanne Falter is an author, speaker, blogger and podcaster who has published both fiction and non-fiction, as well as essays. Her queer fiction titles include the funny romantic suspense series Transformed and her lesbian fiction series Oaktown Girls. She also writes and speaks about self-care and the transformational healing of crisis, especially in her own life after the death of her daughter Teal. Her non-fiction books include How Much Joy Can You Stand?, Living Your Joy, and Surrendering to Joy. Suzanne’s essays have appeared in O Magazine, The New York Times, Elephant Journal, and Thrive Global among others. Suzanne is also the host of podcasts Self-Care for Extremely Busy Women (formerly The Self-Care Soother) and Before the Afterlife. Her free flash fiction can be found at www.suzannefalterfiction.com, as well as on Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, and Pinterest. She lives with her wife in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Book preview

CHAPTER

1

Dickie, Dame of Borque, tapped the toe of her lavender suede boot. Cask should have been here by now. But then he was like that; sloppy, disorganized. Grossly self-centered.

He was probably standing around in the drizzle right now, smoking outside that dreadful 7-Eleven he loves so much, she thought with annoyance. She couldn’t wait forever.

Dickie refolded her arms and looked at her watch. As she did, a trio of Afghanis walked by. She glared at them, and they looked away. This was exactly what she kept seething about to anyone who would listen.

It seemed you couldn’t cross a street in Paris without running smack into yet another set of migrants. Migrants without money or much of anything, really.

Migrants who cluttered up her beloved Paris with too much sweaty, smelly, foreign … humanity.

Dickie remembered a time not too long ago when France was filled with French people and just a smattering of well-dressed tourists. That was when a baguette was baked by a master pastry chef with a degree in the craft. God knew who was doing all that kneading and rolling now. Or doing anything classically French, for that matter.

Dickie’s love for that undefinable French … something … made her emigrate to France from England after her last husband died. After all those years of being a mere vacationing visitor, she wanted to live like the French did. And now … well, all of that seemed lost. To her, Paris had become a particularly sordid place.

Every last one of these migrants needed to go home. Now.

Really, they were highly inconvenient.

At least, that’s what Dickie believed. It was the reason she’d forged an unlikely bond with a French neo-Nazi of all things. Cask would help actually get these people out of here, even if he was a total pill. God knows the French government wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. Not unless she coerced them, at least—which was exactly her plan.

Dickie was just about to walk away when she saw Cask speeding towards her, a hulking, black figure on a bike, splashing through the puddles on the Champs Élysées.

So? she asked, as he pulled up and braked.

It’s done. Cask hopped off his bike. They began to walk.

Thank bloody Christ, Dickie thought.

The months of planning, buying the wrong isotope on eBay, dealing with the Georgian mafia, coming up with the money—all of it was finally coming to fruition. Who knew building a few dirty bombs could be so problematic?

You were alone? she asked, eyes straight ahead.

Cask snorted. Hardly. I left it in the recycling bin on the street.

Dickie whirled around. "You what? she hissed. You left a dirty bomb in the rubbish? How could you be such an idiot?"

Cask rolled his eyes. "Shut up," he muttered.

Cask had not been looking forward to their meeting, simply because Dickie was such a tremendous pain in the ass. He’d lingered with his cigarette as long as he possibly could.

Finally, reluctantly, he’d gotten on his bike and ridden through the rain to meet her. And now … this.

Dickie was busy giving him hell because of the first bomb location he’d chosen—the rubbish bin of the Musée Picasso. She had no idea how long he’d scoped out the musée, or how many bad coffees that had required.

First he had to climb up on the parapet in broad daylight, unseen, and disable the camera. Then he had to time the drop after garbage collection, but before the tired woman in the blue uniform came trudging out to wheel the bin back into the museum basement.

The bomb had to be disguised amidst some apparently forgotten trash from the musée—trash he had to research and provide, for God’s sake.

No, Dickie had no idea what she was talking about. As usual.

Cask just looked at her.

