by Mj Fields
“What the fuck am I even doing here?” Bass whispers for the tenth time.
At first, I thought it was to himself, but the more he asks, the more I feel prompted to give him an answer.
“You’re here to get answers,” I whisper back.
His head snaps around and he scowls at me. “I know all I need to know about him. A man who had the means to make a difference in his own kid’s life, but decided to turn the other cheek.”
Should have shut the fuck up, I think to myself, and then it dawns on me. “Then just let the man talk. See what he has to offer.”
“I don’t want a fucking thing from him,” he hisses.
“I get that.” I run my hands over my head that finally has some hair back on it. “If it’s nothing, then you’re no worse off. If it’s something significant, use it to do good things, Bass. Things you think he should have done.”
He doesn’t reply, he simply stares across the busy New York City street looking up at a building that screams wealth. A far cry from Emporia, Virginia.
When the door to the coffee shop opens, a bald man, about five foot nine, in a suit that screams filthy rich, walks in and scans the shop. When his eyes land on Bass, he smiles genuinely, yet briefly.
He makes his way toward us and we both stand.
He puts out his hands, hands that clearly never saw a hard day’s work and Bass shakes it. “Alfred Berenger.”
“Bastien Josephs.” Bass puts emphasis on his last name.
Alfred looks at me and extends his hand. I shake it and tell him my name, “Oliver.”
We sit down and within seconds, the barista brings the barrister a large cup of what I assume is coffee. And yeah, I chuckle at the word play.
“I won’t hold you up.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Here’s some cash to tide you over until the will is–”
“I don’t want his fucking money.” Bass’s voice shakes as he tries to control his emotion.
I lean in. “Think, man. Think beyond yourself.” He glares at me now. I continue, “Maisie wants a pool for the kids this summer. I’m sure whatever is in there could help.”
“I can afford to do it myself,” he hisses.
“Yeah, and I can pitch in, but think of this as–”
Alfred cuts me off, “I really don’t care if you take it or leave it here for the barista. It’s yours to do with as you see fit. You’re his only heir. Furthermore, I don’t agree with the way Jean-Paul handled himself where you are concerned. I’ve worked for Jean-Paul for years, Bastien,” he pauses, “I’m only his legal representation, not his moral compass.”
“But you knew him.” Bastien’s statement includes a question that he clearly couldn’t bring himself to ask.
Why?
Alfred looks at Bass with compassion. “I knew him for many years. Every part of who he is, what he built, how he lived, was with honor. I have no idea why he looked the other way when it came to his only child. I only know if he left you billions, with the majority to be given to you, he did care.”
“Not enough.” Bass shakes his head.
I get where he’s coming from, but Alfred said billions. Fucking billions.
Alfred nods as he finishes his cup of coffee and then sets it down. “The will won’t be read anytime soon. Too many people and properties involved. I think it will be September before everything is straightened out.”
He stands. “Think about this, Bastien. I’ll be in touch. If you need anything, my card is inside the envelope.”
After Alfred leaves, Bass and I sit quietly. Then Bass stands and nods to the door. “I need something stronger than coffee.”
He walks away from the table and I grab the envelope.
June
Two weeks ago, Maisie had another one of her episodes, a horrible headache that brought her to her knees. Thankfully, Bass was there and took her to the emergency room. And even more fortunately, he called me to meet him when she was admitted. While she was signing admittance forms, Bass was chatting her up, making her laugh, and I slid in a form giving the doctors’ permission to discuss her care with us.
After the doctor spoke to us, devastated us, I informed him she wouldn’t remember signing the form, nor would she take it well if she thought we knew.
Maisie’s headaches are being caused by an inoperable brain tumor. Cancer. She’s aware, has been for a few years now. And as the doctor told us, there is nothing we can do, but keep her happy.
How the fuck do you accept that? How!
You don’t. For two weeks we look for every possible fucking treatment, but when we’d call the Doc, he’d inform us it was already looked into, by whom, and when.
His care for Maisie was obvious. The fact he was dealing with Bass and I, basically knowing we pulled some underhanded shit to get the information, makes it even more so. We trust him…So, we keep her happy and pretend we’re blissfully unaware of the fact she’s fucking dying.
Maisie’s happiness is brought on by ours, so we do all we can for her, and fake the hell out of it.
Sitting inside my office at Stone’s Throw, I sigh.
From March through May, I thought I’d lose my fucking mind. I work, I bullshit happiness, and I sit in a damn office. When I get really agitated, Bass reminds me that she needs us, and I should be happy I’m not dodging bullets. When faced with this shit, there are times I want to go back.
The chef and waitstaff had been employed here for a couple of years. They knew what they were doing and didn’t need much from me, except to approve purchase orders, specials, and menus. I’d occasionally work behind the bar if someone called out, but that occasion was rare. The other staff members would offer to fill in because they needed the money.
Living in the Hamptons, when you don’t have money, couldn’t be easy for the average working man or woman, those who don’t come from old money.
