The rain hadn't stopped. Jack listened to it's constant patter on the window, willing it to soothe him to sleep. All he wanted now was to slide into unconsciousness, and forget about everything for a little while. At times like this, he could almost understand…but no, drugs were never the answer, even when alcohol failed to numb the pain. Both only made things worse in the long run, and the sensible part of him knew that. He just hoped that part could hang on long enough to get through this. He'd turned the television on in the hope it would distract him from him own thoughts, but nothing seemed to work. He saw Laura everywhere, and the powerful guilt mingled with his desperate sense of loss. Maybe Jared was right. Maybe he should just come clean, let the world know what their hero was really like. Just a jerk who lets everyone down. Especially the person who needed him the most. Jack's Dad had been a real piece of work, drunk from morning till night, with zero interest in providing for his wife and kids. Late at night, Jack would hear his mother crying after he'd slapped her around again. Tears sprang to Jack's eyes as he remembered his poor mother, whose only crime was to marry the wrong man, covering her bruises with long sleeves and turtle necks. Trying to keep them fed and clothed with what little money she earned at her supermarket job. Bill Carter had finally made himself scarce when Jack was eighteen, and they hadn't heard from him since. But the cancer that would kill her was already growing inside his mother, who didn't trust doctors, and died in his arms only days after he dragged her to the hospital. Then it was just Jack and Laura. His beautiful little sister was all he had left in the world. And I let her down, Jack thought to himself, letting the tears flow freely down his cheeks. He flung the remote at the TV, only his poor aim saving the screen from cracking. He couldn't stay cooped up in that goddamn hotel room any longer. He opened his door just a crack, scanning the hallway for Jared, reporters, or just nosey hotel staff. The corridor was empty. Without stopping to grab a jacket, Jack slipped out of the room and made a dash for the back stairs.
Sara's first view of Paris was not quite how she had imagined it. The buildings were blurry shapes through the grubby windows of the airport taxi. It was starting to grow dark, and the rain pelted mercilessly against the window. The taxi (or was it the driver?) smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. They crawled along through the traffic, every move punctuated by beeping horns, and the occasional angry gesture from passing cyclists. Sara gripped the edge of her seat, trying to contain her impatience. All she wanted was to see Jack and get to the bottom of everything, but she was trapped on this interminable journey. At last, she spotted the bright facade of the hotel in the distance; they were only two blocks away, but the city was gridlocked. She could easily spend another twenty minutes in the cab.
"Forget it," Sara cried, exasperated, "I'll just walk. How much do I owe you?" The cab driver responded with a barrage of thickly accented French. Sara had no idea what he was trying to tell her, but he sounded annoyed. She wished she was better at languages.
"How much? I'll pay you…um, combien? Euros?"
With a scowl, the driver pointed at the meter, conveniently tucked away just out of her line of sight. With a sigh, Sara pulled out her envelope of hastily purchased travel money, and added on a generous tip. She thrust the notes at the driver, who merely nodded, and hauled herself and her small suitcase out onto the sidewalk. Within a few steps she was already soaking wet, water running down the back of her neck and sending shivers down her spine. Tired and worried, Sara felt like crying. But she steeled herself and marched down the street, weaving her way through the sea of umbrellas.
The receptionist wrinkled her nose as a wet, bedraggled heap emerged from the revolving doors, almost tripping over it's own suitcase. Sara slunk towards the desk, leaving brown marks on the impeccable tiles. She blushed as she pushed her hair away from her face and attempted a smile.
"Bonjour."
"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle."
"Umm…anglais, s'il vous plait?"
"Certainly, how may I help you?" Sara pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and scanned the text.
"Um, I need to find room 320?" The receptionist eyed her suspiciously. Well, Sara thought to herself, I guess I do look quite like a crazed fan. Or maybe an axe murderer. There were a few tense moments while the young woman tapped away at her computer.
"Your name, please, Mademoiselle?"
It was as if Sara had whispered the secret code word. Suddenly the receptionist was all smiles. Before she knew it, an attractive young man had taken hold of her suitcase and was ushering her towards the elevator. Sara felt her heart lurch in her chest as the doors slid open on the correct floor. This was not the first time she had visited Jack's hotel room, but previously she had been full of excitement. Now she was all nerves, a vague sense of foreboding pulling at her insides. She almost expected the corridor to be the same one as her dream; she was a little relieved when they stepped out and the carpet was a different colour.
The bell boy knocked loudly, and they both waited. Sara hoped he didn't notice her breathing a little heavily. There was no answer, and he gave another loud rap. Still nothing. With a shrug, the bell boy slid his own key into the lock and the door swung open. The inside was dark until he flicked the light switch with a practised hand.
"Mademoiselle." The bell boy gave a little bow and made a swift exit, leaving her all alone in the empty room
Sara slumped down on the bed. Where on earth was Jack? He knew what time her flight landed. From the rumpled bed covers and stack of empty vodka miniatures on the bed side table, she guessed he'd been holed up in here most of the day. His suitcase was still on the floor, open, clothes spilling out everywhere. Sara spotted the t-shirt he had worn the night they first met, and her heart gave a little flutter. She pulled out her phone, but his line went straight to voice mail. Damn it. Suddenly Sara realized she desperately needed to pee. The bathroom was palatial, all shiny white surfaces and gleaming gold fixtures. In the corner was the biggest shower Sara had every seen, with nozzles pointing in all directions. After hours on the plane, and a battering by the French weather, Sara felt completely gross. Surely Jack wouldn't mind if she freshened up a bit while she waited? After finally mastering the control panel, Sara gladly stripped off her clothes and flung them in a pile on the tiles. The sensation of the hot water hitting her skin was incredible, and at last she felt herself relax a little. Grabbing a bottle of divine smelling body wash, she gently soaped her entire body. Jack would be back soon, she reasoned. Maybe they would take a shower together, or a nice long bath in the huge tub on the opposite wall. She could make him feel better, she was sure of it, and before long the press would realize they had made a mistake, and this whole stupid story would be old news. Maybe Jack would take a bit of time off, come back to the states. Maybe they would finally get to have that dinner. Running her hands over her full breasts, following the smooth curve of her hips, Sara imagined Jack's hands on her body. All the stress, all the fear, would just melt away the moment he touched her, she was sure of it. A sound from outside snapped her out of her reverie. Her eyes flew open, and she reached over to switch off the spray. Yes, that was the door opening. Jack was back! Hurriedly, Sara squeezed the water out of her hair and grabbed the first towel to hand, not caring that it barely covered her butt. She wished she'd had time to dress and apply makeup, but a look in the mirror told her she would do. She hurried into the bedroom.