Today Dickie’s dark purple hair peeked out from under her Dr. Seuss version of a Tyrolean hat, and her green alpine cape was straight from The Sound of Music. She looked patently ridiculous. Cask shook his head slowly.

If it wasn’t for her money, he’d be long gone.

The operation is going as planned. Don’t … Cask faltered for a moment, forgetting the word in English, "… microgéres."

Dickie ground to a halt. Micromanage, she snapped back. You know the cash flow can stop right now, if that’s how you want this to go. Your one pathetic bomb will probably get picked up on the radiation detectors in the next two hours, and you’ll be less than a footnote in the history of Paris. She folded her arms and glared at him. Then she continued.

Witnesses will be found, not one migrant will get deported, and no one will ever hear of Maurice Courtmanche because he will spend the rest of his life rotting in prison.

"My name is Cask," he spat disdainfully.

Oh yes! Dickie chirped. How could I forget? You re-branded. Like Sting. How very clever.

Cask glared at her for a moment. Forget it. Just forget the whole fucking thing, he said, beginning to climb back on his bike. I should never have started with you.

Is that how you solve problems? By running away? Dickie let out a derisive laugh. You can’t leave, Maurice. You need me too much. Without me the other bombs don’t get built.

Cask threw his bike to the ground in frustration. "Alright, alright, ALRIGHT! he exploded. Then he bowed before her in a false grovel. Oh dear Lady Dickie … what do you want me to do? I am eternally at your service."

A group of Japanese schoolgirls passed by them in a whirl of Hello Kitty backpacks, tittering as they went. "Get up, Dickie hissed. People are watching."

Cask rose and looked at her, and for just a moment he seemed slightly broken. She regarded him warily before she was satisfied.

Finally Dickie reached into her handbag. Here, she said, handing over the packet. It was the remaining 350,000 euros for the cesium-137. The Georgians were coming tomorrow with the correct isotope on their way to a big blowout at Maxim’s. Don’t screw up, she said.

Cask took the money and stuffed it into his backpack. She needed him as much as he needed her. There was no denying it. Cask gave her a final dirty look as he climbed back on his bike.

Dickie watched him pedal away for a moment, a black shadow speeding down the Avenue between the white tents of the Christmas Market.

Somehow they would get the job done. For her own sanity, they had to.

CHAPTER

2

Charley looked out the window as the shore of Long Island slipped away beneath him. Only 3600 miles to go, he thought giddily.

He loved working in Paris. Paris was everything, and everything was Paris. It was like a living, breathing kaleidoscope that twisted in his hand with each block that he walked.

He took Electra’s hand and gave it a happy squeeze. She looked up from her copy of Women’s Wear Daily and smiled. On an impulse he leaned over, giving her throat a small kiss.

I’m reading about graphic coats, she said. Don’t distract me.

But I love to distract you, he said with a little whimper.

Deal with it, she said, turning the page crisply.

They sat in silence for a moment. Honey … Charley began.

She did not look up. Mmm?

Are you happy we’re going to Paris together?

Electra turned another page. Mmm-hmm.

No, really. He looked at her more intensely. Electra?

She closed the paper and looked at him. What do you want, Charley?

He paused for a moment. It’s just that I wish we were working together, that’s all.

She regarded him evenly. I’m going over to study French. That’s what we agreed.

Actually, this was what the Agency had decided. Electra had not yet received enough training to be active in the field. Meaning she hadn’t gotten any of the required training at all. Even her recent success tracking and entrapping a homegrown terrorist in San Francisco wouldn’t do shit for her now. The Agency had rules about these things.

Electra really couldn’t see herself tramping around the Farm with a bunch of twenty-something spy wannabe’s, learning how to trace fingerprints, break locks and coerce statements. It seemed oddly corporate, and she wanted nothing to do with it.

Anyway, she considered herself too old for such work at 52. So this time, Charley was going to have to handle the spy work without her.

He shook his head. Oh, I know. I know! You’ll probably enjoy conjugating all those verbs… he said wistfully. I shouldn’t complain.

No, she said, opening her paper again.

It’s just that…

Electra sighed and closed her paper. She regarded him. What?

