Busy Bodies (Chocolate Flava 4)

“I do, but studying in Paris has always been a dream of mine.”

The taxi stopped in front of one of the clubs along the strip of a dark, unlit alley. The line to get inside stretched down the street.

“This joint is off the hook, huh?” I asked, placing my cold hands in the pockets of my peacoat as soon as we were out of the cab.

Colette laughed and nodded her head. “Oui. It is very popular.”

There were diverse groups of people waiting in line. Some smoked cigarettes and others chatted while the line moved quickly.

After tossing her cigarette on the ground, Colette stepped on it, sprayed her favorite peach-smelling perfume from her purse—something she did every time she smoked—and then adjusted her black bikini top underneath her coat to prevent her breasts from popping out.

I stared down the dark, foggy alley we came through. There was no way I would be able to walk down that alley alone. It was definitely too dark and scary, plus the smell of the soggy sewer left an unsettling feeling in my gut.

I moved my eyes up to the club’s vivid flashing red sign above our heads.

“Vaisseau,” I read aloud. “Nice . . .” Vaisseau meant “vessel” in French. “Does this spot crack?”

Colette laughed at me again. “The American slang is so strange. What does crack mean?”

“You know, jumpin’, like is this where people have a great time?”

“I like this place. The drinks are superb and there is plenty of yummy eye candy.”

My pussy pounded. I was looking for some fun, ending with me having a few orgasms before the night was over. We walked to the end of the line with our three-inch boots clicking against the wet pavement, causing small puddles to splash away from us.

Lightning lit up the gloomy sky, which caused me to jump a little. A roaring thunder accompanied the shortened sparks of quickened light. I was glad we’d worn our coats to protect us, in case it started raining again.

The line moved so fast that we were at Vaisseau’s entrance in a matter of minutes.

The bouncer immediately caught my eye. “Wow,” I said to Colette. “He’s nice . . .”

I couldn’t see him from the alley as we’d walked up, but I was glad to know he was a fine, bald brother standing a little over six feet. His skin was the color of café au lait.

“Oui, he is one of the owner’s sons. This is the only black-owned place in all of Pigalle.”

“Welcome to Vaisseau,” he uttered with his sultry, deep voice as he took my I.D. first. He looked at me to see if the picture matched. “Wow, all the way from United States? California? Your name is Essence?”

“Yes to all you just asked,” I replied in a flirty manner. “What’s your name, handsome?”

He smiled and bit on his lower lip. That’s when I spotted the small but noticeable dimple in his right cheek. He was too adorable for me not to swoon in front of him.

“Onyx,” he stated proudly.

“Onyx? Like a precious black gem? That name fits you.”

Laughing casually, he showed off his pearly whites. “Thank you. Enjoy your evening.”

He took a look at Colette’s identification and then removed the red rope from in front of the door.

As soon as we were inside the highly energized club, the music thumped through my chest like a strong heartbeat. The air inside was so crisp it caused me to shiver a little. Topless go-go dancers were in each corner of the dark club with red lights flashing all over them. The couches and chairs were red. Even the bubbling water in a fountain behind the bar was red. All the red accents against the black walls gave the effect of blood pumping through the veins of the building.

“Bonsoir,” a tall young woman with smoky eye shadow greeted us. “Nineteen euros.”

I rummaged through my purse looking for euros, finding nothing but lipstick, old receipts, and American cash. “Colette, I left my euros in the room. What am I going to do?” I whined, waving my U.S. dollars in her face.

“Fifteen of your dollars,” the woman interjected. “We welcome you. You can also check your coats and purses here.”

I handed her the money and all of my belongings with a huge grin on my face. Bouncing to the beat, I took a ticket and hand stamp. I looked at the small black “V” that marked the top of my right hand before I placed the claim ticket in the back of my skintight jeans’ pocket.