Read Online Kiss Kill Vanish by Jessica Martinez - Free Book Online Page A

Lucien?” I ask again, losing his name in a shiver. With nothing but cheap stockings between my legs and winter, the six-minute walk from the Metro to Les Fontaines felt like an hour. I’m ready to be inside.
    â€œForget about Lucien,” he says lazily. I wonder if he’s drunk. “He’s a liar. And as his brother, I feel like it’s my duty to tell you he has the smallest—”
    â€œStop,” I interrupt him with an outstretched hand.
    â€œBut you already knew that, didn’t you.” He grins. “See, if it was me, I wouldn’t mind if you kissed and told.”
    â€œShut up.” I start up the stone steps, forcing myself to climb slowly. I’d love to run. But I don’t. The stairs stretch on and on, and I can feel his eyes watching me take each one. I stop at the top, glance over my shoulder, and see him take one last, long pull on his cigarette. He’s still staring. Head down, I make my way toward the ornate door.
    I don’t need to turn around again. I can hear the hollow tap of dress shoes on stone, twenty steps below and closing in.
    The interior of Les Fontaines is distractingly artful, more castle than gallery. As I deliver Nanette’s coat to the coat check, I take it all in: arches, candlelight, and vaulted ceilings. I’ve been swallowed by a fairy tale. If I wasn’t so preoccupied with losing Marcel, I’d to stop to run my fingers along the stone walls and feel the plush velvet curtain separating the lobby from whatever lies beyond.
    A visit to the ladies’ room confirms what I suspected: Nanette’s updo has been ravaged by the wind. It’s unsalvageable. Channeling my inner Lola, I pull the clips and bobby pins out, then do my best to finger-comb for a windblown curls effect.
    I stare at myself in the mirror. Nanette painted my lips rose pink and dusted me with something shimmery, which makes me twinkle unnaturally in this light. I don’t like it. It’s like I’m staring at a painting of myself. I turn away.
    From the ladies’ room, I let the flow of traffic carry me to the main gallery, too entranced by the colors and scents of the lavish flower arrangements perched on pillars to notice what I should be noticing: I stick out.
    Once I reach the entrance, though, I feel it. The women are dressed in obsidian and silver. A few sharp-colored accents cry out—a peacock feather sash, a poppy tucked into a smooth bun, a jade necklace, electric blue stilettos—but it’s mostly black, and the harsh lines of ebony gowns against bare skin, the diamonds and sapphires choking tall necks, all pulse shrilly around me.
    Nobody is wearing pink. Nobody is wearing simple pearl earrings. Nobody has their hair loose. I’d been so relieved Nanette had something to borrow, I didn’t realize I’d be all wrong here. But it’s winter— real winter, dark and cold and foreign. And I look like a little girl.
    I spot Lucien by the bar, chatting with a bearded man and a tightly bunned Amazon in a charcoal gown. Lucien looks lost without his artist garb. The tuxedo is perfectly cut, his jaw is clean shaven, and I can see the comb lines in his hair from across the room. I’d have thought this would be his natural habitat, but he seems even less genuine than usual.
    I let my eyes take in the paintings while I wait for Lucien to see me.
    Naked women. They’re everywhere. Twisted, lounged, splayed, and butterflied with oil paints on life-size canvases. I’ve spent too much time looking at art to be shy about nudes, but I’m inexplicably shocked. I was expecting more jars. Or something equally nonsensical, something I would be forced to spend the evening staring at, wondering what on earth Hugo LaFleur possibly meant by a bicycle covered in noses or kneecaps.
    I feel the pressure of Lucien’s hand against the small of my back before I see him.
    â€œYou’re late,” he says. “I