by Mj Fields
I drive her to her dorm, so she can run in and get her makeup, which she doesn’t fucking need, and her portfolio. While waiting for her in front of the building, I see that Harry douche walk out of her building.
I see him staring at the car, so I give him a little bitch wave and he acts like he doesn’t see me, I know he does. But just in case, I get out and stand next to the car and wait for Natasha to come out.
When she does, I open the door and she whispers as she gets in, “You’re spreading it pretty thick, huh?”
I close the door and see Harry cracking his neck while he looks at us and I whisper, “You bet your ass I am.”
Once inside she sighs, “I can walk, you know.”
“And I have a car.” I peel out and pass Harry. When she waves, I wish I had hit the puddle next to him and soaked his ass.
She turns up the radio. “Is this the song from last night?” She reads the dash, “The Closeness, Dermont Kennedy?”
Yeah, I’m pretty sure it is, but I don’t tell her that, I simply shrug.
When I pull up in front of campus, I see that other dick from last night, the redheaded kid.
When she starts to open the door, I stop her. “If I’m playing some game, I’m not gonna half ass it.”
I get out and walk around the car, open the door, and she steps out.
When she stands in front of me and looks up, she gives me a smirk.
“What?”
She licks her lips. “I wouldn’t want you to half ass it, Oliver, so you better give me a kiss goodbye.”
So I do.
Part V
Natasha & Oliver (From London to New York)
Chapter Twenty-Six
Natasha
I avoided Shana all afternoon during our shared class, Intro to Fashion Design and Development, knowing she’d ask a million questions; all could easily be answered with truths about my night. Yes, we slept together, yes, he’s sweet, yes, he brought me to class, yes, we’re together, and yes, he kissed me in front of Charles. All truths surrounded by lies.
The reality is he and I slept in the same bed because he’s an oven and I thought I’d die of hypothermia. He was so sweet he brought me breakfast… next to the bed. We’re together, due to business and the fact that he’s my mom’s much younger boyfriend’s best friend, so it’s unavoidable. And the kiss was a theatrical performance that started with his hands cupping my face, his forehead against mine and his soft lips… on the tip of my nose, held there for good measure.
I can’t help but laugh to myself. It was actually perfect. I suppose it’s a better first kiss than it would have been with Harry, who had something in his teeth. Harry who acts like he likes me, yet has kissed Shana. Harry who is no Aaron Esposito.
Aaron is also not what most would consider hotter than Oliver. Oliver is hot on most women’s hotness chart, in each and every degree, just not mine.
He’s far too intense, too bossy, and seems to know me too well. No fairytale or romance that I have read or watched was based on the understanding of life’s battle scars.
Lovers? I laugh inwardly at the thought of Oliver and I being together in that way, as would he. But friends? Forever, I hope… maybe even pray. He could certainly be a forever friend.
Aaron, though, there is something about him…
Looking out the window during the lecture in my creative product development class, I think about all the other amazing things that happened over the weekend… real things, and then I think about Stella, my first real friend.
I hope she can find happiness in her heart for me and I pray when this line releases it does well, and I can convince Mom and Bass when Stella is ready, she would be a great asset to de la Porte. And de la Porte to her.
Mondays tend to drag. When I began the semester, I changed my schedule when Shana suggested I skip a lunch break and start my classes later in the day due to the fact we’d be having “all the fun London has to offer” every weekend. And it was so much fun when we began. The train ride to Paris, the weekend Harry Potter marathon, followed by the Harry Potter walking tour, my trip with Mom all over seeing the sights… so much fun.
Then I met Bass and he seemed to have tipped my world on its axis, while tipping Mom’s upside down.
I have so much to be grateful for, and I am so glad I can share it with Stella this weekend.
Walking out of the lecture hall, I decide to look at my IG account, not my old one, but my new one, Natasha 2.0, I think laughing at the silliness in it.
Pictures of my sketches, different places I’ve visited, and the one Oliver took of me on the bridge with my back turned while looking at the ducks.
I also see I have a message and when I open it, I see it’s from IF2010, requesting to set up a meeting to discuss my future in fashion.
It warms my heart to know that it isn’t just my mother and Bass who think I have talent. And although I’d never consider it, I have to look.
