Free Parisian Promises by Cecilia Velástegui

her. It’s for her asthma.” Lola slung her arm around his neck and ran her fingers through his wavy hair. “I’m a good friend. I would take care of you, too, if you needed me.”
    Lola purred, slipping her other hand under his shirt and gently massaging his chest. Charles responded with a guttural sigh. Her soft touch on his skin uprooted his deep need to release his pain––not just over losing Bertrand, but also because of the dangerous, violent path his life had taken. He had been his family’s prize orchid, cultivated in their pampering hothouse; they’d indulged all of his whims. They thought that a European stint at an expensive boarding school and a prestigious university would turn him into a cultured, cosmopolitan man who would return to Colombia in impressive form. Little did they anticipate that his core beliefs would be altered by the stranglehold of radical politics prevalent at the Sorbonne, and that he would be risking imprisonment or even death here in Paris.
    Charles wanted to believe this flirtatious redhead, but he feared Jean-Michel’s draconian retaliation. Bertrand had witnessed first-hand Jean-Michel’s ruthlessness when he disposed of a German woman he believed had overstepped her jurisdiction and not obeyed his instructions. Bertrand had told Charles the whole story, describing in vivid detail how, on a picture-perfect azure day sailing in a yacht off the coast of Capri, Jean-Michel cold-bloodedly sank her lifeless body with one hand, while in the other hand he held a sparkling glass of champagne.
    After today’s accidental explosion, apparently caused by Bertrand’s oversized enthusiasm and his inversely undersized caution, Jean-Michel would be out to divide blame among the other squad members. It was even possible that he had disposed of Xavier, but it was more likely that Xavier made himself invisible––not a difficult task in light of his bland, unimposing appearance and his tight-lipped disposition.
    These three were the only other guerilla warriors that Charles had met in person. Jean-Michel jealously guarded any facts about the extent of the larger group of combatants––not only their identities and whereabouts, but also their sheer existence. Jean-Michel had the affected habit of proposing a toast to himself every time the media covered a terrorist act by any number of insurgent groups causing havoc in Europe. It was this callous display that had disgusted Bertrand just a week ago.
    â€œ Compañero , it’s time to go home––back to our mothers,” Bertrand had muttered to Charles. “What the hell are we really doing here? Who cares if we live or die in this gray drizzle? We need the sunshine of home.”
    Remembering this conversation, Charles felt even more nervous. Perhaps today’s explosion was an accident, or perhaps Jean-Michel had discovered Bertrand’s desire to abandon the squad and had taken his revenge. There were two things that Charles knew for certain: that he was now under suspicion and surveillance, and that if Monica had not contacted her friends by now, she was under Jean-Michel’s spell. As long as Jean-Michel wanted to use Monica, he would. It had happened before, with the German student and then with the religious Spanish woman–– and it would happen again.
    The Charles of old forced himself to resurface. He ran his hands through Lola’s hair and kissed her with bottled-up passion.
    â€œI will take you to Jean-Michel’s apartment later,” he lied. “But first, shall we dance until sunrise?”
    To his relief, Lola nodded and smiled, and stopped her annoying demands. Charles refilled her glass, and then glanced at his watch. This lie had bought him some time, either to assist in the squad’s original plan or to come up with a way to leave this dangerous Parisian life behind––hopefully, in one breathing piece.

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