Amour Battu: Timeless Love: A series of Standalone novels Book 2

by Mj Fields

  Bass told me Natasha didn’t know about Jean and Angela’s affair. Usually, I’m a believer in telling the truth. Lies ruin lives, but in this instance, I don’t see what harm withholding the information about Angela and Jean’s affair would do.

  Bass begins to tell Natasha about Jean. Well, everything except his relationship with her

  mother. And I feel like a grade A fucking creeper, so I walk away and leave them to it.

  I strip down without even bothering to turn on the light, there’s enough moonlight shining through the window to see the bed.

  My muscles ache from my body being full of tension, and I hope to hell my mind shuts down as fast as I know my body will.

  I wake to my whispered name, “Oliver?”

  I sit up, quickly wiping my hand over my sweat drenched head and jump out of bed, looking beside it, worried I’ve put my hands on her.

  “Where the fuck are you?” I ask searching.

  I look left when I see light coming into the room from the hallway.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I hiss when I realize where I am, and who the voice belongs to.

  Her.

  “Sorry, I… I… I…” She clamps her jaw shut as I walk toward the door.

  “You need something? Maisie okay?”

  She nods her head and clears her throat. “I heard you yelling.”

  “Fuck,” I sigh.

  “It’s okay. Maisie and Bass told me you’re a soldier, and that sometimes, you know, you,

  Um–”

  “Don’t sleep.”

  She nods and walks by me into the room. “I can’t sleep either. This is all a lot, so maybe you and I could–”

  She flips on the light by the bed and I shield my eyes.

  “Oh, um… I... I… I–” And I hear her teeth snap together.

  I blink and allow my eyes to adjust to the intrusion, hoping my brain and thoughts adjust along with it.

  When I see the way she’s looking at me, I should like it, but I don’t. She looks afraid.

  “Not a fan of tattoos?”

  She looks down at the floor and shakes her head. “It’s an art form. I love art. But… pants.”

  I look down and am grateful I’m not sporting morning wood. But then again, it’s not morning, and it’s not like I’m having dreams of fucking anyway.

  “I shouldn’t have come in. Sorry, I just thought you maybe needed a friend, and I–” She shrugs and starts to walk by me.

  Without thinking, I grab her elbow. “Stay.”

  Her body shivers at the connection, causing mine to as well.

  16

  Oliver

  I let go immediately and scan the room. I see my bag is already in the corner and quickly walk over to it. I open it and pull out a pair of gray running pants and step into them.

  She clears her throat and then asks, “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” I pull out a black hoodie and pull it over my head, turn around and look at her, “Better?”

  She shrugs and then bites the corner of her top lip.

  Fuck, what does she want?

  “I didn’t mean to make this awkward, but somehow, it always happens with me,” she plays it off as a joke at her own expense.

  I don’t like it, not one bit, but I get it. So, I play along, using my newly acquired “people skills.”

  “Not sure what’s keeping you up, and I’m not good at this shit, but if you need a sympathetic ear, I can fake it.”

  She smiles, she smiles so fucking big and bright, and laughs as she almost skips over to the chair next to the bed and sits. “I knew there was something about you that was going to make this easier.”

  “A familiarity?”

  She shrugs. “Yes, of the awkward variety.”

  I’m not sure I like that either.

  “You tackled me.” Her aspen green eyes sparkle.

  “Which should have scared the hell out of you, not make you feel comfortable enough to walk in a room with a Vet yelling in his sleep.” I shake my head as I push up my sleeves and sit on the edge of the bed.

  “You made sure you didn’t flatten me. One good turn deserves another.”

  She tucks her feet underneath her and looks at me, waiting for me to say something. I can’t think of a fucking thing to say. She’s goddamn Grace, but… different.

  “So, Maisie said you read Sense and Sensibility.”

  I nod. “She wanted us to be well read.”

  “How old were you when you went to live with her?”

  I see where we’re going with this; she’s trying to find out about Bass. I wish she’d just fucking ask.

  “To be honest,” she shrugs and looks down, “I can’t sleep because I have a million questions. I mean, I’ve only gotten to know the man my mother’s in love with for a few days on the phone before now. I trust my Mom’s choices. She’s smart and wouldn’t fall for someone who wasn’t. I’m hoping to get to know Bass without an awkward inquisition.”

  Okay, there’s the truth.

  “We were 17.”

  “So, you both visited her home and–”

  I stand and walk to the window.

  “I’m sorry, I just assumed.” I hear her get up and I turn around.

  “Don’t go.” She looks at me. “I just never talk about this shit.”

  She walks up to me, head up, direct eye contact, like a little warrior, but it’s all sorts of false confidence. I’ve seen it a million times in the field, in battle, and every fucking time it ends badly.

  I look at her. “You come to me and ask questions you’re afraid to ask him or your mother, with all sorts of bullshit confidence, why?”

  She starts to turn around and I risk the reaction from touching her the first time and do it again.

  Tremors again.

  She looks back at me. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “No,” I turn her toward me. “You want a history lesson–”

  She pulls her elbow from my grip. “You know it wouldn’t hurt you either. Talking about it may lessen the pain. It may also help make you less… abrasive over time, too.”

