Antoine ambles over to the table with the check.
“Antoine, have you seen…my friend?” I ask. What do I call her?
“Ah, Monsieur Taylor. She ran out of zee restaurant. Very upset. Eez everything okay?”
f*ck
. No. I quickly look at the bill and throw two hundred Euros on the table. Way more than the cost of the dinner, but I don’t have time to wait for the change. I thank Antoine and sprint out of the restaurant.
Shit. Which way did she go? Instinctively, I guess east, thinking she may be heading back to the hotel. She couldn’t have gotten too far in her heels.
I hop on the bike and rev it up. Without bothering to put on my helmet, which is dangling with Zoey’s from the handlebar, I charge down the sidewalk, full throttle, weaving in and out of stunned pedestrians. The motor roars in my ears right along with my apprehension.
“Attention!” I shout out in French when what I want to shout is get the f*ck
out of my way. Angry promenaders shout back what I believe are French expletives. I deserve every one.
Yes, I am a crazy ass*ole
. I’m not in my right mind. But right now desperation is negating any form of sanity. I have to find her. How far could she have gotten? Cranking my head to the left to look up an alley, I face forward again and freak. f*ck
. I’m going to run into a gay couple strolling hand in hand in front of me. Plugged into their iPhones, they don’t hear me behind them.
“Watch out!” I scream at the top of my lungs as I squeeze the brake lever.
“What the f*ck
are you doing, you crazy American?” shouts one of the dudes, yanking his partner to safety just in the nick of time. Losing control of the Ducati, I go flying—Crash!—and smash into a kiosk. My heart thudding, I drop my feet to the ground to steady the smoking bike and then hop off it. It tumbles to the pavement with a clang.
f*ck
the bike. Without wasting a second, I dash down the Croisette, almost knocking down a few more people. I’m surprised I still don’t see her. Shit. Maybe she turned up one of Old Town’s winding streets. I’ll never find her.
About to give up hope, I finally spot her. She’s running barefoot about one hundred yards ahead of me. The long, flowy skirt of her dress billows like a sail.
“Zoey!” I shout out, running after her at breakneck speed.
She doesn’t stop or look back. Picking up her pace, she turns up one of the serpentine streets off the Croisette. I’m not going to lose her.
I pick up speed, running so fast my lungs and thighs are on fire. I may be a swimmer, but sprinting’s not my thing. Breathing heavily, I turn up the narrow street and see her. She’s within shouting distance.
“Zoey!” I cry out again.
“Leave me alone!” Her sobbing is gutting me.
Calling on all the muscle power I have, I jet-propel myself up the steep, winding cobblestone street. With me hot on her trail, she turns down a very narrow alley. It’s dark and deserted, lined by neighborhood grocery stores all closed till morning. She’s slowing. I’m so close I can taste her. Finally, I catch up to her and, cinching her waist, stop her in her tracks.
“Go away!” she cries, her sobs mixing with pants. She fights me off like a captured wild animal, writhing, and kicking, but even in my breathless state, she’s no match for my strength. In one swift move, I flip her around by her shoulders and walk her backward until she’s flattened against one of the storefronts. A boulangerie. I lift her arms high above her head and hold them tight against the rough stucco wall. My weight presses against her so she can’t free herself. She’s my prisoner. My prey.
“Let me go!” She squirms, angry tears streaming down her face.
“I will once you tell me why you ran away from me.” Rage fuels my voice.
“What kind of sicko game are you playing with me, Brandon?”
“What do you mean?” My voice is a little softer.
“You’re f*ck
ing engaged to Katrina, almost about to marry her, and you’re coming on to me?”
I draw in a sharp breath and let out a loud huff. “We need to talk.”
Her stormy eyes search mine for answers.
“Zoey, it’s complicated.”
“Isn’t that a convenient word?” Sniveling, she turns her head away.
“Look at me, Zoey.”
She refuses. She’s so f*ck
ing stubborn.
“Zoey, did you hear me? Look at me!”
Slowly, she turns her head. Our eyes lock.
“I’m having second thoughts about Katrina.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, repeating my earlier words.
“I don’t love her. I don’t even like her.”
Her teary eyes flutter, and I can feel her heart pounding against my chest as I rattle on.
“I still can’t remember shit about our relationship. Whatever I had with her before my accident, I have no longer. I can’t even stand f*ck
ing her.”