Coup: A BWWM Romance (The French Connection Book 2)

by Brooklyn Knight

  “Yes, I heard all about it,” she interrupted, folding her arms across her chest. “I heard how you went up there acting like a thug in a public housing district.”

  My neck jerked back. “Can you honestly blame me for attacking him?” I inquired. “He’s trying to take Hamilton Associates right from under my nose, and on top of that, he’s trying to steal you away from me. But I forgot,” I scoffed and took a step away from her. “You’re on his side, aren’t you?”

  The anger that had landed me at LIV in the first place started to resurface. I raked my fingers through my tangled, sweaty hair. “You know what? Maybe Sawyer is right,” I charged her.

  She gasped.

  “Maybe we’re not supposed to be together. Maybe the only way I’ll ever be able to effectively understand and love a black woman is if she has long European hair.” My mouth bunched. “Maybe I don’t get this,” I flapped my hand in her direction.

  Her chin trembled and her eyes, still hard, fell away from mine.

  My mouth was set tight. It took a sturdy effort to speak again. “I don’t get you, but neither do you get me,” I concluded, “because if you did, you would know that there is no way on this side of heaven that I would ever want a woman other than you. You would know that no hairstyle could keep me from appreciating your beauty. You would know all of those things. But I guess you don’t. I may have some learning to do, but sweetheart, so do you.”

  Before she could say anything, a few angry commuters stormed up to me, with Stefan tagging alongside them, each shouting their displeasure at the scene which had been caused. A woman pulled out a cell phone to call the police. I pulled my checkbook out of my jacket pocket and began writing. The anger subsided and the only thing to be heard was the whoosh of passing vehicles.

  “No need to call anyone,” I suggested, scribbling, pressing my Montblanc pen hard against the checkbook. “This should cover your expenses and groceries for the next three months.” I passed out three checks in the amount of one thousand dollars each, then I walked away, forcing myself not to look back.

  Twenty-Six

  Dylan

  ‘Answers’

  I stood in my office, the lights set to dim, staring at the twinkling lights in the neighboring sky-rise. Days had gone by – six to be precise – and I hadn’t seen or heard from Laila. My mind was heavy. My heart was burdened. By now, deep lines, carved around the edges of my mouth, were a permanent part of my features. I could barely see through the slits that had become my eyes. So many things had happened, and the situation was so complicated. Other than ensure that she was safe, I had no desire to know her location. I didn’t want to chase her. The cat and mouse thing was old. We needed a break from one another.

  I needed a break from her.

  My heart crushed at the admission and I raked my hands through my hair.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. I didn’t turn around yet summoned the person. “Come in.”

  The door slid across the carpet. “You’re still here?”

  I turned around see Max who peeking through a crack in the door. I huffed and walked away from the window, heading for my desk. “I’m about to leave,” I informed him tidying papers and files on my desk. “I’m going to take that sabbatical,” I added. “At this point it doesn’t make sense to fight anything or anyone.”

  Max advanced into the room, yet his gait was cautious. “This entire situation has spiraled out of control,” he muttered running a shaky hand over his face. “I knew the men were considering another investor, but I had no idea it was Michael Sawyer. I know the two of you don’t set.”

  “We set,” I corrected him. “We set like oil and water.” I rolled my eyes as the gravity of the situation descended upon me yet again. “But you’re right. The Board is right.”

  “Dylan – ”

  “I need some time to recalibrate. I was distracted with Laila and my personal life and I let some things fall through the cracks.” I paused, reflecting on my words. “I took the wrong risks. But now that it’s over – ”

  “What do you mean it’s over?”

  “It’s over!” I shouted.

  Max startled and backed up a couple of feet.

  “Laila and I have broken up. My relationship, the one everyone was skeptical about, has come to a screeching halt.” I grunted. “Maybe the Board will reconsider firing me now that they know.”

  Max shook his head and his mouth bunched. “Don’t do this again,” Max urged in a whisper.

