Make Me Bad: Private Lessons by W.H. Vega Read Free Book Online

imagination run wild as I think of Madison's curvy
young body lying naked between my sheets. That would certainly brighten up my
weekend and better my mood.
    I flip on the light and look around my sparse apartment.
It’s nothing fancy, and it was quite affordable with the travel stipend I
received. I toss my jacket over the back of a kitchen chair and pace back and
forth. I’m too keyed up to go to bed now. I think about having a glass of wine,
but I drank plenty at the restaurant. I walk over to one of my living room
windows, where if I crane my neck just so, I can see the Eiffel Tower. The
tower shimmers with its golden light show, it must be midnight, and I briefly
debate going back out to the street and walking to the tower.
    I nix the idea, and instead pull out my guitar. Working on a
new song does the trick, and soon I feel calm and relaxed and ready to fall
asleep.
    * * *
    Saturday rolls around and I take my time waking up. I lay
lazily in bed, scrolling through my phone and appreciating the luxury of having
nothing to do today. I finally rise; take a shower and head out to the streets
to find some breakfast. My kitchen is still bare and I should probably buy
groceries instead of eating out for every meal.
    Instead, I slip into a patisserie and order a black coffee
and baguette. I linger over my coffee, not caring that I’m wasting time. I find
a small grocery on the way home and pick up a few items to keep in the kitchen.
    I try not to dwell on Madison, but once I’m back in my
apartment, I make an impulsive decision to call her.
    “Hello?”
    Just the sound of her voice gives me a thrill. I know I should
hang up now before it's too late.
    “It’s Luc.” I finally manage.
    “Yes, I know.” I hear a door close and I wonder if she’s
gone somewhere private to speak to me.
    “How are you?” I ask.
    “Umm, fine. You?”
    “I want to see you. Do you have plans?”
    “Now? You want to see me now?”
    “Now. Later. Whenever.” No need to beat around the bush.
    She hesitates. “I’m supposed to go out with Cleo and Philippe
today.” she explains, “It would be weird if I broke plans all the sudden.” She
pauses again, and I can almost picture her biting her lip as she thinks. “What
if I came over later?”
    “That’s fine. You have my cell number.”
    “Okay. I’ll text you. It'll probably be around six or so.”
    “That works.” I'll take what I can get and the thought of
being with Madison again is almost more than I can handle.
    I hang up with her and find myself pacing again. I need to
find some new hobbies while I'm in Paris or I’m going to lose my mind. I can’t
spend all my energy focusing on a ridiculous romance with one of my students.
And I can only compose music for so much time.
    I leave my apartment, and head back out into the city,
looking for something, anything, to do. I find my way to Montmartre and make my
way up the hill to the Sacre Coeur. I don’t actually want to walk through the
church, but there’s an amazing view from the top of the steps, and I like
watching all the people and the artisans trying to hock their crappy paintings.
    Today amidst the artists, there is also an awful musician,
playing bad covers of the Beatles. Not surprisingly, people seem to love the
music, and I sit on a ledge to watch the comical reactions of passersby. Maybe
this can be my new hobby – watching the tourists in Paris.
    I guess technically I’m a tourist too, though I pretend not
to be. My mother was French, and though I was born in the States, we spent much
of my childhood in France and I grew up learning to speak both English and
French. My father was a deadbeat and I’ll never understand why my mother moved
to the states for him, or why she stayed with him for so long. I think she did
it to give me a better life, but I believe I would have been perfectly happy if
we'd just stayed in France.
    My father finally saved us both a lot of heartache and left
when I was seven years old,