Page 32 of Closer

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE CELLO MURDERER

BRIELLE

My phone rings as Iwalk through the streets of Le Marais. I snatch it out of my purse, squinting at the screen, worried it might be Maman.

“I thought I told you never to call me before 10:00 a.m.,” I say into the mouthpiece.

“Brielle, it is my job to call you with possible bookings, is it not?” Piaf sounds as tired as I feel.

“Oui.” I sigh, and stop at my favourite café for coffee. The line is long because they are just that good. “That is why I pay your exorbitantly high fees.”

“I shall take that as a compliment and do you the honour of not giving this client to someone else. You are earning quite the name for yourself,mon trésor. Some rich billionaire wants you to play at his chateau.”

“What? No wait, I have to order.”

“Ah, you are at the café with the gorgeous waiter, non?”

Though I know he cannot hear her, I blush as I step up to the window. “Bonjour.”

The cute waiter leans on the counter. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

“Je vais prendre un café, s’il vous plaît.”

“Bien sûr.” He takes the money I hand him and gives me back my change, his fingers lingering on my palm a little too long as his dark eyes meet mine.

“Merci.” I sound like a school girl. Pathetic.

“Mon Dieu! You are hopeless with men. Is that all you ever say to him?” Piaf chastises. “Try this, ‘Je vais prendre un café, et le sexe, s'il vous plaît’.”

“I am not saying that.”

“Ask him for sex, Brielle.”

“Non!” I point to the phone in my hand and shrug because the cute waiter looks at me as if I am crazy. I think I must be to call Piaf my best friend. I give him a rueful smile and step aside to wait for my order. I am going to have to find a new favourite café.

“You need to get laid, Brie.”

“I do not need to get ...” I glance at the hot waiter—who is still watching me—and I lower my voice, “I do not need that. I need my old job back.”

“Forget your old job, you hated that orchestra, but if you take this new job—”

“Are you forgetting the fact that I no longer have a cello to play, thanks to thatputain d'imbecile!” I glance up, and the hot waiter is still staring. People press in all around me as they navigate the busy street on their commute to work.

“Yes, yes. I know all about your hatred for the hot rock star, who is just so idiotic, and tattooed, whilst also being infuriating, and hot.”

“I did not say he was hot.”

“You didn’t have to.” She chuckles. “Your frustration said it for you. But never fear, this man is sure to be dreary and old, and I assure you that you will in no way want to fuck him.”

“You are forgetting the point. I no longer have a cello to play. Besides, I told you no more away jobs.”

I step up to the window as the waiter beckons me over for my coffee. That same little frisson of electricity arcs between my hand and my lady parts as his fingertips brush mine.

“Bonne journée,” the waiter says.

“Merci.” I smile and turn away before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

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