Page 24 of Sinful Temptations

At twenty, I decided no one was coming. It was time to do the unthinkable.

With clenched fists and trembling knees, I strode to the door like I owned the place. I crossed the threshold, sprinted across black and white checkered tiles through a kitchen, and entered the next room.

My heart stopped.

A man and woman were seated in overstuffed Lay-Z-Boys watching television. His belly spilled beneath his shirt and sat upon his lap. Her breasts spilled from her chest and sat between her parted knees. They both stared at me, eyes wide. Mouths open.

I waved. “Hi.”

Confident they couldn’t stand too quickly, I said, “You can blame your asshole neighbor, Pierre.” My French was a little rusty, so there was a chance I actually said something like,your peanut butter breasts look like Pierre. As long as they heard Pierre, that would be enough.

As they wrestled to free their massive bodies from the cushions, I took off.

They burst into a torrent of angry French words that Ihad no hope of translating and crockery shattered behind me.

Praying that the front door was in the opposite direction of the back door, I dashed for the hallway. It was crammed full of fake flowers and knitted doilies and a floor runner that was well past its use-by-date. I yanked open the front door and with a wave of relief, I sprinted onto the cobblestone laneway.

I was free.

I raced up the alley for the second time that night, except now I was fully clothed. I reached the main street, still bumper to bumper with congested traffic, and was sucking in air so fierce it was a wonder I didn’t explode.

I slowed to a crawl. With each step, the adrenalin that’d powered me since Pierre’s wife appeared seeped out more and more. I became so exhausted, just moving my legs was an effort.

Promises of a long hot shower dragged me toward the hostel. But then it hit me. I didn’t have my room key. Or my phone. Or my fucking passport.

The universe hadn’t finished torturing me yet.

I still had to get my handbag.

“Oh, shit.” The thought of seeing Pierre again had my chin quivering and tears stinging my eyes. I flicked them away, furious that I was crying. And then I smelled him. Pierre. On my hands.

Anger barreled through me like a marauding bull.

I needed to shower—to scrub off every last ounce of that rotten man.

Then I’d get a plan.

It was nearly midnight by the time I’d walked back to the hostel. Fortunately, Estelle was behind the reception counter and she gave me a replacement door card without any questions.

In my room, I turned the shower faucet to full and stripped off. I didn’t even wait for it to get hot before I stepped in. I scrubbed every single inch of my body. Three times.

I washed my hair twice.

But the floral-scented soap did nothing to eradicate one horrifying fact.

I’d had sex with a married man.

Dripping wet, I strode across the room. Just six steps. I turned and strode back again.

How did I let this happen?

Easy! I was blinded by the sex. I didn’t really know him. I turned and strode across the room again.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Tears stung my eyes, and I flicked them away.

Searching through my suitcase for tissues, I spied the visa letter that’d turned my world upside down. On the back was where I’d started writing my list of firsts.

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