  “Again?”

  “Don’t jump ship all because the going is getting tough,” he clarified. “You did it with Emily and now you’re doing the same thing with Laila.”

  I stomped over to where Max was standing and glared in his face. Steam from my nose made the hairs on his forehead waft. “I’m the captain of the ship,” I reminded him. “The captain always goes down with the vessel. I’m not the one who jumped. She is.” I tried to steady my breathing. I’d had enough drama to last me a lifetime. I was unwilling to allow Max to walk into my office and dump any more stress on me. My shoulders were broad, but there was only so much I could take.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and stalked away from Max, trying to settle myself. “My relationship is over, and the direction of my company is hanging in the balance,” I reminded him. “There’s a lot for me to think about, and I didn’t understand you at first, but you were right. I’m looking forward to some time off. When I come back, I’ll be better. I’ll...” my voice and thoughts trailed.

  I scratched my prickly cheek and grabbed my briefcase, starting for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the airport.” I paused. “To France.”

  Max’s brow furrowed. “What’s in France?”

  “Answers,” I replied.

  Max sighed, and I could tell he was just as stressed as I was about the proceedings. Unfortunately, there was very little he or I could do about it.

  “I want to tell you not to worry,” he started to say before I departed.

  “Don’t bother,” I advised abruptly.

  Twenty-Seven

  Dylan

  ‘Void’

  The seven-hour plane ride to Paris was quiet. There were no secretaries, there were no partners, and there was no Laila. I reminisced, unable to stop myself. The last time I had been on my private jet heading to Paris, Laila had been sitting in this very seat. I could see everything as if it were de ja vu: the way she’d been wearing her hair and the sleek, her designer jeans hugging her sensuous curves; even the way her eyes sparkled when I’d told her to expect me in her hotel room at 2 AM so that I could have my unrelenting fill of her.

  My groin stiffened at the very thought and I pressed on my tight anatomy, willing it to cool off. I had underestimated the nostalgic value of this trip, and when I arrived at the Hotel Le Burgundy late that evening – the same hotel we’d stayed at on that memorable business trip only four months ago – emotion rocked me. My chest hitched.

  I dragged my luggage across the threshold of the Royale Suite, which was much too big for a solo traveler, and trudged through one of the two living room areas and up a flight of stairs to the second floor. I reached the bedroom, which had been outfitted with a gray and crème décor and sat on the edge of the bed.

  My thoughts went to Laila and the fact I hadn’t shared a bed with her for about a week. I had become accustomed to her sleek body nestled against mine at night. By now, it had been a week or more since I’d been inside of her, and my body ached with a painful need. My head fell into my hands, and then I fell into the bed.

  I didn’t know Laila and she didn’t know me.

  That was what I had said in the height of emotion, but it was true. And it was that very thing that had given Michael Sawyer the ability to insert himself into my relationship with the woman I loved more than anything.

  But right now, I hated her. I hated her insecurity.

  I hated her doggedness, and I hated that when I needed he
r most, she hadn’t been there.

  I refused to chase Laila Renaud anymore. It seemed as if that was all I’d been doing from the moment I’d met her: trying to prove myself to her.

  If she didn’t know the extent of my feelings for her, perhaps she never would. That was something I had to accept.

  But god, it hurt like hell.

  To compound matters, I didn’t like that Michael had something over me. His argument was that he knew what Laila needed and I didn’t, and now, I wondered if he was right. Her hairstyle had caught me off guard and that angered me. Maybe Laila and I would never be together again, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t fill the gaping void of knowledge that existed in my experience.

  I got out of the bed and walked over to my messenger bag. I pulled out a piece of paper that I’d kept from our trip a few months ago to Roussillon: the address to her family’s residence. I needed to understand and there was only one way to do it.

  Twenty-Eight

  Laila

  ‘No Uncertainty’

  The morning after the incident, I awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. Everything was different, mainly because Sasha didn’t live in a mansion with a butler.

