Page 35 of Shades of Red

“Thanks, Soph,” I retort, rolling my eyes at her standard French brutality.

“And tired.”

“I do work fourteen hours in a kitchen every day,” I remind her. Every day but Monday, which is my only chance to visit her. I bite into my second croissant and sprinkle pastry flakes all over my black shirt before brushing them onto the floor.

“And sad,” she continues.

“Jesus, Sophie,” I splutter as I choke on the food in my mouth. “Stop tearing into me like I’m one of your fresh baguettes. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” she answers, pointing a bony finger in my face. “You look like too much thinking with that thick saucisse between your legs got your fragile heart broken.”

She’s notwrong. But I’m not discussing this with her or anyone else. “Don’t worry, my heart is stronger than ever. And my damn saucisse is stowed for the foreseeable future.”

“Ahh, so that’s the problem,” she answers, nodding her head like she’s discovered the root of my life’s miseries. “T’as besoin de baiser.”

“I do notneed to fuck, you filthy Frenchie,” I snap back.

She smiles at me like a damn Cheshire cat. “I think we both know which one of us is filthy.”

Fuck me. I mentioned liking to use knives on more than foodone timewhen she and I shared too much friendly Cabernet Sauvignon after work, and now she thinks I’m some sort of deviant. Which I am. But she doesn’t need to know that.

Without another word, she leaves the table and walks into the back.

“Great, thanks for the croissants with a side of your usual charm, Sophie,” I call back, assuming she’s decided to leave the glittering conversation at that and get back to work in the kitchen. I’m surprised when she walks back into the bakery holding a small piece of paper with something written in red.

“Here,” she says, holding out the paper for me to take. On secondglance, it’s an address for an arrondissement in Paris that I’ve heard of but never been to.Everyonehas heard of Boulevard de Clichy. “Go here. They’ll fix what’s wrong with you.”

“Very cryptic, Soph,” I answer with a laugh. “Finally decided to get rid of me? Sending me to the Rue Morgue, are you?”

“Of course not,espèce d’idiot. It is aclub érotique.” She gives me a sly smile while I try to decipher if my French is so bad that I’ve grossly misunderstood her. Because there’s no way in Hell that Sophie has given me the address of a sex club and told me to get fucked. She winks at me, and I have a sneaking suspicion that my French is accurate.

“You should fit right in.”

This is insane.On so many levels. Granted it’s not the craziest thing I’ve done as murder is a lot to contend with, but it’s up there. I tried looking up the address online, but nothing existed. From the only picture I could find, Sophie’s address looks like a rundown confiserie. There’s golden paint peeling off the outer walls and tattered, red striped awnings shading large bay windows that would have normally housed an array of sweets and chocolates.Conare the only decorative letters still fully visible on the long rectangular sign above the door.

With very little information other than the ramblings of a crazy old French woman, I show up to the address on Saturday night with no expectations of what I might find. It might actually be just a rundown confiserie, and Sophie is having a go at me to amuse herself. The other option is that this might be exactly what I’ve been looking for.

I went back and forth deciding what to wear tonight. In the end, I decided on black jeans and a black button up shirt. My sous chef salary meant I could afford a new pair of Italian leather boots. This time, I bought two sets just in case. In my back pocket, I’ve got a vial of bloodif the occasion calls for it. I made a promise to Blaise Moreau before he died that the next time I came I would be fucking in his blood. And I am a man of my word.

It’s been tested, of course. I couldn’t use spoiled blood in boudin noir. The fucker’s blood was the only pure thing about him. And from what I hear, it was delicious.

When I reach the doors of the location, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. It looks every bit as run down from the outside as it did from the photo. The windows are all blacked out, so I can’t be sure if anyone is even here. There’s no sound coming from the building. I’m fairly certain Sophie has duped me and is waiting to laugh at my stupidity when I see her next. But the faintest sliver of hope has me reaching for the silver button on the intercom beside the door.

To my utter surprise, the com springs to life. “Bonsoir.Puis-je vous aider?”

Shit, I’m left scrambling to translate French while also being suddenly terrified of what lies on the other side of those unassuming golden doors. “Heu, je viens de la part de Sophie du Maurier.”

Jesus, I sound like an idiot. I’ve got no fucking idea what else to say other than my crazy pastry mentor sent me here to explore my deviant side and put my cock to good use again.

“Ahh, Sophie,” the disjointed voice replies. InEnglishbecause apparently my French is so terrible that no one can stomach it. “She told us she sent some young blood our way.”

Fucking fantastic. Either the metaphorisn’ta metaphor, and Sophie really has sent me here to be rid of my melancholic ass. Or Sophie is on a friendly, first name basis with the hostess of a sex club. I’m not sure which is worse.

“I’ll admit she didn’t give me many details other than the address,” I mumble back as I shift awkwardly on my feet. There’s still time to run and pretend like I never came. But I can feel something insidethe building pulling me in, begging me to look and touch and feel. Somehow I know mydestinis behind those peeling, golden doors.

There’s a faint buzz as the door clicks open. With no moment to hesitate, I put my palm on the wood and push.

“Bienvenue au Sucre,” the voice on the speaker calls as I pass over the threshold.