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

by Mj Fields

  “It’s a job,” I shrug.

  “Oh, come on, its beauty is everywhere you look. Like a dream.”

  She then points toward a very recognizable building, the Arc de Triomphe. “Wanna go?”

  I shake my head. “We should actually get back.” She looks a little disappointed. “Bass hasn’t let the cat out of the bag that you’re designing the winter line, and if we’re seen...” Not saying another word, I shrug and turn around.

  “True,” she agrees and follows me.

  17

  Oliver

  Since returning from my walk, I’ve been in what is called the conservatory working. Work consists of answering emails for approval from Autumn. I’m half expecting her to send me one asking if she can take a shit.

  She had been cutting me some slack while Maisie was in the hospital, but in just one day, she’s more than made up for that week.

  I googled how to send an automatic reply saying I was out of the office, and yeah, I knew it would piss her off, but then, like most people, she’d see there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it and she’d probably chill the fuck out.

  I decided to dive into researching the history of de la Porte. I’d avoided truly believing Bass wasn’t going to sell off the company, but now I know he’s invested. Not so much in the business, but the woman he fell in love with in matter of weeks, and the girl whose dreams he was going to help come true, Natasha.

  Every second she is close to me is a painful reminder of Grace. I loved her, and I’d lost her, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. As painful as it was hefting that burden for so many fucking years, it would be more painful to break a dying woman’s heart. And Maisie isn’t just any woman, she is everything a woman should be.

  Yes, I want to leave, but my conscience won’t allow it.

  After a couple hours of reading Jean de la Porte’s biography on Wikipedia, as well as the history of de la Porte, my body is sore.

  I know there is a gym in the home, and I need to work out some frustration.

  After changing, I find my way down to the basement gym.

  Even though I shouldn’t be shocked, I am; it’s unbelievable. There’s a steam room, and a double shower surrounded by glass blocks inside the room full of state-of-the-art machines. A stationary bike, stair machine, treadmill, an elliptical, free weights and benches, a speed bag, and a hanging bag, which is exactly where I will begin.

  I pop on my wireless headphones and commence beating the fuck out of the bag.

  When Disturbed’s Indestructible plays, I let all my frustrations go as I beat the fuck out of my parents, because they beat the fuck out of me. When Drowning Pool’s Bodies begins, I beat the fuck out of terrorists, because I can’t shoot the fuckers anymore. When Papa Roach’s Last Resort begins, I beat the fuck out of the black and white images that keep me awake, of all my fallen brothers that I couldn’t get to in time. Godsmack plays I Stand Alone, and I beat the fuck out of the past because it keeps staring me in the fucking face. Man in the Box by Alice in Chains begins when I start beating the fuck out of cancer, because it’s beating the fuck out of Maisie, and because it’s beating the fuck out of her, it’s beating the fuck out of me.

  When I’m still not tired, I start all over again, beating the fuck out of a life that’s done nothing but kick me in the balls.

  Welcome home, soldier.

  Forty minute later, my knuckles are almost bare. I kick off my shoes and begin kicking the hell out of it.

  When I’m finally tired and soaked with sweat, I hit the sauna to sweat some more. Then finally, I hit the shower.

  With my hands against the glass blocks that are just about five-feet-tall on all but one side, I’m standing under the water trying to calm my heartrate when I hear Bass.

  “Hey, man.”

  I look up and he’s grinning but I’m not in the fucking mood. I won’t put that shit on him. He’s happy. He deserves it.

  “Gotta share a top-secret bit of intel.”

  I roll my eyes as he pretends to salute me as I finish rinsing my body.

  He continues, “Can’t tell a soul.”

  I turn off the water, grab a towel, dry off my hair a bit, and then wrap the towel around my waist. “Yeah, top secret implies that.”

  His face nearly splits as he cheeses, “Angela’s pregnant.”

  I have no idea what to say. They haven’t been together long at all, and Bass never wanted kids, ever.

  “You’re good with that?” I ask as I step into a pair of shorts.

  “Hell yes, I am. I found my heaven, my person, and she’s carrying one we made together. I am so fucking good with it.”

  Instead of asking the million questions running through my head, I congratulate him.

  I spend the rest of the day in the conservatory, doing more research on the fashion industry, hoping to find something, anything to ignite a fire inside me, to give me a reason to roll over in the morning and look forward to something, anything.

  “Hey.” Natasha appears in the room holding a plate. “You didn’t eat lunch with us. You missed dinner.” She sets the plate in front of me. “Figured a guy your size doesn’t miss many meals.”

  “You saying I’m fat?” I lean back and link my hands behind my neck.

  Her face starts to flush. “Of course not. I just thought you might be hungry.”

  “Thanks.” I lean forward and look at the plate of pasta and breaded chicken.

  “Chicken parmesan,” she says, sitting on the chair across the desk from me. “It’s good.”

  She pulls her leg up and sets her foot on the seat, resting her chin on her knee and looking out the window, but says nothing. She looks pensive.

  “You need something?” I ask, pulling the plate in front of me.

  She sighs as she shakes her head and stands. “Nope.”