I’d overheard a few of the full-timers complain about not having enough to make ends meet. I didn’t step in, not my fucking place, but more than once I wanted to tell them to move. Six of them shared a three-bedroom cottage and paid out the ass for the place. But the more I overheard the amount of money they made in tips during the summer, it made up for it, if they planned well. The benefit was the ocean. I totally understood.
All I had to do was count money, do the banking, open the doors in the morning, lock them up at night, and occasionally throw a drunk who had too much to drink in a cab. When they became belligerent, treated the staff or patrons like shit, I toss them in a cab. Fucking highlight of my week.
Even on my days off, which I can take whenever I want, since there’s no one to answer to, only for, I’m here to open the doors and to lock up.
Now the busy season is starting, and I’m here more. Applications for seasonal employment are coming in by the droves and I find little, if any, excitement from the applicants.
At first, I interviewed them by myself, then, when I wasn’t hiring and ended up bussing tables, Chancy, the chef, asked what the problem was.
“Seniority, Chancy. Anyone who comes into a job interview asking for weekends off, or–-.’
His laugh stopped me. “Ask your full-time staff if they want weekends off. Guaranteed they’d prefer to work ‘em. They make more money.”
“Will do.”
“You need some help with the interviews?” He’d asked trying to hold back a smile.
Sarcastic fuck.
People skills, I remind myself. Fucking people skills.
“Yeah.”
Chapter Thirteen
Oliver (September)
It’s been close to a year since I’ve been living a civilian lifestyle and still, I feel like I’m riding the line.
Life isn’t how I expected it to be after serving a self-imposed sentence while seeking retribution. I’m still watching for someone to fall and forcing myself to carry an invisible weight on my shoulders.
But as Bass said, at least I’m not dodging bullets.
Maisie’s doing great. No spells. The only issue is her fucking dog, Snuffleupagus or as Bass calls him, Syphilluffagus. Damn thing’s a shit show. He sometimes gets out of her fenced yard. Damn thing’s blind and runs into walls in the house, but he could find his way out of Alcatraz.
So, my life… I work, I chill with Maisie, I chase a fucking dog and I ride an invisible line between bad and worse on little to no sleep.
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket and pull it out to see Bass’s name.
I hit the message app and read.
Bass: Bringing a date to your place tonight. You see me, I’m Joe.
I shoot back a message really quick.
Oliver: You’re kidding right?
Bass: Nope.
Oliver: Thanks for bringing me along.
Bass: Was taking a walk, minding my own. Just happened, man.
Oliver: How the fuck does it just happen?
Bass: She was walking down the beach and I knew I had to have her.
Oliver: You KNEW you had to have her? What the fuck does that even mean?
Bass: Wait till you see her, man. You’ll get it.
Oliver: Should I make an early reservation?
Bass: Doesn’t matter… why?
Oliver: Senior citizens like to get in the early bird specials. Usually we’re at capacity, but I’ll see what I can do.
Bass: Real funny, man
Oliver: Well, we all have our fetishes.
Bass: It was a phase, not a fetish.
I laugh and shake my head as I watch the bouncing bubbles telling me he’s still typing.
Bass: She’s not that much older. But you know I like my women more mature.
Oliver: Well isn’t that precious.
Bass: What’s your thing, Oliver?
Oliver: Hot, wet, and unavailable for more than a night.
Bass: Same, bro, same. But once you get one you can’t get enough of for more than one night. One that’s beautiful, intelligent, almost too good to be true, then you may want a second night.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, I sigh.
Oliver: I’ll save a table if you save the bullshit. Seven PM.
Bass: People skills, man.
Oliver: Middle finger emoji
Irritated, I hit the track pad on my computer and type in Joe, dinner for two, 7 PM.
I don’t know why it pisses me off at first, then I realize, I haven’t thought of getting laid since Bass needed something stronger after meeting Alfred at that coffee shop, and we hit half the bars in the city.
I’m irritated because I haven’t fucked, or even thought of fucking, since March. Six months must be a fucking record.
I need to get laid, or as Maisie once said, I need to get to gettin’.
Leaning back in my leather desk chair, I look at the security monitor and see the redheaded bartender with big tits and a fuck you attitude I hired two weeks ago. She’s got a round as fuck ass, and I’ve overheard the way she talks to the men who leave her tips as big as their bar tabs.
She takes shit from no one, and all the fucks with old money love her.
I haven’t seen her with anyone, and I would bet she has as much pent up frustration as I do.
I run my hands through my hair and scoff.
Not gonna happen, Einstein, she works with you. Which would be fucking perfect, if I was normal.
Work, mindless, meaningless, fucking work. I force myself to get to it.
After going over the budget, and placing the supply order from the bar and kitchen, I lean forward when I see a blonde woman approach the bar. She’s a bit older, I don’t see a ring, and from this distance, I can’t see an indentation, and what the fuck is the third thing? Shit, that’s twice I’ve forgotten.
I see her pick up a glass of red wine and take a sip.
Her lips are fucking perfect and I could probably get myself off, release some of this frustration, just watching her.