  And she didn’t have a king-sized bed.

  And she didn’t have a certain tawny-eyed CEO who would awaken me with tender kisses, strong arms, and a throbbing manhood.

  I laid on the pull-out couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to my 4 AM alarm buzzing in my ears. I should be getting up, I thought. I should be doing my morning ritual of meditating and preparing myself for the inevitably long day ahead.

  I frowned.

  Getting ready for work would take a quarter of the time, now that I didn’t need to flat-press my hair, and the only meditating I’d done was on last night’s drama.

  I slapped the alarm clock four times before the irritating noise finally ceased and rolled onto my side, cradling my new, natural head in my hands.

  The vision of Dylan wrapped in the arms of his ex was burned into my memory, and I winced in pain all over again. Of all the excuses he could come up with, he’d chosen the lamest.

  She kissed him...

  I scoffed.

  Did Dylan really think I was that stupid? I had seen the entire thing with my own eyes: the way his arm was draped around her, like he was hanging onto her for dear life. I’d seen them kissing, and it certainly appeared to be a two-way street, as kissing often was. I would never forgive him, I seethed. There was no way I would let him back into my life.

  Even if a nagging part of me wanted to believe something else.

  Even if Michael Sawyer’s behavior was dubious.

  I sighed and blindly reached for my phone, which I’d put next to the pillow... just in case.

  The face illuminated, almost blinding me in the darkness. There were several email notifications and messages from my Flipboard and Mint apps. I reviewed my financials and noticed the increase in income. I should have been elated, but it only reminded me of Dylan. He’d been the one to advise my investment banker. He’d been the one to tell me what stocks to buy. I was thriving because of him, yet the reality of his betrayal – both emotionally and otherwise – was all I could think about.

  I tossed the phone and dragged myself off the pull-out. I headed towards the door in search of Sasha’s bathroom, but my buzzing cell phone forced me to spin around and dash for the bed. I took it into my hands, angry that I wanted it to be Dylan, but too anxious to dwell on it.

  My racing heart slowed to a steady pace when a saw a text message from him.

  Dylan: Are you safe?

  I stared at the message for longer than was necessary before I made the conscious decision not to answer. Instead, I clicked the phone off and left the room.

  Day thirteen.

  Just shy of two weeks, and I was still playing this sadistic game; sleeping on a mattress that might as well have been a bed of rocks and trying to ignore the crippling emotions that came with missing Dylan. Not only that, I was fielding Michael’s increasingly aggressive advances. It was stressful and without Dylan there to talk to and give me guidance, and it was starting to take a toll on me emotionally.

  A door creaked open and a thin, sliver of light cut into the darkness of the living room.

  “Laila...” Sasha peeked into the room, the way she’d been doing every morning since I’d taken up residence in her apartment.

  I sealed my eyes closed.

  I didn’t want to talk to anyone. All I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cry myself back to sleep, the way I’d been doing every night.

  The door opened further, and Sasha’s padded footsteps drew closer to the edge of the bed. Her presence hovered over me and finally, I realized it would be useless to pretend I was asleep. Sasha wasn’t going anywhere.

  I flipped onto my back and crossed my arms over my chest. “Sasha, it’s not even four o’clock in the morning. Why on earth are you up?”

  “For one, because I work for Michael Sawyer, and if I’m even a minute late he’ll be on my ass,” she answered. Then she paused. “And secondly, I’m worried about you. Like, really worried. You’ve been here for two weeks and I haven’t said much, but that’s gonna have to change, because I can’t stand to see you looking like this.”

  I turned my eyes towards her. “Like what?”

  “Bedraggled,” she answered quickly, “and tired. Straight tore up.”

  “Okay, enough with the descriptors,” I suggested. I pulled myself into a sitting position. “It can’t be that bad...”

  Sasha formed her mouth into duck-lips.

