Trapped in Paris (Patreon)

— Oh damn! No! No-no-no! — Ethan cried out in panic, dropping hard onto the cold asphalt, feeling how his long wet hair stuck messily to his neck and back, sliding down together with the rainwater, while his palms slipped across the stone railing of the embankment.

The water of the Seine splashed dully and indifferently. The phone vanished instantly — no splash of hope, no chance. Only murky circles on the surface.

— Oh come on, — a male voice said in French, which by now had become native to Ethan, replacing his real English, — It’s just a phone.

Ethan jerked around. Behind him stood a tall guy in a dark jacket with the hood up, raindrops sliding down his cheekbones. Laurent. They had met in the morning, barely an hour after Ethan changed his appearance so he could explore Paris for real, from the inside, without the language barrier and without suspicious looks at the “American tourist.” And looking like a girl opened doors: free coffee in little cafés, smiles from strangers, light compliments, and if lucky with the right encounter — a free lunch and dinner. At least that’s what “Sophie” thought when “Laurent” walked up to her.

— You… — Ethan’s voice cracked, higher than he expected. — Do you even understand what you did, you idiot?!

Laurent blinked, clearly not expecting such an outburst. He lowered his chin slowly, looking her up and down — the soaked T-shirt clinging to the body, the short skirt, her knees pressed into the wet asphalt.

— Hey, hey, take it easy, — he drawled. — You asked for it. Acting sassy, rolling your eyes like I’m nobody. And anyway, I’ll buy you a new one, a new one, I told you… tomorrow. Or the day after.

Ethan froze. The words “tomorrow” and “the day after” cut like glass. His plane was supposed to be tomorrow, and now… Now he wouldn’t even be able to get into his hotel room if someone stopped him on the way and asked who he was. And they would stop him, he already felt sure of it. Looking like this, in this skirt that was more like a belt, and a T-shirt through which his nipples were visible, they would definitely stop him, and he wouldn’t be able to explain why a girl who speaks perfect French and doesn’t know English is actually a native New Yorker.

— You… you don’t understand, — “Sophie” forced out, gripping her fingers against the cold stone and squeezing her eyes shut. — It wasn’t just a phone.

— Oh come on, — Laurent shrugged. — I saw it. A relic. — he snorted loudly, — So come on. Get up. Kiss me on the cheek, say “sorry for acting like a dumb bitch,” and we’ll go get you a new one.

Ethan felt everything inside twist into a tight knot of rage, fear, and some absurd, almost hysterical laughter that he barely stopped by force of will.

— Kiss you on the cheek? — he repeated, his voice trembling slowly. — And say… that I acted like a dumb bitch?

Laurent nodded, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world. He even smiled — that relaxed, slightly condescending smile he probably used to disarm girls.

— Yeah. And that’s it, peace. I forgive. You forgive. Let’s go warm up, I know a place nearby, it’s dry, wine, hot chocolate… You clearly need to warm up, Sophie.

Ethan slowly got to his feet, swaying from sudden dizziness. Wet hair slapped against his cheeks, the skirt clung tightly to his hips, his breasts pushed forward, and the cold air slid between his legs and over his hard nipples as if reminding him about those places that had now become more sensitive than usual.

— He looked up at this idiot from below, eyebrows drawn tight, hoping it would have the same effect as back then, when he decided to turn into a 2-meter bodybuilder and visit a bar in Las Vegas. But instead of fear on Laurent’s face, an even wider smile appeared.

— Did anyone ever tell you you’re cute when you try to be angry? — Laurent noted calmly, as if stating something obvious.

Something jerked painfully in Ethan’s chest: ‘CUTE?! IS HE OUT OF HIS FUCKING MIND?!’

He blinked, making raindrops roll off his eyelashes, forcing him to inhale with a sudden girly little sob of breath — and with that tiny sob, whatever had just jerked inside now also rang sharply.

— I. Am. NOT. CUTE! — burst out of her loudly, yet still too soft, — And I. Am. NOT. SOPHIE!

It seemed Laurent wasn’t affected at all. He still towered over her, and that damned smile still shone on his face.

— Okay. — he answered shortly, — Lucy?

— WHAT? No! My name is Ethan! — Ethan barked so hard that on the last syllable his voice broke into a squeal, as if it decided to betray him at the most humiliating moment.

Laurent lifted one eyebrow slightly.

— Ethan? — he repeated in a tone like he’d just heard a cat call itself “Victor Hugo.” — Pretty funny name for a girl, you know?

— I’m not a girl! — she screamed… and immediately felt her breasts jerk up painfully from the sharp breath, and the wet T-shirt stretched even tighter, outlining a shape that made her sick and ashamed.

