A Franc or Two - Les Misérables [IN EDITING]

Grip - Chapter 8

"What the hell took you so long?"

That was Timeo, who was waiting outside of your room. Thankfully, you had already dropped off the bouquet at Halette's window— while she was screwing someone at the moment, she'd be certain to see it sooner or later.

"It's not too late, Monsieur," you said. "I only needed to run some errands."

Timeo's jaw clenched. God, how you just wanted to punch that grimy, disgusting face of his— give him a good slap for every damned thing he did to you.

"Well, run errands later," he muttered, grabbing onto your arm tightly as he rushed you to your room. "We've got no time."

Only you knew what that meant.

The moment you had gotten behind closed doors, he was quick to help you "change—" aka, take off your dress, cope a feel, and try to kiss you whenever possible.

It was at times like these that you reluctantly remembered that you had slept with him just about every night.

Thanks to the amount of times he had felt you up and kissed you and whatnot, you tried to avoid him whenever possible— and when you would narrowly his attempts to do... certain things, he'd leave with tightened trousers and a reason to come back later.

Perhaps that was why you were so okay with your work.

Something about Timeo made you feel sick. Having a line of other men out there meant that, while you would have to sleep with them, you could manage to avoid Timeo for a while... But sleeping with him was often the only way you would ever get any rest.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when he adjusted the sleeves of your sleazy dress.

You were in front of the mirror at the moment, feeling completely numb to everything as he brushed his thumb against your neck, and he was quick to tug your sleeve down again.

"Make sure it looks like you want it," he muttered. Of course, he took that opportunity to press a fat kiss on your neck, but he was quick to pull away. "Come back sooner or come back ready next time... You have costumers waiting for you."

With that and quick grope, he made his way out of your room, closing the door behind him to leave you with your thoughts.

You quickly sat on your bed.

In the dirty mirror, still staring at your reflection, you let your hair down (though it was already quite messy) and fixed your necklace...

God, you felt sick.

You didn't recognize yourself anymore. It was hard to think that, just a few years ago, you had been merrily celebrating your 18th birthday.

You had spent it with Madame Houcheloup and your late mother, enjoying a dinner while an aspiring pianist (a friend of yours who had supposedly gone off to become a famous musician) played for you. While your financial situation hadn't been wonderful, you were happier than you were now— and all that mattered in the world was your wellbeing.

"[Y/N]!" your mother laughed, wiping the frosting from her nose with a napkin. "You're getting it everywhere!"

"Sorry, mum!" you said, picking up the fallen cake from your plate. "It fell!"

"It fell my ass!" your mom laughed, swiping a finger against your plate before a rubbing it onto your nose. It was easy to feel the frosting smear. "Now we're even."

"Mom!" you laughed, wiping your nose with a napkin. "Why would you do that?"

"Well, you did it first," she chuckled. She turned to the man behind you who, conveniently, had just finished playing a song. "Hey— Mourey... Come join us, will you? For just a moment!"