From Morocco to Paris by Lydia Nyx Read Free Book Online Page A

like against my bare skin. It looks like something one of the Mamluk soldiers would wear, doesn’t it?”
    The Mamluks had met Napoleon at the Battle of the Pyramids. “Is that why you bought it?” Zane asked. “You’re joining the enemy?”
    Davey leaned over and drew out a pair of flat, pointy-toed slippers, dark blue as well. “And these are called babouches ,” he said.
    “You like clothes, don’t you?”
    “I wouldn’t be a costumer if I didn’t, now would I? You like fetching lattes, don’t you?”
    “Fuck off.”
    Davey fell silent for a moment. Zane imagined he needed to refill his chatter tank.
    “You’re from Kentucky?” Davey asked.
    The damn thing refilled fast.
    “Yes,” Zane said.
    “You don’t talk like a redneck. I haven’t heard you say ‘y’all’ once.”
    “I went to California when I was eighteen. I’ve been there ten years. It wore off. Where are you from?” Zane knew he’d regret asking, but reciprocation seemed polite.
    “From?” Davey asked, and the corner of his mouth quirked. “I was born in Reno. I spent most of my childhood being dragged all over the country by my mother, though. When she wasn’t ditching me for months on end with one of her weird friends.”
    Zane arched an eyebrow. “Why did your mother travel so much?”
    Davey shrugged and leaned over to put his items away. “Jobs,” he said. “Men. Looking for cheaper drugs. Looking for more expensive men. I was in and out of so many schools I finally just gave up and dropped out when I was old enough.”
    “You didn’t finish school? How the hell did you go to college and all that?”
    Davey snorted and sat up. “The only advantage to having a mother like mine. She always ‘knew a guy.’ I got some fake papers.”
    When Zane gave him a surprised look, Davey rolled his eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal,” Davey said. “It was design school; I wasn’t going into the fucking military.”
    Zane rested his head back against the seat. “What about your father?” he asked.
    “Who knows? I’ve narrowed it down to three guys, none of whom are very appealing.”
    Something deep inside told Zane to stop digging into Davey’s psyche, or he might find himself actually giving a shit.
    “Maybe it’s better you don’t know your father,” Zane said. “I wish I didn’t know mine, sometimes.”
    “You don’t like your father?”
    “To put it mildly.”
    “Why?”
    “We’re supposed to be relaxing, remember?”
    The rest of the train ride Davey spent talking while Zane tried to fend off a slow-growing headache. They were meeting Cristiano and Elliot in Melilla for a late lunch, and Zane really needed a drink. No matter how he tried to relax, he kept dreading the weeks ahead.
    “I personally think it’s going to be fun,” Davey said, when Zane brought the subject up again, voicing how much he really didn’t want to go into the desert.
    “What?” Zane asked.
    “Going out into the desert. Living hard and dirty. I think it’ll be sexy.”
    Zane rubbed his temple, elbow propped on the ledge beneath the window.
    “What the hell are you talking about, sexy ?” Zane asked. “Is that your vocabulary word today?”
    “Think about it!” Davey said. He had slid down in his seat so his knees rested against the one in front of him, hands folded on his stomach. “All of us hot and dirty. Sweat dripping. Testosterone. Bare muscles. Pheromones filling the air.”
    Zane groaned. “You are in for such a shock.”
    “I, for one, can’t wait for a nice hot roll in the sand.”
    “You’re sure as hell not rolling with me!” Zane failed to keep his voice down and didn’t care. “Besides, they didn’t do that in camp, despite what you think about secret lovers! It was a time for preparation!”
    “Oh ho ho,” Davey said and chuckled, holding up a finger. “I beg to differ. When your whole day was spent marching in the desert heat, I bet you looked forward to a blowjob at night.”
    “Move!”