Vanilla Chaos

Chapter 13: Océane Bleu

"I feel like such a bad girl." I giggled, my black trousers slightly grazing the floor as we walked, hand in hand, "Where are we gonna do it?"

"The back of an abandoned building in the eighteenth district." He pulled the hood of his dark grey jacket up.

I felt a chill, today had been a fairly warm day, but the night was colder. Nelly had said it sometimes reached thirty degrees in the Summer, and after our sodden visit to the Eiffel, I was dreading. You see, British people tend to complain about whatever you throw at them. For example, I remember once being in an English lesson and Phoebe Levine (the chavy bitch whose parents probably robbed a bank to afford sending her to our school) saying, "It's wainin', innit? I was proper lookin' fow-ad to weawin' me new skirt from Fow-evah Twen-ee Wohn on weekend, as well." That was probably for the best, nobody wanted to see those freaky chicken legs in a skirt which showed her arse. But when it was just over twenty degrees, "Proper wish it would 'wain, 'gehn. I'm sweatin' me tits off." There was no pleasing the standard Brit.

"Wow, you really did your research, didn't you?"

He chuckled, "This is an art form, and you always plan where you're going to place a painting in a gallery before you put it there. Maybe that's just how I see it, but I paint to express myself, to give myself a voice. Because I'm just a spoilt, rich boy who wants to be known for something great, not just how much surgery my sister's had, or how many hotels my father owns, or my mother's air-brushed modelling agency, full of plastic Barbie dolls."

"This is why I love you."

He didn't say anything, but the grip on my hand tightened, he smiled, and his cheeks turned the colour of pink lemonade.

I didn't know what district the penthouse was in, there was a view of the Eiffel Tower, but the thing was so God damn huge you could probably see it from any high-up place in the whole city. We were heading to the eighteenth district, it was late at night, but Nelly had assured me that the only things in Paris you had to worry about were pickpockets. Of course it was my natural instinct to be less than calm, but he hadn't been doing this stuff since he was around ten or something, and he was still in one piece. Of course, he was naturally lucky (lucky to have a booty like that) and I'm sure it wasn't this late back then.

My breathing was starting to get quicker, my heart-rate gradually increasing, beads of sweat slowly dripping down my face. I was disconcerted.

"You okay, my love?"

"Was this a good idea? It's nearly eleven at night and we're two teenagers out by ourselves..."

"I've never been caught by any one," he came to a halt and brushed my cheek with his soft, delicate lips, "any one at all."

We had been walking for around fifteen minutes, when the creamy apartments with all of the lights off began to fade into clubs and bars, with sleazy neon lighting and firey red brick walls. The graffiti artist smirked to himself upon arriving in the bustling parade of nightlife. One particular place captured my attention, it had vivacious writing the colour of fresh blood which read 'Ciel du la Devil' and silhouettes of scantily-clad women, accompanied by a sign stating '18+'.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes, a place for drunken, divorced, pathetic men to go drink away their sorrows."

"I never knew you were so against strip-clubs."

"A person is not an object, you shouldn't pay to watch them dance like a puppet. Sometimes I wonder what the world has come to, why it's in such a sorrowful state, or why I was born in this time. A time where the internet can ruin people's lives, a time when people take their own lives due to empty threats, a time when beauty is plastic. But then I realise, everything happens for a reason, like when my parents sent me to England, I was bitter, but then I met you. So the reason why anybody at all was born in such an era, is because they have the chance to make a difference."