  “You ever hear the term, you show me yours, I’ll show mine?”

  It takes her no time to figure out I’m not talking body parts. She’s fucking quick.

  She takes my hand and bends back four fingers, then takes the one and traces her fucking lip.

  Hot and soft. Lord help me.

  “The scar was from a birth defect. It’ll always be there, even if you can’t see it, it’ll always be there.” She drops my hand. “You have marks on your chest and on your back. I’ve only seen marks like those in history books. I know it’s not the same. I can tell yours come from a place of pain.” She waits for me to respond. I don’t. “You covering them with ink and art means they’re ever present, just like this.” She points to her lip. “I thought maybe…”

  “You wanna ask me about Bass, you ask me about Bass. The other stuff will keep you awake at night, wishing you could crawl in bed with your mommy.”

  Her face turns red and then she does an about-face and walks to the door.

  “You got nothing else?” I call behind her.

  She looks back and glares at me. “I have a million more questions than I came in here with, none have a thing to do with Bass.”

  Then she walks out.

  I walk into the living room/Maisie’s room with two cups of coffee in my hand. When I walk around the partition, she’s already up and sitting in a cushioned rocker.

  “It’s five in the morning, Maisie.” I bend down and kiss the top of her head before handing her the cup of coffee.

  “I knew you’d be coming with coffee.” She squeezes my hand firmer today than she has in the last week.

  “Two sugars, French vanilla creamer.”

  “Perfect,” she says, holding it under her nose and inhaling the scent.

  I take a sip and sit on the edge of her hospital bed. We both look out the wall of windows.

  “It’s not our
beach, Ollie, but that river sure is flowing.”

  “Say the word and we can head back to the Hamptons.”

  She chuckles and takes a sip.

  “I’m serious. This place is–”

  “Beautiful, and Bass needs to make it his home. Which means we’re here until it is.” She quirks an eyebrow. “No funny ideas of heading back to that desert either.”

  “I’m done, Maisie. I’m here.”

  “But you’re itching.”

  I look at her, trying to figure out what the hell she’s seeing.

  “Not all wars are won in the field, son.” She pats her chest. “Some of the hardest ones are closer to home.”

  “I’m good, Maisie, I swear.”

  “I know you are, just wanna see you believe you deserve all that good.”

  We sit silently for a few minutes, watching the river and drinking coffee.

  “That girl is precious.”

  “What girl?” I ask knowing damn well who she’s talking about.

  “That little Natasha. She’s precious. This world’s gonna eat her up, that one.”

  “This world?” I ask.

  “She’s gonna be the face of de la Porte.” She finishes her coffee and sets it on the nightstand. “You make sure that doesn’t happen, will you?”

  “Maisie, she has a mother and–”

  “She’s gonna need a soldier with the heart of a warrior.”

  Warrior, exactly the word I’d use to describe who I sense she wants me to be. “I think

  she’ll be fine.”

  “You make sure of it, will you?”

  I glance over my cup at her.

  “Dying woman’s wish.”

  “Don’t say shit like that,” I scold her.

  “Speaking the truth. Bastien is gonna be keeping her mother busy. He’s not only in love, but he’s going to be proving he’s a man, not a boy. Angela might get wrapped up in that and not see her daughter’s struggles. You watch for them and you guide her.”

  Thankfully, Maisie falls asleep soon after her request. A request I didn’t agree to, but didn’t have the heart to tell Maisie fuck no, either.

  I’m out the door on my way to de la Porte’s Paris fashion house before anyone else gets up. I have no desire to face off with the little warrior wannabe any time soon. Actually, never would be too fucking soon.

  Once outside, I hit my phone’s map app. I hit current location and it pops up, Le Septieme, at the Quarter des Invalides of Paris. I type in my destination, The Avenue des Champs-Élysées. It’s only 1.2 kilometers, a seventeen-minute walk.

  “Won’t even break a fucking sweat,” I grumble as I turn the corner onto Boulevard de la Tour-Maubourg.

  When I look up, I see blonde hair coming straight for me and she doesn’t see shit, because she’s looking at her damn phone and has headphones in. If I step right or left, she’s going to be right in the road.

  I brace myself for impact and take a step back when she collides into me to lessen it.

  She runs right into me, as I knew she would, and basically bounces off me. I reach out and grab her so she doesn’t hit the brick pavers.

  “Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry,” she yells as I release her biceps. “Oh it’s… you.”

  I tap my ear, reminding her she has earbuds in. She pops them out and sighs. “Sorry.”

  When she starts to walk around me, I step left to stop her.

  “Why are you out here by yourself at six in the morning?”

  Looking down, she waves her hands up and down her small frame. She’s dressed in running gear. “Not clubbing.”

  I attempt to hide my annoyance with one word. “Cute.” But it comes out unmasked and telling.

  That gains me an eye roll. “And where are you off to? Looking for some children to scare? Cornflakes to pee on? Mimes to curse out?”

  I bite the corner of my mouth because that was actually funny, but she sure as hell doesn’t need to know I think so.

  “Heading to check out de la Porte Paris.”

  She looks at me curiously.

