De La Porte Fashion: The Complete Box Set

by Mj Fields

  “If you think for one second–”

  “Now, Autumn.”

  She storms off and I hear her sputtering as she slams drawers. I want to tell her to grow the fuck up, but I’m working on my people skills.

  When I walk out, she’s sitting at her desk and totally ignores me.

  “Did you get me the information I requested?”

  She taps her pen on a sticky note with barely legible writing on it.

  I bite back my annoyance and force a smile. “Thank you, Autumn.”

  As I walk out of the office, I hear her sputter, “Go fuck yourself.”

  I stop and start to turn around, but then remind myself what a leader does, he leads.

  I knock once on Bass’s office door before walking in.

  Before I have a chance to say a word, he looks up.

  “Could you set up a meeting with the employees we discussed letting go?” I don’t say shit, I just look at him. “Leave out the head of HR and mailroom employees.”

  I’m relieved he must have taken Angela’s advice about not firing them. Hell, maybe he talked to her again. “You contact her?”

  He shakes my head. “No number.”

  “I’ll make sure to get it for you… boss.” I reach in my pocket and hand him the sticky note.

  He immediately sends a text.

  I stand watching him.

  I hear a message tone and watch him visibly tense as he reads it.

  Fuck.

  He shakes his head and then sends her a text.

  Another immediate response.

  He looks more relaxed as he reads it and he replies.

  Another return message and his face tightens and turns red.

  He types back and I’m ten steps from snatching his damn phone to make him stop when he looks up and gasps, “She fucking blocked me.”

  And here we go with another Bass tirade.

  Everything in the office pisses him off, so I try to change shit up. “Let’s make this place yours.”

  “I don’t even fucking want it,” he says, tapping on his phone.

  “Bass.” He looks up at me, fucking lost, he’s fucking lost. “We’re gonna be here for a hot minute. Get rid of his shit and let’s make it more you.”

  He tosses his phone on the desk. “Fine.”

  For the next two days I learn a couple things– Bass sleeps almost as little as I do, and we’re both assholes when we’re tired.

  He’s constantly yelling at contractors, and short-tempered with everyone else. I also learn that a phone is much like a watched pot, there’s no more sense waiting for water to boil than it does a damn good staring at a screen.

  Maisie and I speak daily, and she hates it at the rehab center, but after her minor stroke, she’s exactly where she needs to be to regain whatever strength she can. She knows it and makes me promise not to tell Bass. She doesn’t want him worrying about her. I’d be upset at him, but honestly, I think he may need to find focus elsewhere, or there may be a beat down in the alley outside the building by his employees.

  I’ve also learned Autumn is a pain in the ass. She comes to Bass with questions she knows he doesn’t have answers to, and he refuses to give until he gets his feet under him. I know, without him saying so, he’s aware he fucked up in the way he dealt with the Angela situation, personally and professionally.

  The new couture line they were working on needed her approval because “she just has an eye for beauty and class.” New models for the Paris show needed her stamp of approval because “she knew what ‘real’ people, the consumers, want” that would make them feel beautiful.

  Accountants needed her signature, fabric vendors wanted to speak to her, marketing wanted her to tell them which advertisers to line up. One time we wandered into the break room and heard women talking about her daughter… Natasha, wondering how she was doing in London. Autumn does the best she can to answer their questions or delay them, but never says she no longer works here.

  She also doesn’t hide her irritation at Bass for replacing her boss while training her replacement, me. It’s always, “Angela this, and Angela that.” And when she doesn’t know something he needs an answer for, she gets all pissy and gives me a nasty look, replying, “Angela handled that.”

  What’s interesting is he’s yet to fire her, and I know why. Alfred was correct when he said Angela could be his best ally. I’m not surprised, but I’m relieved when he told Alfred to bring Angela back as a consultant, offer her a year’s salary for the same three months the board was given if she agrees to help with the winter line release.

