One Night in Paris

By Twyla Turner

Rhian:
I've never been anywhere outside of my city. Hell, I've barely left my house in years. Being well over 400 lbs can sometimes do that in a society that hates fat people. But now that I'm 440 lbs down...200 lbs for me, plus another 240 when I dropped my verbally abusive ex...I'm ready to go on an adventure I've waited my whole life to take. Go big or go home, right?
A trip down the wrong street, and I stumble upon a protest on my first trip to Paris. I turn to make my escape. Only to come face to face with a line of heavily armored French police. My brain tells my feet to flee as fast as they can take me. My kind doesn't always fare well with cops in situations like these. Unfortunately, it's just not my day. Or so it would seem.
In my haste, I collide right into the arms of the enemy. But is he really? I don't remember enemies having a smile like that. With eyes like a cat, that sparkle with mischief and pleasures untold. And a body Michelangelo would weep over. I could lose myself in a face and body like that. And I've never lost myself to anyone before.

Blaise:
I was just trying to do my job. The day should've been heavy and tense. It was…but for all the wrong reasons.
My body tensed. Not because the protest had escalated. But because of the animal instinct inherent in my sex. I am the predator and she is the hunted. I'm ready for the chase.
My heart feels heavy. Not because of the anger running through the city that is rightly felt, which I can't admit to anyone. But because it already feels the weight of her within, and yet she's never spoken a word to me.
She is not what I should want. Not what I should crave. But the promise in the dark depths of her pretty eyes, made me forget my surroundings.

I shouldn't want him.
I can't want her.
We are too different.
We are worlds apart.
In every way.
In every way.

Yet…I can't resist the pull. So, tonight, I will give all of myself. Mind, body, and soul. This hotel room will be filled with secrets. Told and performed behind its walls. We won't speak of tomorrow until tomorrow comes. For now… it's just you and me.

You and me…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twyla Turner
• Release date: Jan 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215615669

Book preview

By Twyla Turner

Copyright © 2023 Twyla Turner

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.

To:

Anyone struggling to be seen in this superficial world.

Table of Contents:

Author’s Note

Unrest

Warm Welcome

Internal Battle

Reunions & Realizations

Standing Outside the Fire

Flipped Upside-down

Engage the Senses

Into the Flames

La Première Petite Mort

Pillow Talk

With My Last Breath

The Elephant

The Fight

The Fight

La Dernière Petite Mort

Regret

Regret

Toss A Coin

Destiny

Happy Endings

References

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Twyla Turner

Connect with the Author

Author’s Note

The beginning of this story is based on my first trip to Europe. Part of what I experienced in Paris stuck with me. The motorbike taxi, the protest, and the beautiful Parisian police officer who blew me away in those brief moments we locked eyes and smiled at each other.

One Night in Paris is what I imagined could have been...

Unrest

Orange and yellow flames engulf a van in the darkness. It’s rippling glow light up the faces of those rushing the streets. Black and Brown with a few fair-skinned allies. The light and shadows flicker against their skin as the flames that dance reflect in their eyes. But it’s not just the flames of a fire that lights them. It’s also the flames of frustration, helplessness, and rage.

Makeshift signs of well-worn cardboard, are thrust into the air. They display words written haphazardly in French. The words disappear and reappear in the flash of blue from the rotating lights of the police cars surrounding the area.

QUE JUSTICE SOIT FAITE! – LET JUSTICE BE DONE!

A protester cracks open and holds up a flare. The red glow illuminates the line of police officers in all black militarized gear who stare back. Their predominantly fair faces red from the flare. It reflects the rage many of them feel inside at the actions of some of their own being questioned. Many jaws tick as they hold back their desire to charge forward.

Someone in the crowd throws a balloon fill with red paint at the cops. It explodes against one of their plexiglass shields. The crowd cheers louder and pushes forward. A few cops break rank and step forward.

All hell breaks loose. Several officers pull the tabs and then toss tear gas into the angry mob. Reporters and their cameramen stand on the edge of it all, reporting to the French citizens at home.

One reporter, a pretty dark-skinned woman, turns to the camera and nods.

We have entered week two of the protests turned riots on the outskirts of Paris. They began after a 19-year-old Black teen was allegedly sodomized with a baton by Paris police in an arrest gone wrong. Anger in the African and Arab community reached a boiling point when the authorities claimed it was ‘an accident.’ The reporter says in French.

She can barely keep her voice even and flat, as is common of reporters. She knows it’s bullshit. The cameraman knows it’s bullshit. Everyone does. Yet nothing ever changes.

Windows shatter in the background. The reporter flinches and the camera wobbles for a moment.

"The incident happened when the victim, who is going by Timothée, allegedly tried to deescalate a situation between the police and another citizen. That is when several officers handcuffed him, took him around a corner, and purportedly assaulted him. They claim that his pants had fallen down on their own and that the retractable truncheon accidentally extended into his rectum.

