Read The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) for Free Online Page A

does stay
later and later every night, working by my side in this cold space.
    Tonight,
we’re finishing plastering the basement walls. Considering how slowly things
dry in this weather, I’ve rented a big dehumidifier. Jeanne’s portable heater
is on, too, although it doesn’t seem to be doing much. The basement is freaking
cold.
    As
we spread plaster across two opposite walls, Hugo starts humming a familiar
tune and then sings, “We are the champions, we are the champions…”
    I
grin and chime in.
    Suddenly,
I’m sixteen again. I’m the captain of the Lycée Dumas girls’ basketball team,
determined to get us a medal at the upcoming interschool tournament. Every day
after class, I change into a tee and shorts, dump my schoolbag on top of a
dozen others by the wall, and jog to the middle of the outdoor court to join a
gaggle of similarly dressed girls. We practice daily, rain or shine, singing
the Queen song at the beginning and end of each session. It’s our unofficial
anthem.
    And
Hugo—our volunteer coach.
    His
offer to coach us was a move that mystified the entire Lycée. As he was never
known to be a womanizer, his buddies scratched their heads for weeks as to the
reason why the star of the boys’ basketball team had quit out of the blue so he
could tutor the girls. Said girls had no clue either, even though all of
them—except me—flirted with Hugo in a most outrageous fashion.
    Diane
had a theory that the champion had sacrificed himself for me, but that was
completely ridiculous.
    When
we won the interschool championship, we sang “We Are the Champions” in a loop
as we paraded through the streets of Nîmes, passing our well-deserved trophy to
one another and cheering Hugo as our leader and mascot.
    No
time for losers,
    ’cause we are the champions…
    When
Hugo and I finish the song, I compare our progress. His wall is almost done,
while I’m barely halfway through mine. I’m proud of my handiwork—I really
am—but the surface of Hugo’s wall looks so smooth it will hardly need any
sanding tomorrow.
    Damn,
he’s good at this.
    Hugo
turns around and peers at my wall. “Good job, Chloe.”
    I
look at him over my shoulder. “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I was born
without aptitude for wielding a hawk.”
    “Don’t
put words in my mouth.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “I was merely saying you’re
good at this, like it’s in your genes.”
    Is
it? Who knows,
maybe I’ve inherited it from one of my birth parents? Maybe my dad was or still
is a builder.
    But
I guess I’ll never know.
    In
my teens I used to obsess about my origins. It drove me mad not to know who my
birth parents were and where they came from. The countless swaps I offered
Santa and later God included my hair (forbidden from growing back), my left
arm, either of my eyes or ears, and all of my teeth (I figured I could wear
dentures).
    But
it was all in vain—the Supreme Being clearly wasn’t interested in any of
my body parts.
    On
one desperate, sleepless night when I was fifteen or sixteen, I even offered a
lifetime of chastity in exchange for any information about my provenance.
    Radio
silence was the response.
    As
soon as I came of age, I made inquiries with the adoption office only to be
told that my birth parents’ identity was unknown.
    When
private DNA tests came about, I found it hard to believe that I suddenly had a
chance to learn something about my ancestry. The test wouldn’t give me the
identity of my birth parents, but it would tell me what my ethnic background
is, which is better than knowing nothing at all.
    Immeasurably
better.
    My
appearance, you see, is extremely uncooperative. I’m a brown-eyed brown-haired
Caucasian who could’ve originated anywhere from Russia to Portugal. If I’m very
lucky, the test may even find some distant cousins. If that happens, the lab
would establish what they call a “family circle” for me and put me in touch
with the people in it.
    Can
you imagine?
    I
may