  When Alfred came back saying she needed a few days, Bass went berserk.

  I had to step in.

  “You gonna sit in here and be a tyrant all day while they paint and refurnish this place?”

  He doesn’t say shit.

  “Bass, get out of here. Get some sleep. Go check on Maisie.”

  “Did the rehabilitation center call?”

  I promised I wouldn’t say shit so I don’t. “No, but it’s not like you to not check in on her.”

  “Had other things on my damn mind.”

  “Really? Hadn’t noticed.”

  He turns his back to me.

  “She comes in, I’ll let you know.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Get out of here, Bass. Seriously, you’re pissing me off.”

  He turns and scowls at me. I feel like his fucking parent.

  “I agreed to this for you. Do you think I like wearing this shit?” I point at the gray suit and tie.

  He shrugs. “What else are you gonna do?”

  “I was kind of feeling my restaurant management gig.” Which is bullshit, but right now, I miss the quiet.

  He turns around and accuses, “You hated that place.”

  All the patrons were old money fuckers. “The people, yeah. Douchebags.”

  “But it’s better than getting shot at,” he reminds me.

  “Fucking boring.”

  “Boring? It’s its own kind of war zone.”

  “Only when the man in charge is making everyone feel uncomfortable.”

  “Yeah.” he nods. “What a dick, huh?”

  “Dick? I wouldn’t say so. I’d say you’re being a bitch.”

  “Fuck you.” He flips me off trying not to smile.

  “Go, Bass, seriously. But make damn sure you make it to that fucking black tie bullshit Saturday night.”

  “You need a date?” he jokes… finally, the Bass I know has shown up.

  “I got you, boo. And believe me; you’re almost all I can handle.” I roll my eyes. “Almost.”

  Two days was all he needed to get Maisie out of the rehab center, have her agree to twenty-four-hour nursing care at her home and convince her to come to the Saturday evening event. He also managed to get Angela Petrov to attend. That night he learned she’d be going to Paris.

  That week at de la Porte was a hell of a lot less hostile work environment than it had been previously and even Autumn managed to smile once in a while.

  It had been four days since Angela left to deal with Jean’s personal belongings, and Bass went from good to me telling him, “You need to get the hell out of here.”

  “But Maisie,” he said and shook his head no.

  “I’m going back Thursday evening, get your ass in one of those private jets and take a weekend.”

  He did as I suggested.

  After having dinner with Maisie, she asked me if I would sit with her for a bit.

  I expected her to ask me a million questions about Angela, who she’d met at the de la Porte event, or Bass, but she didn’t.

  She told me she needed to speak to me in strict confidence and then told me she was dying. She told me everything I already knew, and that she wasn’t afraid to die, she was actually excited about seeing her husband, her love of a million lifetimes again. She requested me not to tell Bass, that she didn’t think he was strong enough to handle that and all that was going on with de
la Porte, but she knew I was strong enough. I was strong enough because I had fought a war for others to survive and knew what it meant to risk my life for the wellbeing of others. Again, I agreed. At least there would be no lying to him, he already knew. Then she asked me to promise that I let her live her last days the way she wanted to. I agreed. Finally, she asked me to allow myself to be loved. To accept I deserve it and then she stressed there was someone out there who needed a man like me to show her what it’s like to be loved the way a woman deserved to be loved. I didn’t verbalize my agreement because no woman deserved to be cursed with the love of a man who hasn’t a fucking clue how to love a woman properly.

  Standing in the great room at Maisie’s at three in the morning, I try to find my calm by watching the lightning crackle over the Atlantic Ocean.

  There are just over 6730 miles from where I am to a war where I could have died a million different times in just as many ways. Soldiers and civilians lost their lives daily, yet I couldn’t be farther away, and I couldn’t be more detached.

  I knew Maisie was dying. I knew I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. But when she told me tonight, it was never so real.

  Maisie is a fucking soldier for good. Always has been, and she deserves to sit next to her husband in the clouds if she wants. To rest in peace like she deserves.