  When she starts to walk toward the door, I feel like a total dick. It’s not her fucking fault she looks like Grace.

  “Natasha, I apologize. Like I said before, this isn’t my thing, but I can try to–”

  “No thanks,” she whispers.

  I flop back in the chair and push the plate away. “Nice, asshole, real fucking nice.”

  I try to focus on the article in front of me, the history of Paris fashion, but I can’t, because I am really fucking hungry.

  Fifteen minutes later and I’m taking the empty plate to the kitchen. As I walk across the marble floor, I hear the television coming from Maisie’s quarters.

  I hear Angela and then I hear Natasha. I’m sure Maisie is loving having them around.

  When I walk out of the kitchen, I hear Maisie yell, “Bastien!”

  I see him run from the bathroom into chateau la Maisie.

  I quicken my steps to her, worried something is wrong.

  She points an accusatory finger at Bass. “Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Like…?”

  I’m glad I’m not going to miss this, her reaction. I actually think it’s comical that he thinks he could keep it from her.

  “Like Angela and I are…” He pauses, and I look at Maisie, who is smiling from ear to ear. He smiles back. “Pregnant?”

  She sits straight up and slaps her hand to her leg. “Thank you, Lord! I have grandbabies!” She squeezes Natasha’s hand then reaches for Bass’s. “I have grandbabies.”

  He leans in to hug her and smiles proudly.

  He laughs, “That means you need to get to work on physical therapy, so you can hold him.”

  “Or her.” Maisie winks. “Or them.”

  “Oh no,” Angela intervenes. “One. Just one. And we wait three more months before spreading our joy outside these walls.”

  Bass looks at me, and the fucker is glowing. I glance at Angela, who is looking at Bass. Any worries I’ve had, are diminished.

  I look at Natasha and her aspen eyes are on me with a million questions looming. Questions I’m sure she would have asked, had I given her the chance.

 
I’m such a fucking dick.

  I head back into the conservatory and open my laptop. Then I fire off an email to Autumn asking for a list of key suppliers, reports on the board members, any other pertinent information and timelines for the upcoming line release.

  When I get an automatic response, I think, “Well done.”

  I close the laptop and sit back, trying to think of what I could do now, to pass the time and avoid people, namely Natasha.

  Annoyed at the situation, upset with my actions, and irritated because I’m bored as hell, I stand and force myself to go sit in the room and spend time with Maisie. When I walk in, they’re watching a movie. A cartoon.

  You have got to be fucking kidding me.

  And again, the only place to sit is by Natasha.

  She moves her legs that are curled up under her, behind her to give me more room.

  As I sit, I say, “Thank–” My mouth goes dry and can’t finish the words.

  “Yep,” she says and leans her head back on Maisie’s shoulder.

  Christ, I need to get a grip.

  “Kiss the girl,” Natasha sighs.

  What the fuck? Screams inside my head and my head whips around. On the tip of my tongue is, What the fuck did you say?

  When her eyes meet mine, she looks shocked and her face turns red immediately. When she turns away, my fucking heart hammers, my throat burns, and I’m more uncomfortable than I ever was in the middle of a fucking battlefield.

  Then a little fucking red crab starts singing on the big screen, then the chorus begins and his words, kiss the girl.

  Natasha looks over her shoulder and cocks her eyebrow, then looks quickly away.

  Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  After watching the stupid fucking crab try to convince the man in the boat to kiss the girl, I glance over again and see her lips twisted up in the corners.

  When the movie ends, Maisie sighs, “Ollie?”

  “Maisie?” I look over.

  “I’m tired. Would you help me to my chair?”

  “I can help,” Natasha offers.

  “That one is big as a bear and you’re just a tiny little thing.” Maisie pats her knee. “He can help.”

  As I help Maisie into her bed, she’s whistling.

  “Good day?” I ask as I lift her legs under her knees and then pull the blanket over her.

  “You missed it.”

  “Missed what?”

  “You missed lunch, dinner, and four movies,” she smiles.

  “Since when are you a movie lover?” I ask sitting next to her.

  “Since now, I suppose.”

  “So, you swapped books for movies?”

  “Change isn’t always bad. Besides, it gives me a look at the women who will be in my men’s lives when I’m no longer here.”

  “Don’t, Maisie.” I shake my head.

  “I’m not afraid, Ollie.”

  I give her a look saying I don’t believe her.

  “It’s okay.” She holds her hand out to me and I take it.

  “It’s also okay to admit you’re afraid, Maisie. I’ve faced death a thousand times and none of them came without a little bit of apprehension.”

  “That’s because it wasn’t your time.”

  I hate that she sounds like she’s giving up. But I also don’t want to share my worries with her any more than I already have.

  “Well, I hear you have something to look forward to soon.”

  She smiles. “I plan to be here for that. But for the first time in a long time, I honestly do feel at peace.”

  I nod my understanding.

  “Please allow yourself to enjoy your time here, Ollie. It will be much less uncomfortable.”

  I look at her and she closes her eyes and lays back. “For me?”

  I agree, “Yeah, for you.”

  Gray, black, and white images of blown up buildings and smoke surround me. I feel like I’m fucking choking on it.