  I sighed, and Sasha eased herself onto the edge of the bed.

  “I’m sorry about what happened with Dylan,” she offered, full or remorse. “That night was a nightmare.”

  “It was more than a nightmare,” I suggested. “I was awake. But there’s no need to be sorry. You should actually be happy for me.” I inhaled. “I found out the truth about him before I ended up taking his last name. Even if it was going to be hyphenated.”

  The light from the crack in the door revealed her frown. She shifted on the bed.

  “Michael was right,” I continued. I inhaled a teary breath. “We should stay with our own kind. At first I thought he was crazy, but now I see his logic. Dylan didn’t really love me, Sasha. He thought he did, and so did I. But he didn’t.” I paused. “I was nothing more than his exotic play thing, an interracial notch on his expensive belt.”

  “I’m not one hundred per cent sold on that theory,” Sasha muttered. “You’re making it seem like a black man would never have cheated on you.”

  “I’m not saying that,” I contested, “but Dylan lied to me. He was unfaithful, and deceitful, and – ”

  “Dylan didn’t cheat on you, Laila.”

  My eyes fluttered. “Of course he did,” I countered. Heat generated in my chest. “I saw it with my own eyes!”

  “Step out of your emotions, for just one minute, and tell me exactly what you saw,” she suggested, folding her arms across her chest. “What did you see that night in LIV?”

  “I saw him kissing another woman.” My voice rose, piercing the four o’clock solitude. “He was making out with her in front of my face. He was wrapped all around her like a goddamn blanket!”

  “Do you really believe that?” she asked quietly.

  She stared at me, and my body trembled.

  “Do you really believe that Dylan Hamilton, the man who is head over heels in love with you, would be dumb enough to be caught cheating on you in a public space; a place he frequents?”

  I threw myself against the mattress, hugging myself.

  “And what about how he reacted to my hair?” I threw out there, grasping for whatever straws I could make available. “He was speechless.”

  “So was I,” she countered, “and so was everyone in the office when you came in to work that Monday.” Sasha sighed and laid next to me on the bed. We both stared up at the ceiling, neither of us saying anything a
s her counter arguments seeped into my intellect.

  “Laila, I get it,” she insisted. “You’re a phenomenal woman whose got drive and determination, and you don’t play games in business or in love. But I can’t help but think you’re being bullied into holding Dylan Hamilton to some invisible standard.”

  “Bullied?”

  “Yes,” she asserted. “Sawyer is bullying you.” She paused. Her mouth twisted. “He did the same thing to me...”

  I sat up in the bed and peered at Sasha in the blue darkness. “What are you talking about?”

  Sasha’s shoulders dropped. “A couple of years ago, I was dating this white guy. His name was Andrew. We met at a jazz bar one weekend and it was this whole instalove thing.” A smile brightened her features. “I brought him to the annual fete, like the one we just had, and when Sawyer saw him, the displeasure was written all over his face. I mean, he always looks intimidating, but this time, it went to a whole different level. When I introduced him to Drew, he went on and on about African culture and insinuated that our relationship was unnatural.” She paused. “Anyway, to make a long story short, Drew decided that our relationship was too much trouble and he broke up with me.”

  “That’s a terrible story,” I choked out.

  Sasha nodded in agreement. “And then I made the mistake of succumbing to Michael’s advances. We’ve had this secret affair going on for years, but a few weeks ago...” Her head fell, and she ended the story. She lifted her eyes to mine. “You asked about what spurred my change of heart towards you,” she whispered. “I admit that when we first met, I was... intimidated by you.”

  “Why?” I asked leaning closer. “I never meant to come off as threatening.”

  “I know,” she said quickly. “It had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me. I was insecure, and when I noticed that Michael had taken an interest in you, I was angry.” She chortled, staring into the distance. “But Michael is a selfish bastard and I don’t need to sacrifice myself or my values to be with him. Not anymore.”