“No fucking way,” I curse at the sight of Bass cozying up next to her. “Son of a bitch.”
I can’t help but laugh at the circumstance.
And I swear to all that’s good, that motherfucker will never know I considered jerking off to the sight of his… two-night stand.
Two nights ago, Maisie had another spell. I was at work, of course, and Bass was in bed with the blonde in his cottage next door to her place.
When I met him at the hospital, I stayed for a while. When we found out she was going to be admitted for further testing, I told him to go back to the blonde, and I’d stick around. When he got a call from his father’s lawyer, Alfred, he told me he was going to stay to look over some files.
I headed back to work, knowing that even in her condition, Maisie is a hell of a lot better equipped to deal with matters of the heart than I would ever be. She and I had been trying to talk sense into him for months, and he simply looked up at the sky. Something she taught us. When you’re feeling down, look up.
I understand all too well the way we, the unwanted children, dress in armor every day. Detaching from emotions, growing independent of others, and growing stronger from the inside and God willing, out, all to protect the fragile hearts that lie in our chests.
A couple hours after leaving, Bass showed up at the restaurant. The chick he’d been banging was apparently Jean-Paul’s right hand, his assistant, and for some reason, he had it in his head that she’d seduced him to keep her position, one he also assumed was acquired from his father the same damn way.
He was hell bent on destroying his father’s legacy and making sure he showed the blonde, Angela Petrov, he was no fool.
If I were one to meddle in others’ affairs, I would point out that when they were here, at the restaurant together, she didn’t appear to be a vindictive sort, nor did she look like the type that was desperate.
I suggested he speak to her. But when he returned to his place, where he left her, she was gone. No note, no phone number, nothing.
He asked me to quit my job and work for him. “Help me take down my father’s legacy,” he’d pleaded.
I needed no excuse to leave this mindless fucking existence, where I would inevitably spend sixteen hours a day thinking about Maisie and wondering why the world is so cruel. Nor would I leave him alone in his tortured state, all from unanswered questions.
Unanswered questions keep me awake at night. No more than four hours of shut eye, and nothing but black and white images dance beneath my eyelids.
Maybe, just maybe, working with Bass in his darkest hour, will tire my brain and give me a focus other than death and destruction at night.
With Maisie in the hospital, Bass and I feel confident she’ll be in good hands, so we decide to head to New York City.
Although he’s come into money and property, namely the skyscraper on Park Avenue, he didn’t want to stay in the penthouse his father used while he was in town on business. Jean’s second home, Paris, France, being his main place of residency. So, we stay in a hotel, and hit the bars, just like we did last time we came in to meet with Alfred. Just like last time, he’s a shitty wingman and has no desire to get laid.
Sitting at the hotel bar with the man I call brother… sulking, and sulking is not how I wanted to spend an evening in a city that doesn’t sleep, with single women, and women who are more sexually open-minded. However, it is what it is. Bass is the first priority.
Prior to the first meeting at de la Porte, when Bass wasn’t on the phone with Alfred, we were in our hotel suite’s conference room discussing assets. With Jean-Paul’s will still not available in its entirety, because Jean plans to be executed after certain steps were taken, Bass was made aware that he was to be CEO and the majority shareholder of his late father’s empire.
Some of the company assets were, half a dozen town cars used for clients, shareholders, and board members, a stretch Jean and Alfred used when either were in town, three small luxury jets for personal and company use, de la Porte’s headquarters and a factory in Paris, along with a home on the r
iver Siene, and so much more.
I was overwhelmed and if I was, Bass was that times a million. Yet there was an almost eerie calm surrounding him.
Then Bass told Alfred, “I’d like to get rid of three of the town cars and pick up something for myself and Oliver to drive when we’re in town.”
His calm seemed to bring Alfred some happiness.
Alfred stood, “I think that’s a good idea.”
Good idea? I think. I still don’t understand how people, intelligent people, can forget what happens after the calm, a fucking storm.
Bass tried to talk me into getting a car on his dime, after six hours he realized I wasn’t having it and then he purchased himself a Ferrari.
Beautiful car, right off the showroom floor, and he looked at it like he wanted to destroy it. That terrified me.
The night before the board meeting where he would be introduced, we were getting ready to go out.
Looking around for him, I find him in his room, looking in the mirror, his expression blank.
I wish Maisie was here to talk to him, but she’s not.
Fuck, I sigh inwardly.
“How are you holding up?” I ask and he whips around.
“I hate him, Ollie. I hate him so fucking much, I wish I’d ended his life instead of an aneurism.”
I open my mouth, hoping words fall from it that comfort. But he starts pacing and continues, “I bought a car I wouldn’t buy in a million fucking years, as some sort of act of rebellion. I’m not a teenager, Ollie.” He hits his chest. “I’m a fucking man.”
“We all deal with shit differently.” I lean against the door jam and cross my arms.
“I hate that I was played by her. I fucking hate it,” he snaps. “She’s done. Regardless of how fucking hot she was, how hard she sucked, how fucking real it all felt.” He hits his chest above his heart. “She’s done.”