  “Oliver.”

  I jump up and look around the dark room.

  “You were, um… yelling.”

  When she walks by the window, I see her small frame lit by the moonlight. She stops and her back is to me.

  “You really need to stop coming in here, Natasha,” I sigh.

  “I don’t want to kiss you.”

  What the fuck did she just say?

  She clears her throat and turns around. “I think maybe I am coming off wrong to you. I think maybe you have it in your head that I’m attracted to you.”

  “Natasha–”

  She cuts me off, “First, you’re not my type. Second, I’m still trying to figure out why you seem so annoyed around me. Have I done something?”

  Not my type?

  “Oliver?”

  Not my type?

  “Fine, whatever, but you and I need to get along better for them, and for work.”

  She looks at my chest then up at my eyes, she’s waiting for me to responded.

  She sighs exaggeratedly and starts to walk out when I remember Maisie’s second request to try harder.

  “My parents took in foster kids, that’s how I met Bass.”

  Christ, that was fucking hard.

  “Maisie told me.”

  And that… pisses me off.

  I try to contain the annoyance in my voice. “What exactly did she tell you?”

  “That Bass and you met at your family’s home. That,” she points at some of the visible scars, “They weren’t nice.”

  I huff, “That’s putting it mildly. They were monsters.”

  She sits in the chair beside the bed, like she’s getting ready for story hour.

  “Are they still around?”

  “Is this information important and if so, why?” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I was bullied pretty bad all through elementary, middle, and high school. When I finally went to art school my sophomore year, I was happy because no one knew me.”

  I can’t help what comes out of my mouth next. “It’s nice to leave the past in the past, huh?”

  “Yeah, until your stepbrother trades your most horrendous childhood pic for a picture of a girl who hates you’s boobs.”

  “What?” I almost laugh.

  “She thought I liked a boy that she liked. She found my stepbrother on social media and offered a boobie pic for some of mine.”

  “That sucks.” I force myself to stay in this conversation, because of my promise to Maisie, and I’m okay with talking about her.

  She shrugs.

  “So, you and the guy end up together?” Christ, I may as well just eat my fucking foot.

  She smiles and shakes her head. “We’re friends.”

  Awkward silence.

  Then she asks, “You have a girlfriend?”

  “I have one friend.” I hold up one finger.

  She tries not to laugh.

  It’s actually fucking adorable. “What?”

  “I was about to give you a, ‘Oh I don’t believe that’, but oddly…” she leaves it hanging.

  “So, this kid still a friend?”

  She nods. “I Facetime with Stella once a week, and Aaron and Stella every couple weeks.”

  Aaron and Stella, I have no idea why that makes me relax a bit but it does. “They a couple?”

  She laughs, “No.”

  And now I hate the name Aaron.

  She tells me about her time at the art and design school in New York City, and how they all attended together. How the group of kids she hung out with were her first friends, and how she hopes to someday, at least, have Stella and Aaron attend a runway show but hasn’t told them yet.

  The conversation flows easy, so fucking easy, when I don’t compare her similarities to Grace’s.

  The last thing I remember her saying was she wants to be my friend. And not just because I only have one, and that we’ll be brushing elbows on occasion, but because when I ‘chill out’, I’m actually nice to talk to.

  It’ll make Maisie happy.


  Part IV

  Oliver & Natasha (From Paris to London)

  18

  Natasha

  I wake to the sun heating my face, covered in the dark gray cashmere blanket that had been folded at the end of Oliver’s bed when I walked in at nearly midnight. I’m curled in a chair beside him. He’s asleep.

  My chest tightens as the thought repeats in my head. He’s asleep.

  He appears, for the first time since I walked onto the private jet in London, peaceful.

  His body is turned toward me like it was when I talked his ear off last night, but I couldn’t see him as well as I do now in the light of the early morning sun. His chest bare, one arm is under the right-side pillowing his head, while the other is raised and laying across the top of it. The omnipresent creases in the corner of his eyes, clearly caused by years of emotional torment beyond his twenty-six years, are missing and show him as he should be, unguarded.

  I can’t help but stare at him, I’m sure no one in my position could. He’s tragically beautiful. His black hair is longer on top than on the sides, his near black always guarded eyes, always a warning, are now closed; his face dusted with black hair covers the beautiful perfection it is without the tense muscles popping when he’s feeling cornered.

  The black ink covering him conceals the scars that have faded with time. I touch my own diminishing scar, one that now feels insignificant, and my eyes heat immediately as I recall the heart-breaking sounds of pain and anguish that have come from his room the past two nights.

  In situations where someone desperately needs help, I am the first to find someone capable of helping. I’m not so bold or brave as to normally step into a situation that calls to some deep seeded need to help someone who is suffering. But I couldn’t stop myself from entering his room either night. Even with everything I’ve seen and the information Maisie disclosed about him, something forced me to enter, uninvited and unwanted.

  Thinking about it actually brings on the realization that hidden behind my hair, my makeup, my need to appear unscarred, I may not have always allowed myself to truly help someone who desperately needed something as simple as hearing their name whispered to take them away from their pain.