  I’m just over 6730 miles from where I believed I would die a hero. Eight fucking tours, ten metals, and not a fucking scratch. The past, not Karma, keeps spitting my ass back here, reminding me that I haven’t earned the right to rest yet.

  Two days later, en route to the City, I get a call from one of Maisie’s nurses. Right after I left, she fell, and was now on her way to the hospital.

  I thought I was prepared for this, but I’m not, not one fucking bit.

  Three hours later after trying to calm her down, calling Bass to get his ass here because she’s a fucking mess. I’m watching her sleep, holding her hand; she has a broken fucking hip, a mild concussion, and her brain tumor has grown.

  One day after Bass returns, we’ve got a plan. A plan that includes Maisie, Bass, and I meeting Angela in Paris for a “family vacation”, where we will also work to replace the fucking designer who bailed on us, because she was offered a better opportunity by Ines, the woman who brought Bass into the industry, made him a model.

  An hour before we leave, Bass tells me we’re picking up the new designer, a surprise for Angela, who by the conversations I’ve overheard has no clue he found someone, the new designer he “discovered”. A freshman at the London College of Design, Natasha, Angela’s daughter… my Grace doppelganger.

  No way in hell would I face that shit, if not for Maisie.

  Part III

  Oliver (Paris)

  Chapter Fifteen

  Oliver

  “You okay, man?” Bass’s hand clamps my knee as we take off.

  “I hate flying.”

  “You’ve flown across this same ocean more than a dozen times, brother,” he winks.

  Clearly, Angela and Bass have made up. Fucker’s full of confidence… again. Any other time, I’d be happy for him.

  But not now.

  Not when I have to face something close to the past. Something that’s now haunted me again, in black and white. Until this girl, if it’s her, and I hope it’s not, has haunted my dreams, in color.

  “We’re going to Paris, Oliver,” Maisie smiles and closes her eyes.

  “The city of love,” Bass says, taking her hand and kissing it.

  Her eyes still closed, she giggles silently before saying, “And the city of lights.”

  I’ve never heard it called that and for some reason, it rubs me the wrong way.

  I’d rather take the fucking dark.

  I watch from the small jet window as a girl, Natasha, steps out of a car. Blonde hair blowing wildly in the wind, getting damp from the drizzle. Over her shoulder, a black leather backpack, under her arm a portfolio, and covering her eyes, a pair of large black sunglasses too big for her petite face, and on her lips, a ghost of a smile. Her elfin frame is covered in a black trench coat and tied at the waist. She’s wearing knee high black boots.

  My heart stops and whispers, “Grace.”

  Then it pounds painfully. Jackhammering an unsteady beat inside my chest.

  Bass meets Natasha on the runway, he hugs her, and when they begin walking toward the plane, her pale cheeks turn pink, her blonde hair covers her face as she looks down, but I can see a shy smile.

  She likes him. I don’t know why this gives me a slight pang of relief, but it does.

  When they walk onto the plane, I look down and fuck with my phone, trying to avoid eye contact.

  “Ollie,” Bass whispers because Maisie is asleep. “This is Angela’s daughter, Natasha.”

  I look up and give a nod, but I don’t dare fucking look at her, fearing I won’t look away and I’ll freak her the fuck out.

  “Ollie,” Bass repeats my name.

  Fuck.

  I toss my phone aside and start to stand.

  “You don’t have to get up.”

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me? Her voice even sounds like Grace’s. Her words are soft and sweet, like a song.

  Jesus Christ, I scold myself, get your shit together.

  I shove my hand in my pockets and shrug, “You can sit there. I’m sure Maisie will be happy to meet you.”

  Her nose scrunches slightly. “But you, not so much, huh?”

  Well fuck, I wasn’t expecting sarcasm.

  I look up at her as she pushes her sunglasses up and she has green eyes.

  Of course, she does, jackass, I curse at myself, you saw fucking pictures.