I want us to spend time together.

Charley, we’ll be living together in Paris.

I know, I know … I just… he faltered.

Electra just looked at him, exasperated. "For God’s sake, darling. What?"

He turned to her and yet again found himself dissolving into the vast sea of her very blue eyes. Hers were the eyes he couldn’t tear himself away from — eyes that saw everything just as it truly was, including him.

She knew him, utterly and completely.

Charley’s heart suddenly beat more quickly in his chest. This was the next critical thing. He had to say it. He did. There was no getting around the pure inevitability of it, so he might as well just begin.

This was a conversation he’d been trying to have with her for weeks now. Months, even. One he knew she didn’t want to have.

I think… he began quietly. Electra, I think it’s time for us to open up our relationship.

Electra blinked and put down her paper. Did you just… she began. Wait a minute. What?

Our relationship, he said in a low voice. I want us to be able to have other lovers if we want, with each other’s blessing. You remember—polyamory. We talked about it.

Electra looked at him warily. Then she sat back. She lowered her voice to a hiss. "Oh, Charley. Why now, why here? In Air France’s frigging First Class? Why the hell are you bringing this up now?"

In fact, he had a very good reason. They had a good six hours to discuss this. No one could run away. No one could have a loud, public tirade. No one could disappear. Instead, they would be forced to deal with the question at hand.

Quietly.

You know we need to talk about this, he said.

Electra closed her eyes and grimly set her mouth. I know, she replied coolly.

She had made peace with the fact that Charley was a trans man, but she truly struggled with the part about polyamory. Who needed other lovers? She certainly didn’t.

The one time they had attempted to discuss it, she had walked out of the restaurant.

Here was what he considered their last hurdle. If they could surmount this one great incompatibility, they were home free for happily ever after.

So Charley expected at least some kind of reaction. But then what choice did he have? He was a true pansexual, meaning he enjoyed all kinds of sex with all kinds of people—men, women and everyone in between. So he preferred ‘polyamory’—opening the relationship to include other lovers—out of convenience. Simply because one flavor never seemed to be enough.

It seemed to be how his mind and his libido worked.

Look, there are benefits… he began uncertainly.

Electra’s eyes were closed, and she was utterly expressionless. She appeared to be barely breathing.

Honey?

She didn’t respond. He took her hand once again, and it was limp.

Love?

No reply.

Look, he whispered. I know you have no experience with this, but I do. A lot, in fact.

Charley, she said, turning to him. Electra’s eyes were now blazing a hole in the middle of his heart. "I need you to get this. I will not discuss this with you on an airplane."

Then Electra unbuckled her seat belt, stood up, and walked away. She was heading for the rest room, despite the fact that the Fasten Seat Belts sign was still illuminated.

A voice came on the loudspeaker. "The captain has not turned off the Fasten Seat Belts sign. If you are up and moving about the cabin…"

The droning voice stopped abruptly. Charley watched Electra chat with the flight attendant for a moment. The announcement quickly faded away as Electra disappeared into the restroom.

Charley sighed. He could only imagine what she had just said to the flight attendant.

When would she be back?

Charley looked at his watch again. Electra had been in the First Class bathroom for nearly 20 minutes. Once the Fasten Seat Belts light was turned off, a small train of First Classers had moved up to the lavatory door, tried it, and drifted back to their seats. The First Class flight attendant was clearly oblivious.

Electra was taking her sweet time. And given that FDA regulations prohibited anyone from congregating outside the cockpit, no one was queuing up outside the locked restroom door.

Charley had even gone to the door and tapped once. Are you alright?

Be out in a minute, was her canned reply.

Now Charley bit his lip and looked out the window.

Unlike all the other women he’d known, Electra was the first one he’d truly fallen in love with. She was also the first one who refused to even discuss the idea of polyamory with him.

What in God’s name was he supposed to do? Monogamy was so … restricting. It was like saying you were only going to eat vanilla ice cream for the rest of your life. He was a man who loved all kinds of people. It was innate, in his blood. It was the way he was made.