When I click on her profile, I can’t help but smile. It’s a Paris fashion house and whoever messaged me has to be pretty big in the world.
Scrolling through the years and years of newsfeed pictures, I see runway shows, articles in fashion magazines like Vogue and Cosmo. Then I stop on one I recognize.
Bass had the same picture on his account, and I told him to clean it up if he cared about my mom.
He did.
I send a reply.
Not interested.
Curious, I look back at her feed. I see the way Bass looks at her, and the way she looks at him. I feel sick to my stomach.
Mom.
My chest aches as I toss my phone in my bag and walk toward Better Lives class and feel the irony pulse through my veins. Our simple lives have changed, but is it really for the better?
All through class I’m tempted to check my Instagram, to send a message to the old hag that she better back off, but I don’t. I sit and stew. When the lecture is over, I grab my bag and practically run to the door so I can send that old bat a message, one that is loud and clear.
When I hear Shana behind me laughing, “What gives?” I turn around and her eyes widen. “Love, did he–”
“Natasha,” I hear Oliver’s voice and turn around.
“Wha–” I begin, and he cuts me off.
“Dinner,” he says, reaching out and taking my elbow.
I shake my head as I look him up and down and hear Shana whisper, “Damn.”
Damn is right, if you like a tall, dark, handsome, buff man with ink peeking out from under his dark gray thermal and rolled up worn leather jacket sleeves. His low-cut distressed jeans with holes in the knees, tucked into those leather biker boats, he’s… hot. Yep. H.O.T, hot.
“I thought you’d gone back to New York.”
He looks mildly annoyed and I have no idea why, but it makes me kind of giddy.
He pulls his aviators down and shakes his head as he runs his hand through his hair. In a very monotone voice he says, “I couldn’t leave without seeing you again.”
Shana whispers a sigh, “Fuck me dead.”
I turn back trying not to laugh. “Shana, I’ll see you–”
“Go, Jesus, Natasha, go.” She practically shoves me at him.
He places his hand on my lower back and walks us briskly to the waiting car. I stand and wait for him to open the door.
“Handles work the same here as they do in the US,” he whispers as he opens it.
I can’t help but laugh.
When he gets in, he takes off his shades and raises his eyebrows. I assume he’s waiting for me to stop taking such enjoyment out of his prickly attitude.
“You missed me,” I shrug and smile bigger.
He comes back quickly with, “Maybe I just wanted to make sure I got my favorite shirt back.”
I laugh and sit back in the leather seat. “I’ll trade you this for the leather jacket.”
When he doesn’t reply, I look over at him, his lips are a straight-line.
“What?” I
laugh.
“You need to dial it back a bit, Little Warrior.”
Smiling at the nickname, I ask, “Dial what back?”
“The bad ass.” He puts his hand out. “Your phone.”
“My what?” I laugh.
“You have a follower you need to steer clear of.” He points to my purse. “Phone, Natasha.”
“Ines?” His eyes narrow at the mention of her name. “I’ve already told her I’m not interested. And now that you reminded me.” I reach in my bag and pull out my phone. “I need to see if she’s replied.”
“Natasha, she’s a dangerous woman. She doesn’t play little girl games.”
“I’m not a little girl and this isn’t a game.”
“No, it’s not a fucking game. How long do you think it’ll take for her to figure out who you are and where you attend school, if she already hasn’t?”
“What do you mean?”
He looks past me and out the window. I follow his line of vision and see Shana, Harry, and Charlie looking at us.
When he starts the car and peels out, I have to grab the handle above the door. “Jeepers, Oliver.”
“Seat belt, Natasha,” he instructs.
Ten minutes later, we’re slowing down in front of The Spread Eagle, then he pulls into the hotel garage. The tires squeal as he takes the corners like he’s driving a getaway car.
“I haven’t eaten since this morning, Mario, unless you want a repeat of last night, you should slow down.”
He pulls into a parking spot, shuts off the engine, and looks at me without saying a word. Silence is never been a place I was uncomfortable in, but since Oliver’s admission that he doesn’t share the same position on it, I break the silence.
“You must really want this shirt back.”
The corner of his lip twitches up slightly but is gone so fast it may possibly have been an illusion. “Let’s go.”
“Go where, exactly?” I ask his back, before the door shuts behind him.
