De La Porte Fashion: The Complete Box Set

by Mj Fields

  “My dad gave you his gun?”

  He nods. “He trusted me. Do you think maybe you can, too?”

  “You’ll never trust me—”

  “Already do, Stella.” He sighs then smiles. “Wait for me?”

  “Well, I’m not going to walk home if you think—”

  “I don’t think he’s after you, Stella. Hell, you haven’t done a damn thing to him.”

  Except threaten to expose him, I think.

  “You look scared. Why? Was it because I grabbed your arms?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m sure Tois is one hell of a watch cat.”

  “Artois,” he corrects me with a slight grin. “His name was Stella until I realized he had balls.”

  “Whatever.” I roll my eyes.

  “No more lies. No going back. No trying to figure out something that always was. No more, Stella. I fell in love with a heart so big that I didn’t think I could do it justice, or that I deserved it. But guess what?”

  I look down and shrug.

  “She loves me regardless.”

  I smile sadly at the ground. “I’m leaving. And you have this place.”

  The elevator opens, and Mario steps out. “You really are a pain in the ass, Esposito.”

  “I’m coming.”

  He winks at me, looks between my eyes and my mouth, and shakes his head. “You’re fucking beautiful, Stella McCarty.”

  And before I can say a thing, he walks away.

  As soon as he leaves, I walk over and squat beside Artois. “I’m going to feed you, okay, kitty?”

  He purrs as I pet him, and when I stand, he walks in figure eights between my feet.

  Infinity, I think.

  Is it a sign or just a coincidence?

  I look around, opening cupboards, and realize immediately that he’s really not into keeping a lot of stuff. When I open a closet door, I find it’s a pantry. I see about twenty boxes of macaroni and cheese and a wide assortment of different flavored canned cat food. There’s a canvas bag on the floor, and I peek inside. It’s filled with boxes of Ceylon and Darjeeling tea. I decide before I feed Artois that I will feed my own curiosity, so I squat down and look to see if there’s a receipt inside the tote. There is. And the date on it was three days ago.

  It makes me feel better that Aaron wasn’t just saying he could get over what I myself still can’t—the fact that I gave in to a feeling so embedded in me, to make Elijah … happy. That I nearly ruined what I hope I can still have with Aaron.

  He told me to trust him, and I do, but I’m so afraid that I will miss signs like I did with Elijah, that there are serious issues. I also acknowledge that part of me worries this is a game for the two men I have cared so much about that they don’t even realize that they are playing it.

  Down deep, I know Aaron is nothing like him, but I hurt him, so will he hurt me in turn?

  I feed Artois and try to allow myself to trust him, which allows the stupid giddy feeling mixed with disbelief that he named his cat after a beer, the same beer my parents named me after.

  As he eats, I look inside his refrigerator. It’s filled with fresh fruits, vegetables, bottled water, and Stella Artois.

  After Artois eats, he happily walks toward the stairs, and I follow him.

  When he jumps on Aaron’s bed, I laugh at his antics as I watch him push the covers back and climb under them to hide. Then I squat down and look under Aaron’s bed. And just like he said, my father’s gun is under it, in the same lockbox he put it in when it wasn’t just the four of us.

  When Dad was starting to forget things, I asked him where it was, knowing I would have to take it away. It suddenly dawns on me that he said he gave it to someone he knew he could trust with more than just his gun, but with his world. I also remember feeling bad that Bruno would never get it, but he was too young.

  Part of me is tempted to take a bath, to relax and enjoy being surrounded by the scent of Aaron’s home. But then, a part of me is also afraid he will show up. I fight that part of me, though, because it’s the same part that didn’t have the chesticles to walk out of his place when I knew deep down that something was off.

  I see a pile of clothes in a hamper in the corner and walk over to them, grabbing a tee-shirt off the top. And like the freak I am, I pick it up and smell it.

  God, he smells so good. So gentle, so strong, so much like …

  I pause and sniff deeply again then nearly laugh. He smells exactly like that candle I have become a bit obsessed with. I make a mental note to stock up on them, fill a suitcase with them, and take them with me to London.

  Because I’m nosy, I decide to go pillage through his bathroom to see what soap he uses, what shampoo, deodorant, hell, anything and everything so I can figure out what combination makes up my favorite smell ever.

  Every single product in his bathroom is generically labeled —shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and body lotion—and none smell like him, not even his deodorant. So, then I walk into the closet and flip on the light. I sniff his clothes that all smell faintly of him, but no overpowering scent or floral detergent smell.

  When I pull out a set of linens to smell, something big and black falls out from under it.

  “Shit.”

  I bend down to pick it up so that I can put it back where it came from and gasp. Then tears fill my eyes as I pick it up, and yes, snuggle it.

  Any doubt I had about not being enough for him, about him not being able to forgive me, about our friendship being ruined by a failed attempt at love vanishes.

  Aaron Esposito loves me, and I love Aaron Esposito.

  Lying under the weighted covers, snuggled up with Artois, I look at my phone’s clock. It’s been an hour.

  The smell of him that surrounds me is calming and intoxicating. I feel myself growing tired, but I don’t want to fall asleep.