Charley sighed.

Why in God’s name did love have to be so difficult?

Out the window was an endless sea of pearly, radiant clouds, an eternal blue sky all around them. He’d finally found the one-in-a-million woman who didn’t mind that he lacked a penis and had a vagina instead, a leftover from his childhood before he had transitioned.

Still, the road to love was perilous. Charley looked at the sky and worried.

Charley was a persuasive man—professionally persuasive. Getting people to do things, to accept things, to answer things, to reveal things. It’s what he did for a living. So why couldn’t he get this one precious woman, the one closest to his heart, to open up to him about such a critical thing?

He knew, just as all poly people knew, that this choice was not for everyone. But for those it suited, it was an exercise in ecstasy most every day. It was like frog’s legs or tripe or … hell … even Electra’s beloved BDSM.

If only he could get her to just try it, just a little, he was quite sure she’d come around.

Charley drained the last of his glass of wine and sighed. Maybe he should call Blair. If anyone could make inroads here, it was she. He was going to call her anyway, given that she was in Brussels. His oldest friend in the world would be just a few hours away.

They hadn’t actually seen each other in at least two years. It would be good to reconnect. At any rate, Blair was Charley’s only friend who’d actually managed to make polyamory sane and livable, even as a butch lesbian.

Now Charley caught the flight attendant’s eye. I’m concerned about my girlfriend, he said. She’s been in the restroom for quite a while. Could you please see if she’s all right?

Charley watched her go to the lavatory door and have a brief conversation. A moment later, the flight attendant’s voice came on the loudspeaker. If there is a doctor or a medical professional on board, could you please light your seat indicator?

Jesus Christ, thought Charley. Electra was taking this entirely too far.

Unless, of course, something was legitimately wrong.

He approached the door of the lavatory once again and knocked softly. Sweetheart, he said. Are you okay?

There was no reply.

Please come back to your seat, he urged. We don’t have to discuss this now.

There was only the muffled blowing of a nose on the other side of the door. Good God, he thought to himself. Electra was actually crying in there. Are you okay? he repeated.

No, Electra answered tersely. I’m not.

An aging, red-faced doctor came shuffling up the aisle now, as head after head swiveled in his wake to follow the action up front.

Could you please return to your seat? the flight attendant asked Charley. No congregating in the front of...

Alright, alright. It’s just that... he said irritably. The doctor was already talking to Electra through the door. Charley heard her murmur heart palpitations as he was briskly escorted back to his seat.

What the fuck?

A moment later the lavatory door opened, and the doctor escorted Electra back to her seat. Good thing I had this in my bag, he muttered as he placed the stethoscope on Electra’s back. Cough three times, please.

Charley watched the doctor move the stethoscope around Electra’s body. Finally he stood up. You sound fine to me, young lady, he said. Most likely you just have some flight jitters. Good glass of wine should fix you up.

Electra thanked the doctor and blew her nose. They were alone again.

That was a bit excessive, Charley began.

Don’t push me, she replied testily.

They were silent for a moment. Then she turned to him. I love you, she said quietly. But I’m not like your other women.

He leaned into her. Electra, you are the only one who matters, and the only one who ever will.

I know, she said. We’ll talk about it later.

Electra flagged the flight attendant walking by. Three bottles of Pinot Noir, she told the woman. Then she turned to Charley. Are you ordering a drink? she asked.

Peace had once again been restored.

Charley and Electra descended the escalators at CDG to the waiting crowd below. Halfway down the escalator, Charley spotted a svelte, attractive black man off to the side. He was holding a printed sign that said MacElroy, just as instructed.

Charley pointed him out to Electra. That’s our fellow, he said. The two men nodded to each other, as Electra gave Charley a sidelong glance.

What? he asked innocently. She didn’t reply. You don’t think I chose him… he began as they neared the bottom of the escalator.

I just think your timing is interesting, she remarked. Given today’s topic at hand.

Oh, honey, began Charley. I have to have an assistant. You know that! he pled innocently. Charley’s cover as a travel writer meant he had to actually produce a travel book. It was