  But they weren’t the palest shade of green you’d ever seen. And now I’m arguing with myself.

  What. In. The. Fuck?

  “I’m indifferent.”

  Nice, Oliver. Real fucking nice.

  “Oliver, man,” Bass chuckles nervously and runs his hand through his hair.

  “I apologize,” I take a step forward. “Haven’t slept much. Wasn’t trying to be–”

  My foot is caught on something and I fall forward, unable to free it, I realize I’m gonna crush this girl.

  I grab her and twist my body so I end up on my back, and she’s… right fucking on top of me.

  She gasps and her goddamn breath is hot cinnamon as the words “Ohmygod” rush out.

  I immediately let go and she jumps up.

  Maisie, who is now awake, and Bass both laugh. Natasha bites her top lip and bows her head. Her hair covers her face as she giggles and holds out her hand. “Let me help you.”

  Help me? I think as I sit up. Help. Fucking. Me?

  “I’m capable,” I nearly snap as I lean forward and unhook my foot from the dangling seat belt.

  “Oliver,” Maisie scolds.

  “Maisie,” I stand and nod to… her. “I apologize.”

  “For falling for me?” she asks.

  “What?” comes out real fucking harsh.

  “I mean… you know…I... I… I–” She pauses, clears her throat, and whispers, “Never mind.”

  “I’m gonna head to the back.” And I do, in a fucking hurry.

  I’m as far back as I can get without actually jumping out, and I’m seriously considering it. I hear Bass offer her a drink, she declines. Maisie asks her a million questions and she answers sweetly, softly and now much more slowly, like she’s concentrating on what to say.

  I fucking did that, I made this girl, who got on a plane full of strangers to surprise her mother, who may be pissed, I sure would be, a girl who was confident, fucking stutter, because I’m seeing ghosts.

  After the plane takes off, I close my eyes, lean against the wall, and pretend to be asleep. But I can’t get there. Thankfully it’s a short flight.

  The ride to the mansion isn’t any less uncomfortable. When we arrive, Bass asks me to hang back with Maisie, who’s in her wheelchair, and Natasha to take a spin around the bl
ock, so he can prepare Angela. I lose my shit once again.

  “You better make it quick. I’m not a damn babysitter.” I look toward Maisie and Natasha.

  Bass looks truly concerned. “You okay?”

  “I’m fucking fine, man. Jesus, go.” I shove my hands in my pockets and don’t dare look up because I feel aspen green eyes glaring at me. I kick at the stones on the ground and follow them from a distance.

  I’m not sure what they’re talking about, but she’s pushing Maisie’s frail body in a wheel chair and I should be the one doing it.

  I hurry to catch up. Once beside her, I point to the chair. “Let me.”

  Maisie looks up and smiles, “There you are.”

  “I was just a few feet back,” I tell her, thinking she’s confused.

  “You sure about that?” She smirks.

  She’s not confused, she knows I’m not myself.

  I lean down and whisper, “I’ll do better.”

  She pats my hand. “I know you will.”

  I blow out a slow, deep breath as I stand straight and look over at Natasha who’s picking a flower off one of the trees and smelling it. “Hey.”

  She looks over her shoulder at me and replies, “Hey.’

  “I apologize for… before. I’m an ass when I’m tired.” Or when I see ghosts.

  “Apology accepted,” she says, pushing herself up on her toes, reaching for the largest bloom. I reach over her and snap it off, then try to hand it to her.

  She shakes her head no and points to Maisie. I nod and bend to hand it to her.

  “Thank you, Oliver.” Maisie holds the flower under her nose and inhales the aroma.

  “It wasn’t–” I stop when I feel Natasha’s hand cover mine and I look at her. She holds her finger to her lips, telling me to shhh, leans over and then whispers, “Every girl deserves to feel special.”

  I need space, so much fucking space from this moment that’s causing consumption of -every fucking thing. Fucking past.