  “I work for Bass, and I suppose now, your mother.”

  She takes her hands off her hips and crosses her arms over her chest. “Do you know Autumn?”

  “She’s an asshole.”

  She grins to that. “She’s the opposite of an asshole.”

  “Well, she doesn’t like me all that much.”

  “Does anyone like you all that much?” I cock an eyebrow in warning. She seems unaffected. “You have to admit.” She walks past me, now in the direction I was headed. “You don’t seem to want to make friends.”

  I follow her. “You don’t make friends with those under you.”

  “Hmm,” she shrugs.

  “Hmm,” I reply.

  After a few minutes of silently walking, she looks at me. “Do you think anyone will be there?”

  I ask the question I know the answer to. “Where?”

  “de la Porte?” She asks as she rubs her hands up and down her Under Armour long-sleeved shirt.

  “Is that where you’re going?” I ask, pulling my arms out of my black wool coat and then tossing it over her head.

  Before she pulls it off, she giggles, but as soon as she’s out from under the coat she rolls her aspen green eyes. “Yes.”

  She puts her arms in the coat and wraps it around her body. It could go twice around her.

  When she pulls it up around her mouth and nose, I notice her inhale and it makes me uncomfortable.

  “What do you wear?”

  I answer, “Clothes.”

  She smacks at me with the sleeve of the coat. “Cologne.”

  “I don’t.”

  She inhales again. “You certainly do.”

  “I use soap.”

  “Well, that’s very hygienic of you.”

  I lean over and inhale her scent and she jumps away as soon as she realizes that’s what I’m doing. “No fair. I ran.”

  “Well, at least you have an excuse for smelling like that.”

  She doesn’t stink, she smells good. Who the fuck sweats lavender and the ocean breeze? At least she doesn’t smell like vanilla, like Grace.

  Looking down at her phone, she’s focused on reading something and not paying a bit of attention when we come to the crosswalk. When she steps out, I grab her elbow and jack her back.

  She looks up at me and grimaces.

  “You need to pay attention to where you’re going.”

  She looks at me apologetically and I shrug.

  “It’s closed.” She holds up her phone so I can see the hours on de la Porte’s website.

  “Just trying to get a feel for the place.”

  “Well then, I’m glad I ran into you. I planned on doing the same thing today.”

  Crossing the road, I see the bridge ahead. Along it a path.

  “This looks like a good place to run.” I point to the path alongside the Seine. You should drop a pin here so you can make it back when you want to go running again.

  “I bet Maisie would like it, too. Maybe I’ll take her for a walk today.”

  “I’m sure she would.”

  I watch her drop a pin on the map app as we continue walking toward the bridge.

  Once in the middle, she asks me, “Can you take a picture of me?”

  I take her phone and look at her. She’s just like every other girl obsessed with social media selfies. “I have to build a presence. My high school stuff wouldn’t work.”

  She stands against the brick and smiles. I snap a picture.

  Something catches her eyes and she hurries down about twenty feet away and leans over the side of the bridge.

  “Good morning, ducklings. Where’s momma duck?”

  I snap a picture of her profile, when she looks back, I snap another picture.

  She looks at me oddly and I feel fucking odd. “Looks a hell of a lot better than a posed picture. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of them in the months to come.”

  She t
akes in a deep breath, a look of worry and wonder combined crosses her face.

  “No need to be nervous, it is what it is.”

  “And it’s not like I’m getting shot at, right?” she asks, wiping her hands off on her spandex pants.

  Wonder dissipates and worry stares at me in that beautiful shade of aspen.

  “You’re gonna be fine. Just don’t get caught up in the whirlwind the industry can create. And once your name gets out there, don’t go running alone.”

  “Why, do you think someone will–”

  “You’re wealthy now, hire someone to stay at your side.”

  “I’m not wealthy, my mom is. I’m going to make my own way, just like she did.”

  I grab her elbow again when she almost steps into oncoming traffic at the next intersection.

  “You make it a habit of walking around oblivious?”

  “I’ve walked the mean streets of New York since I was fifteen and managed just fine,” she shrugs

  Curiosity eats at me. “You ever get hit?”

  “Never.” She smiles smugly.

  The pedestrian light changes and I put my hand against her back and begin to walk. “How many close calls?”

  “None.” She gives me that smug look again.

  I know better, at least I think I do.

  “I call bullshit,” I say, removing my hand from her back once we’re on the sidewalk.

  I don’t look at her, and she doesn’t reply, we just keep walking.

  In the early morning, there is little pedestrian activity on the streets as we walk past store fronts that are not unlike those in New York. Adidas, Gap, Swatch, even Disney. Natasha stops and peers into windows of stores like Ann Tuil, Guerlain, and other high-end fashion stores.

  When we get to de la Porte, she cocks her head as she looks up. “Angels.” Then she looks at me. “He had a thing for them, huh?”

  “It appears so.”

  “But not in New York, not one,” she whispers as she leans in toward the window to get a closer look. “It’s understated.”

  I nod even though she doesn’t see me.

  “Interesting, right?” she asks as she looks at me.

  “It’s a far cry from the home to de la Porte New York.”

  She smiles big and bright. “Do you love it there?”