Free Die Once More by Amy Plum Page A

Marchenoir.”
    I pull the car to the side of the road, put it in park, and unstrap my seat belt so that I can face her. “Okay. For one thing, you Americans must have way too much time on your hands, or way too little happening in your own country, if all you have to discuss is the love lives of your foreign kindred.”
    She shrugs. “The French have always fascinated us, I admit. Especially those who live up to all the worst stereotypes.”
    â€œAll the worst—” I exclaim. “Just what the—” I feel like I’m choking, I’m so angry.
    â€œWater?” Ava says coolly, and hands me a bottle of Evian from the bag she packed.
    I take it, twist off the top, guzzle half of it, and then pour some in my hand and splash it on my face. I don’t care if I get Ambrose’s leather upholstery wet. I need to cool down.
    â€œBetter?” Ava asks with a grin.
    â€œStop it with the smugness,” I say, and she gives me a look like she just won the grand prize by getting under my skin.
    I take a deep breath and say, “Okay, first of all, I am not a rake.I have never treated a woman disrespectfully. I have never lied, cheated, or misled a woman about my intentions or commitment. Yes, I have seen a lot of women in my life, but I have treated them all impeccably, made them each feel like royalty—including the princess—and made sure that each of them . . . every one . . . thought that it was her choice not to see me again.”
    â€œI have a very hard time believing that,” Ava says, eyes narrowed.
    â€œAsk my kindred. Hell, ask the ladies in question . . . those who are still alive. I have no doubt in my mind that each and every one of them would remember me with fondness. Maybe even with pity at ‘breaking my heart.’”
    Ava is silent.
    â€œBesides, why the hell do you care?” I say with raised voice. “Are you some kind of feminist crusader who has to protect your poor hapless sisters from the evil wiles of men? Trust me, Ava, the women I’ve known have not been weak. I have preyed on no one. They’ve all been as strong as me, if not stronger.”
    There’s a look on her face that I can’t interpret—a look of hurt and pride and defensiveness all at once. And then, suddenly, I understand.
    â€œSomething bad happened to you.”
    â€œYes,” she responds.
    â€œIt had something to do with the Factory,” I say, remembering her reaction on the plane.
    â€œYes.” She pauses, deciding whether she’s going to tell me, and then says, “If I’ve judged you unfairly—”
    â€œOh, believe me, you have,” I interject.
    â€œWhich I haven’t yet made my mind up about,” she continues, “I owe you an explanation for my—”
    â€œVehemence,” I suggest.
    She looks surprised, and then accepts it. “Okay . . . vehemence.” She sighs. “So . . . the Factory. I was a student, studying art history at NYU. I wasn’t an artist myself, but all my friends were artists, writers, musicians. It was New York in the sixties, and the city was practically exploding with creativity and a crazy kind of try-anything quest for expression.”
    I nod. That was like the Paris of my human days . . . I know exactly what she’s talking about.
    â€œThe first time I was brought to Andy’s, he latched onto me. Called me his muse. His ‘It Girl.’ He filmed me. Painted me. Wanted me around all the time. Introduced me to everyone who was anyone, and they made me the toast of the town. I lapped it up, the instant celebrity. But Andy had other favorites, of course, and one of those was an artist named Rosco.”
    The moment she says his name, I know who she’s talking about. And I can predict how the story’s going to go. Badly. At best.
    â€œHe was incredibly handsome and so charismatic. Everyone wanted to