  I know Aaron said he would have his attorney present, but what if he didn’t? What if he got angry and flipped out again? What if he ended up staying in jail and now I won’t get the chance to say goodbye?

  I google the nearest police station and decide to call them. After a million prompts, I get a directory of names, but unfortunately, the only one I know is the officer by the name of Mario, and there are three. And when I call again, hoping to hear a name I recognize from my father’s stories, I don’t. I decide to call Autumn.

  After explaining to her what happened, she gives me the number to her “connection,” so I call Sergeant Reardan’s personal cell phone number.

  When he answers, I tell him who I am, but before I can ask about Aaron, he laughs.

  “Hey, everyone, I’m talking to the Staten Island Starlet.”

  After they all laugh and make jokes about my antics, he asks what he can do for me, and I tell him I’m looking for Aaron.

  “Yeah, his lawyer is filling out some paperwork, and then he’ll bring him home.”

  I thank him then lie down and wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Aaron

  When I walk into my place, I see her shoes next to the door and am relieved that she hasn’t left. The past week has been a kind of hell I have never experienced, and I have experienced a lot. It doesn’t matter that her little flats are here, though. Not really. I need to see her.

  I toe off my sneakers then hurry toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. I see a light coming from the end of the hall. Then, once I reach my room, I see her hair splayed across the pillow, the blanket covering her face.

  Fear quells the urge to slide under the blankets to get closer to her because there is a possibility she may wake and leave. Hope, however, reduces the fear, allowing me to quietly walk over, just to be closer.

  I have always wanted to be closer to her. Nothing and no one in my life has ever changed that.

  Her back is to me, but she suddenly tips her head back, the blanket falling aside. Her eyes still closed, her lips curl up, and she inhales. “You’re a free man.” She smirks and starts to sit up.

&nb
sp; “Don’t move.”

  Her eyes pop open, and worry crosses her face.

  “I’ve done hard time, Stella, and all that has gotten me through it was thinking of coming home and seeing a beautiful woman here.”

  She rolls over. “Just any woman?”

  “Of course not.” I step over and pull the blanket aside. “I won’t even try to cop a feel; just want to lay with you.”

  She smiles and rolls over, her back to me. “Well then, I guess after all those horrible hours of being behind bars, I should allow it.”

  “You’re a gracious woman.”

  She laughs. The sound is beautiful.

  I lie on my side and put my lips against the back of her head. When she moves away, I want to kick myself in the ass for not going in a little easier.

  She rolls onto her side and faces me, catching my confusion at her facing me. “I think talking works best face to face, and I have a lot I want to say.”

  “I’m probably going to get my man card revoked when I admit this, but I love listening to you talk, babble, go on and on, sometimes overthinking everything out loud, while other times just being so excited about something you find fascinating. I would have loved to have gone shopping with you just so I could see how exactly you decided on that candle that made you buy dozens exactly the same. You know, all that stuff we’re supposed to be repelled by. So, talk away, Stella McCarty.”

  “I wanna know all about jail.”

  I laugh.

  “No, seriously. Did they fingerprint you? Did you have to get your picture taken? Were you put in a cell with a guy named Herb that was talking to his imaginary friends? Did you—”

  “How am I supposed to answer a question when you just keep asking more?” I joke.

  She shrugs. “You’re supposed to pay attention.”

  “Reason number seven billion, eight hundred and ninety-six million, seven hundred and eighty-five thousand, five hundred and sixty-seven why I love Stella McCarty.”

  When she looks at me, she has an expression I’m not yet fully acquainted with.

  “Too much?”

  She shakes her head in answer as she looks away and bites her bottom lip, the corners of her lips curling up.

  “Then, what is it?”

  She blows out a breath and rolls onto her back as she pushes the blanket down a little. She’s in one of my tee-shirts. I’m trying to be real here, trying to show her, tell her that I care, and she’s wearing one of my tee-shirts? And now I’m thinking about fucking her.

  “I can’t lose you as a friend, like ever.”

  The word friend stalls the growing bulge.

  “You need me to get a needle so we can make a blood oath that we’ll always be friends?”

  She grins then turns to look at me.

  “Again?”

  She palms her face as she laughs. “How do you remember everything?”

  “Because it meant something to me. You mean something to me. You always will, Lala.”

  Her brows furrow. “He called me that.”

  The way she says he isn’t with longing or sadness; it’s with contempt. And yes, I enjoy it.

  “It was at my suggestion because he couldn’t say his S’s, so I told him that you liked lala. You’re not the only one who felt sorry for the moody, little prick.”

  She rolls her eyes. “So, you’ve always tried to give me away.”

  “I fucked up.” I run my hand through my hair.

  “I was joking. Guess it’s too soon for that, huh?” She reaches over, takes my hand, and squeezes it. “Sorry.”

  When she starts to let go, I hold it tighter. “No, but I have huge regrets and bigger fears.”

  “Same.” She squeezes my hand again.

  “Biggest fear?” I ask.

  “You already know.”

  “We’ll always be friends.” I give her a reassuring hand squeeze. “Next?”

  She sighs. “Being lied to by someone you fall for.”