"The Black community throughout France aren’t buying it. They are angry. And have shown up en masse to protest not just the alleged injustice, but also the structural racism that exists in the country. It is unclear how long the protests and riots will lay siege to the entire country. But there are a few bold protesters who are inching closer to the city where they feel they cannot be ignored.

Currently, the victim is in the hospital and resting after surgery to fix his perforated rectum.

She looks into the camera for a few seconds longer, before the cameraman stops the camera and cuts the light on top. They’re thrown back into darkness, except for the fires, police lights, and flares in the distance.

The smoke from the teargas creeps eerily forward. They cough and choke on it. They quickly hurry away to safety. Although, the unease in the air made nowhere feel safe.

Warm Welcome

Rhian

Ihad a plan once I arrived in Paris, that I’d figure out the train system to find my hotel from the airport. Unfortunately, due to strong winds, my plane in Florence, Italy was delayed and now it’s dark out. I’m tired. Frazzled. And too overwhelmed to figure it all out at 10 p.m. I just want to get to my hotel and pass out.

I roll my carry-on with my tote towards the exit. The televisions hanging from the ceiling, flashing with the news of protests and riots, go unnoticed by me.

Paris is the last leg of my very first trip abroad. A trip I decided to take solo. London, Edinburgh, Rome, Florence, and Paris. Twenty-one days. An ambitious first solo trip. I guess I’m an ‘All or Nothing’ kind of woman.

London had so much modern mixed in with the old and historic, that I didn’t feel like I was abroad. I’m pretty sure I only spoke to two Brits the entire time I was there. Everyone else seemed to be from somewhere else. Stepping out of the train station in Edinburgh, I’d finally felt like I was in the UK. The gothic and romantic Old Town side loomed above and stretched towards a castle on a cliff. It stood guard over the city. And the people were incredibly friendly, which took me by surprise.

Rome was a clusterfuck of feelings. It was one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen a ton. But I was not ready. Not ready for the peddlers hawking their wares in front of every major landmark. Selfie sticks thrust into my face, You want to buy selfie stick?! Scammers with VIP tickets to jump the line into the Sistine Chapel. Every major landmark so crowded with tourists, that I had to push my way through some of them to actually see them. Every photo of the Colosseum, Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, or any other major tourist point with zero people in the picture is a lie. Maybe if you get there at the buttcrack of dawn, you might see them without issues.

But the most disappointing thing about Rome was being propositioned for sex, by some creepy, old man with moles all over his face. It happened in the gelato/sandwich shop, where he worked or owned. He offered me €50, which is about $60. I had to tell him No multiple times. I would’ve cussed him out and slapped him with my damn sandwich, if it weren’t for the fact that there were two police officers talking to him when I first walked in. Like they were on their regular beat, and the shop was one of their daily stops. The last thing I needed was to be arrested in a foreign country for assault with a deadly sandwich.

I step out into the cool, spring evening air. It seems like there are lines everywhere. There’s one for taxis. One for buses. And some I’m not even sure of. I have no idea where I’m going, so getting on a bus is out of the question. I’d probably end up on the opposite side of Paris from where I’m supposed to be. And I so badly wanted to avoid getting a taxi at all costs. My experience with them in Rome made me nervous.

When I’d stepped out of the airport in Rome, some random man came up and took advantage of the bewildered expression on my face. He could tell I’d never been there before. He saw an opportunity and took it. He walked up, grabbed my carry-on and started walking...away from the line of regular taxis. Two sweet older men in Edinburgh had warned me about the taxi scammers. They’d told me to only take a white taxi. That they were the legit taxis in Rome. But I was not expecting to be bulldozed by this man. I felt too timid to say, Put my shit down! I’ll get a taxi on my own. Instead, I’d followed him to the other side of the parking lot, to another man who was waiting in a white car. But I didn’t know why his car was so far away from the other line of taxis. And I know I shouldn’t have gotten in, but I did anyway. Like the rookie I am. My guardian angels were working overtime. It ended up being fine. I probably just paid twenty plus euros more than it should’ve been. That was exponentially better than being sold into sex slavery or robbed, like I thought I was going to be.

Maybe my ex, Tony, was right. Maybe I’m not built for an adventurous life.

So, when a handsome man with chin length blond hair and pretty gray eyes turns to me outside of the Paris airport, smiles, and says Motorbike taxi? you can understand my trepidation.

Excuse me?

You want motorbike taxi? He asks again in broken English. It’s better than my French. I don’t even know enough to speak it brokenly.

Oh, I don’t know about that, I shake my head.

I watch him go into his pocket and pull out a card. I take it. It’s laminated and shiny. On the front is a photo of one of those motorcycles that I like to call ‘easy riders.’ The