Laurent stepped closer and looked straight into her eyes, as if staring into her very soul.

— You one of those? — he asked softly, almost good-naturedly, — Seriously?

She clenched her teeth.

— One of those what? — she breathed through them, feeling her tongue trip over the French words that grated on her ears.

Laurent shrugged, as if they were discussing the weather.

— Well… the ones who don’t even know who they are today. Guy, girl, someone else tomorrow. Paris loves that stuff, — he smirked. — So you’re trans, yeah?

— No! — she hissed, — I’m not trans!

— Well… alright, — Laurent replied calmly, not even blinking. — You gonna apologize?

— For what?! — burst out of her too sharply, and again her voice slipped, turning thinner than she wanted. — For you… for you pushing my phone into the river?

— I didn’t push it, — he shrugged. — You jerked on your own.

He looked down at her, letting his gaze stop exactly where everything inside her tightened painfully.

— And anyway, you really did act like a bitch, so… — He paused, looking off to the side as if noticing something interesting there, but finally finished the thought, — let’s skip the drama. Say it and let’s go.

Ethan opened his mouth to protest, but suddenly the full horror of the situation hit him: his documents, money, even a simple bank card — everything was in the hotel room. He had left with only his phone, which he used almost immediately to change his appearance in the bathroom of the nearest café. But the phone was now at the bottom of the Seine, and he… she… was standing here. In the rain, with no idea where she would sleep tonight, and this Laurent, damn him, was the only person in all of Paris who could help her even a little.

— This realization hit so fast that Ethan’s knees buckled at once, and a quiet French slipped out of his mouth:

— Merde… — barely audible, almost pleading.

Laurent tilted his head, studying her face.

— Huh? — he grunted. — Didn’t get that. Do you need a new phone or not?

From his indifferent tone Ethan felt another push rise to her throat. She lifted her gaze to him — confusion, fear, and a shimmer that could easily be taken for tears.

— Th-th… — she swallowed, feeling her lips shake, and her heart beating so hard it echoed dully in her ears, — T-t-the phone…

— Hey… — he muttered, still smiling, but without the cocky-rude tone. — What’s wrong with you?

She swayed, as if from a blow, but Laurent managed to grab her by the elbow, stopping her from collapsing. His fingers closed firmly, almost sharply, and from that touch waves ran across her skin — waves she would never have imagined feeling back when she was herself, Ethan, a twenty-six-year-old dude who just a week ago was calmly eating a burger in New York.

— H-hey, — Laurent leaned in so close she felt his breath — warm, annoyingly confident. — What’s this? Decided to faint on me?

She tried to pull her arm back, but Laurent didn’t let go.

— Let… let go, okay?! — she snapped, shaking her head to come back to her senses, still trembling but with confidence starting to return.

Laurent snorted and, to her fury, not only didn’t release her arm, but grabbed higher — almost under her shoulder — pulling her closer so she wouldn’t wobble.

— Stop squirming, — he said calmly. — You’ll fall, and then I’ll be the bad guy. Nope. We’re going.

He yanked her forward, so sharply she barely kept her balance. Her heels slid on the wet tiles, and the thin soles of the cheap flats caught on every pebble.

— Hey! Watch it! — she squeaked, feeling her breasts bounce painfully in the wet T-shirt from the jerk. — I can walk just fine!

— Yeah, sure, on your own, — Laurent cut her off, not even turning as he pulled her toward the nearest café.

— You asshole! — she barked, taking shaky steps and, because of his grip, bumping into his jacket again and again.

He did turn his head then, briefly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

— See, — he snorted. — Much better. Now I recognize my girl.

Ethan jerked sharply, but his hand still held her steady, like he was fastening her to a set path.

— Mother… motherfucker, — she hissed in French, once again noticing how much this language was made for love and not for swearing. — I’m not “your girl”! I’m not a girl at all, I told you!

— Yeah, — Laurent answered, pushing the café door open with his shoulder. — Then just walk and don’t fall.

Inside it was warm. Almost hot. The air smelled of coffee, wet coats, and something sweet. The contrast with the street was so sharp her vision darkened.

She wrapped her arms around herself automatically — which only emphasized everything she wanted to hide.

— Sit, — Laurent said, pointing at a tall table by the wall. — I’ll be right back.

— I’m not… — she began.

— I know, — he interrupted calmly. — Just sit and calm down.

With those words he simply left, abandoning her — confused and angry — in the warm light, the smell of coffee, and her own helplessness, with the clear understanding that this Laurent, damn him, really was the only one who could keep her from being swallowed by a foreign country that, judging by everything, had from this moment stopped being foreign at all and turned into just a place for yet another tourist experiment with a strange app that had once simply appeared on Ethan’s phone by itself.