PRINCELESS by Cam Jace Storykiller
Copyright©by Cameron Jace
January 15 2019
D'Arc Paris Night Club, Paris, France
Venus sat by the bar, legs crossed and looking as hot as her last surname.
The Organization had cashed her first cheque, a wire transfered it through her phone, twenty minutes after she executed Etienne Bissot. It was a fat cheque, but how could she tell? She never had money on her own before.
It felt earned. Amazingly independent.
The woman at the Parisian fashion store had told Venus she was beautiful, young, and that she knew the exact soiree dress that would dazzle every French man tonight.
“You will look like a modern-day princess,” the French seller had emphasized.
Venus hadn’t replied. After such a day she wanted to look like a princess. Fuck the Organization tonight.
After two hours of matching style and color, Venus turned heads wherever she walked. She felt fresh. Rewarded. Ready to be loved. The dress fit her athletic body. Instead of military outfits or a leather jacket, she realized she was made for this red dress. Only walking in stiletto heels sucked, but she still loved it.
An unexplained discrepancy washed over her as men craned their necks to check her out. She giggled while they whistled behind her back and opened doors for her. She hadn’t felt so… female before.
As much as killing seemed to be part of her genes, so was being a woman. If those men only knew what she could do with her… gun.
“Rosé?” The bartender offered.
“U-huh,” she confirmed, not sure what she just ordered, but it was good, as long as it was nothing like the Organization offered her in the camps. She watched the colored drink being poured in front of her, and fell in love immediately.
Venus took a sip, not sure what she was doing here. She should have asked what young people do with their first paycheck when they have no friends and kill others for a living.
“I once smoked a hookah from the ashes of a man I had just burned,” Sailor whispered from behind her.
“You’re such a bad old man,” she smiled, not sure why she was so happy to see him.
Sailor sat next to her and set a hookah on top of the bar. The bartender didn’t look happy but being French he was polite, and he offered a placemat for the hookah.
“First time in Paris?” Sailor nudged her playfully.
“First kill,” Venus sipped her drink elegantly.
Sailor stared at her, admiring her as usual.
“What?” she titled her head.
“You did a great job today.”
“Jobs you mean. I executed, ran on rooftops, killed a man with bees, almost had my neck chopped off by a helicopter.”
“Life is a circus, and only the clowns who adapt survive.”
Venus touched the rim of her glass. “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?”
“Of course not,” Sailor sucked on his hookah. “It only gets worse.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “I have a lot of questions.”
“About the Organization, where we get our leads, the history, why you’re important to us,” he nodded. “One day at a time, Venus.”
“You don’t call me princess anymore.”
Sailor was about to answer when a young French man accidentally bumped into her with a drink in his hand. It spilled all over Venus’ dress.
She froze in shock.
“Pardon,” the young man said. He was handsome and tall, but definitely drunk.
“You messed up my dress.” Venus almost turned into a ten-year-old child all over again. “I paid so much for it.”
The drunk man reached to touch her face for no reason when Sailor was about to stop him. But then another French man, young but not as attractive, pulled the drunk man back.
“Sorry, mademoiselle,” he cocked his head from behind his friend. “My friend is drunk. So sorry. Really, I am.”
This was when the unexpected happened. Venus stood in awe looking at him, not sure what was happening. What was this feeling in her stomach?
“It’s… okay…” she smiled as if nothing happened.
“I’m Pierre,” he stretched out a hand.
Venus stared at it with wonder, afraid to touch him, anticipating a disaster of the heart.
“Venus?” Sailor said. “The man is offering an apology.”
“What?” She blinked, looking up at him. “Oh,” she looked back into Pierre’s eyes. He so reminded her of the prince in the Brothers Grimm books. She couldn’t help that feeling that you couldn't say, not even in French. When she was a kiddo, there was this drawing in the book of a prince who saved the princess, whom Pierre so much looked alike.
It was stupid, but it touched her somehow.
“Thank you,” she told him and looked away without touching him.
Pierre looked at his own stretched hand, then Sailor who rolled his eyes and mouthed ‘she’s like that on her period days,‘ and shook his hand instead.
Pierre walked away embarrassed. Venus wouldn’t even look at him.