  “I’m not a liar. Never have been. Avoider? Yep. Sneaky bastard? More than I care to admit. But liar? Never.”

  “You told him I liked the name Lala.”

  “I told him you liked lala.”

  She laughs. “I never even knew what lala was. Actually”—she rolls to her side, facing me again—“what exactly is a lala?”

  “God, you’re fucking beautiful.”

  She looks at me curiously.

  “Play along with me?” I ask as I slide off the bed.

  “What are we playing exactly?”

  I sigh and decide not answering the question is my best option. “I’m gonna ask you to move over here.”

  She scrunches up her nose as she moves.

  “Sit up, back facing me.”

  She does as I ask.

  “Now lie back, so your head’s falling off the bed.”

  Eyes widened, she looks over her shoulder at me.

  “Trust me.”

  She lies back, black waves cascading down the side of the bed. She’s stunning, and I’m caught thinking other thoughts, not exactly what I am supposed to be thinking.

  She laughs. “The blood is rushing to my head.”

  I choose not to tell her that blood is rushing to mine as well, but we’re talking about two completely different body parts.

  “Close your eyes and pretend you’re in the thinking chair,” I call out from over my shoulder as I quickly move to grab a surprise that will hopefully help drive home the point that nothing would ever stop a friendship that was always meant to be from continuing.

  Standing in my closet, I move the extra sheets and find that the object I’m looking for is gone.

  It hits me that he—her ex, my ex, our ex—had access to this place. No one else has been here. But then I remember I checked to see if it was here after I had the locks changed and changed the code.

  “You motherfucker,” I snap.

  “Everything okay?” she yells.

  “Yeah,” I lie.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Nope.” Because that would make you an accessory to the murder I am now considering committing.

  She laughs then sings out, “I’m waiting.”

  “Give me two minutes,” I call out from over my shoulder. “Pretend you’re still in the thinking chair,” I remind her.

  I search high and low, and in a hurry. It’s not fucking here. Then I look around, trying to find something else to give her that’s meaningful and has a damn thing to do with lala.

  I see the cardboard poster holders and shake my head. “Well, fuck it.”

  I grab the one with the blue X then hurry into the room.

  “Slight change of plans.” I squat down a few feet back from her and rest my chin on the fucking perv picture.

  “Yeah?”

  I nod and run my hand over my chin. “You’ve always been special, different, unique—all those bullshit lines men say to girls to get in their panties. But with you, it’s true for me. You took the simplest joys out of everything you did, everything we all did, and you didn’t worry if it was out of the norm. Like drawing on me.”

  She points at herself. “Rule breaker.”

  “I think you just wanted to touch me.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe subconsciously.”

  “When you used to get sent to the thinking chair, you never got upset. You were just so chill back then that you’d skip your happy, little ass over and lay like this. Then you’d close your eyes.”

  She closes her eyes. “Like this?”

  “Just like that,” I sigh out. “Then you’d stick out your little tongue and tap it against your teeth and sing, or chant, or something like that, but it was always lalalalalalala.”

  She opens her eyes and smiles.

  “So, you became Lala.”

  She scrunches up her nose. “Really?”

  I nod. “Really.” Then I tell her, “Not to alarm you, but I think someone stole something that’s of great value to me.”

&n
bsp; She sits up and turns around. “What?”

  “Doesn’t matter. It would ruin the surprise. But I kind of pictured giving it to you and thought that this was as good a time as any. So, you’re gonna have to excuse the fact that this is a fuck of a lot less impressive but no less from a place that is special to me, to us.” I pull out the poster-sized drawing, unroll it, and then lay it on the bed. “You inspired me to start drawing again.”

  She laughs as she looks it over. “I inspired this?”

  It’s a picture of stick figure Stella in the big blue chair, crazy hair falling to the ground below, her tongue tapping against her teeth.

  “I call it Lala.”

  She grins. “Well, um … it’s …” She stops talking and starts laughing. “When did stick figures start having boobs?”

  I smirk. “About a week ago.”

  “And when did they start wearing plaid school-girl skirts and yellow knee socks?”

  “What are you, an art critic?” My smirk grows.

  She giggles. “No, I’m simply in, um, awe?”

  “Well, that’s what I was going for, so it works.” I lean down and kiss the top of her head. She tilts her head, giving me her lips.

  The way she’s looking at me, I know where this is going. And when it starts, it’s going to end up going on all night.

  I kiss her nose instead. “I need to make a call to our friend Mario about a stolen item. But I would love nothing more than to continue this when I’m done.”

  “Stolen item?”

  “Not something for you to concern yourself with.”

  “Um, I think I need you to be honest right now.”

  I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to freak her out either. Mostly, I don’t want to ruin seeing her reaction to the bag that she was given by de la Porte. Although the bag—de la Porte’s “it” bag—was just a material possession, it inspired a girl who inspired me. It gave her a goal, inspired a dream, a dream to work at a place where she could help create beauty. And that dream was what got her through the hardest year of her life and pushed her to continue looking forward, to keep reaching.

  “Can you do me a favor and”—she taps her finger to her bottom lip—“go grab me a beer?”