PARIS, FRANCE - 2 weeks later
For some reason, I figured that all I had to do was get to Paris to get to Annabelle.
I’ve been here for over a week, and for all I know, she could have already moved on by now. Visiting Marie Perrot again didn’t do any good, considering that her butler/bodyguard won’t even let me past the front door.
Max came with me to Paris, since I’m still healing from my gunshot wound. A wound that I wear like a badge of honor. My baby gave me this injury. Cause she loves me. If she didn’t truly love me, she would have walked away from me in New York without shooting me. Her shooting me was her way of saying that she was willing to give us another shot. Maybe when it’s all the way healed and just a scar, I’ll have the outline of a heart tattooed around it. Then make her kiss it all better everyday.
If I ever find her.
Max, of course, thinks I’m insane. ‘Crazy in love’ is what I tell him. Cause that’s how Anna and I roll. It was just a love cap. Max is not amused when I tell him these things. He usually mumbles something about us deserving each other, with the word ‘loco’ thrown in somewhere.
So, here I am again, almost two and a half years after the first time, trying to find Anna again in Paris. I swear, I’m going to somehow find someone who can implant a GPS chip in that girl. It’d take a satellite to keep track of her.
We always end up back together again, I have faith that this time will turn out no different. I’d prefer it not take months or years this time to find her again, though. At this point, it’s been two weeks since I saw her last, two frustrating weeks.
Two weeks ago, after getting shot in my damn underwear, and abandoned only minutes later, I pulled myself and my ego up off the ground, got dressed one-handedly, not even bothering to tie the laces on my boots and got the hell out of there. Thankfully, my leather jacket covered the gushing blood that I was so inadequately trying to stop with a hotel hand towel.
I’m really hoping that the room was on Jackson’s credit card and they charge him through the roof for all the blood on the floor. I should have rubbed it in real good. Of course, I was slowly bleeding to death, so there was no time for that sort of shenanigan.
I left my motorcycle in the hotel parking garage cause that just wasn’t happening. Throwing myself into the back of a taxi, I told the driver to take me to the nearest hospital, making sure to pull back where I had my leather jacket draped over my wound so he could see the urgency. Using my right hand only, I fished my cell out of my jeans pocket, dialing Max.
And that’s not a conversation that I ever want to have again. It took practically the entire ride to the hospital to convince him that, yes, I really did get shot and that, yes, Anna did it and that, no, I don’t want to call the cops and, hell no, he better not call Aunt Lucy.
Of course, the panic on his face when he rushed into the emergency room thirty minutes later will forever be priceless. You’d think I was having his baby or something. The doctor assured him that I was gonna be just fine. Good as new in just a few weeks.
The bullet hit far from anything vital, cause my baby loves me. What more proof do I need? She could have shot me straight through the heart if she’d wanted too. Even the lung, but no, she chose to inflict a minor gunshot wound in the shoulder.
The bullet, however, didn’t go straight through, so they had to dig around in there to get it out. Thank god for drugs, cause that would have hurt like hell.
I had to stay in the hospital for a whole day before they’d let me go. After that, Max insisted that I stay home a few days to rest, actually he threatened to tell his mom about the incident. A few days was all he got, cause I was on a plane to Paris four days later.
Which did me almost no good at all. I mean really, why couldn’t she make it easy for me, like go to Paris, Texas, where I wouldn’t have to search for her amongst millions of people? People who speak a whole other language than me and even when they are speaking my language, I’m not understanding it.
Max claims that if it’s a beautiful French woman, she’s always speaking his language. Max is a whore.
Today, I’m going to try Marie’s house again, because besides that, I got nothing.
As usual, I’m not let in past the front door. This time, however, the butler hands me a pink slip of paper before slamming the door in my face. Alright, what’s this?
I stand there on the steps, unfolding it. The feminine script reads:
YOU ARE READING
Killing Me Softly - Teenage Assassin - aka Young Love MurderTeen Fiction
This isn’t a love story, it’s a love adventure. First love’s a killer, but so is seventeen-year-old Annabelle Blanc. She was raised to be an assassin and taught to never fall in love. She’s at the top of her game until she meets Gabriel Sanchez. Tot...