His To Shatter by Haley Pearce Page A

city, and looked for the world like a 1960’s movie star
in it. I turned this way and that before the full length mirror in
my studio, pleased with the results of my primping. I allowed
myself to feel beautiful, and it felt damn good.
    We set out into the lamp-lit city and soon
arrived at la Passerelle. Dara was rocking head-to-toe black, and
Ashlee had chosen a white lacy shift for the evening. I could feel
eyes on us as we were ushered into the club, but the crowd of
beautiful people soon subsumed us. For a moment, I was overwhelmed
by the sheer size of the place, but I reminded myself that I had
every right to be there, that I deserved to be there. My heart quit
hammering, and a smile spread across my face. This really was the
life.
    Ashlee led the way toward the bar, cutting
through the thick crowds like it was nothing. Dara and I trailed
along behind her, the electronic dance music working its way into
our blood. I could hardly keep from dancing as I perched on a high
barstool and asked the bartender for a martini. It was a bold
choice, and I was more accustomed to wine, but it felt like a great
way to celebrate my newfound outgoingness. The bartender was back
in a flash with a round of martinis for us, which he was pleased to
announce were on the house. We smiled and took our glasses, raising
our drinks for a toast.
    “To Paris!” I said over the music.
    “To Paris!” Ashlee and Dara agreed happily.
We clinked our glasses and relished the first sips of our martinis.
The gin was incredibly smooth, and so delicious on my tongue. I
promised myself that I would take it easy and enjoy the night that
was spread out before us in all its glittering potential.
    Over the rim of my glass, a flash of perfect
porcelain white caught my eye. I peered across the huge circular
bar, and my eyes came to rest on a stunning woman in profile. Her
perfect cheek bones were made all the more clear by an elaborate
up-do, and her lithe body looked as though it had been painted into
her black dress. She looked for the world like Audrey Hepburn’s
twin, but why was it that she looked so familiar to me? Suddenly,
her sharp eyes swung toward my side of the club and I understood,
with a sinking feeling in my gut.
    It was that caustic woman from the train all
those months ago. The one who had chided my miraculous rescuer.
That afternoon came screeching back to the forefront of my mind,
unwarranted. I tried very hard not to think about the events of
that day if I could help it. The image of that drunken man exposing
himself to me flooded my head all of sudden, and I winced at the
memory. I don’t know what I would have done if that mysterious and
devilishly handsome man hadn’t stood up for me. As I sat, paralyzed
with fear, he had come out of nowhere and placed himself between me
and the drunk. And when that degenerate had produced a box cutter
and threatened to hurt me, my savior had flung him against the
metal subway pole and knocked him out cold. He even had the decency
to put me in a cab afterwards so that I didn’t miss my
interview.
    And all the while some horrible woman that he
was traveling with had berated him for interfering. Right in front
of my face, this woman—Monica, that was her name—had basically said
that I should have been left to fend for myself. A fellow woman
suggested that it would have been better for me to wind up with a
lap full of diseased semen or a knife wound than for her companion
to ruffle his suit. Girard, that’s what he was called, had referred
to Monica as his assistant, but the possessive look in her eyes
suggested that their relationship was a bit more than that.
    I couldn’t believe this vision from the past
was sitting directly across the bar from me. I remembered noticing
the slight accent of Monica and Girard’s speech, but in my haste
and disarray I hadn’t put the pieces together. And the language
they had slipped into while they argued on the subway platform, it
was French that they had been