I unbuckle my seat belt and look out my window. He’s standing beside the car and for a moment I suspect he’s going to open the door, but when he shoves his hands in his pockets, I open the door myself and get out.
I follow behind his fast pace as closely as I can to the parking garage’s elevator. When the door closes, he hits the button to the eighth floor then he leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
He looks intimidating as hell. “If I didn’t know you, this would make me a little nervous, you know.”
“If you really knew me, you’d probably be pissing all over my shirt.”
“Pfft.” I roll my eyes and his brow darts up.
“You gonna show me the phone or am I going to have to hack the account?”
“Invasion of privacy much, Oliver?”
“You could give me the damn thing so I can see what she said,” he says impatiently as the door opens.
I follow him out. “I’d rather see you try to hack it.”
I hold my phone out for him and he takes it as we walk down the corridor.
After a few steps, he stops and holds it out. “Is this it?”
I look at the screen. “Is what it?”
He chuckles, and I look at him. “What?”
“A little warrior you may be, but you lack some sense.” He reaches in his pocket and grabs his room key, swipes it and opens the door. “Facial recognition, Natasha.”
I grab for my phone and he lifts it above his head, his brown eyes shining with mischief.
“You tricked me.” I shake my head.
“You need to learn to be less naïve and trusting.”
He tosses my phone onto the bed, pulls his out of his pocket, and answers it.
“What’s up, Bass?” He pauses. “Yes, she’s here.”
Bass knows I’m here? Oh no, does Mom know I got drunk? Oliver would never… but he did say I should be less naïve and trusting. No… no, he wouldn’t.
I tap on his back to get his attention, he looks over his shoulder at me, then turns away and continues talking, “She’ll be fine with it. Ines has already messaged her.”
He steps toward the bed and grabs my phone. “Password, Natasha.”
I take my phone from him and hold it up to my face, it opens.
I mouth, “Do they know I got drunk?”
His look is a clear indication he hasn’t a clue what I said. So, I hold up my hand as if I’m holding a cup and mouth slowly do, they, know. Then I toss back my pretend drink.
And he rolls his eyes and again turns his back to me.
Frustrated, I march around him, and catch a smirk.
He turns serious as he takes my phone and thumbs through it then reads out loud.
“Requesting to set up a meeting to discuss a future in fashion, Natasha replied, not interested. Ines responded, do you already have interest? Natasha didn’t reply, Ines said, I can promise IF2010 takes better care of their designers than anyone in the industry. Let’s not tiptoe around this anymore, when Bastien tires of your mother, where do you think a poor little girl from Brooklyn will end up?”
His eyes widen and then I hear Bass through the phone. “That fucking bitch–”
Oliver cuts him off, “As I said before–”
“I know, yes, do it. But Ang, doesn’t need any fucking stress, Oliver, and Natasha doesn’t either.”
Oliver’s jaw muscles flex as he closes his eyes, I see them roll behind his lids. “Already said I had it handled.”
Bass’s voice is quieter now so I can’t hear him. I sit down and wait, wondering how Oliver is handling it. It annoys me that I’m also being handled. Me, me who has navigated through seas of bitches and islands of idiots all my life. Me, a nearly nineteen-year-old woman in college. Me, the daughter of a woman who has just finally, after all these years, found love.
He walks toward the dresser and sets my phone on it, walks in to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.
I jump up and grab my phone, hit the Instagram app, tap the little message arrow, and respond.
I’d rather dress windows at Walmart than work with a bitter old woman that doesn’t realize her time has passed. A bitter bitch, instead of accepting it, she chooses to try to manipulate someone she sees as a child. Newsflash, lady, I’m no child. And as far as where this poor little girl from Brooklyn will end up, it’s always going to be at a higher moral standing than the likes of you.
I hit send as I smile to myself as I look at the screen.
“What the hell are you doing?” Oliver snaps and I look up.
“I’m not a kid, Oliver, and this old bat–”
He grabs my phone and looks at it. “In text you said bitch.”
“Fine, this bitch, is messing with me and my mom, I don’t need to be ‘handled’.” I air quote handled even though he’s not looking at me, he’s reading my message.
“For fuck’s sake, nothing like poking the goddamn snake.”
“I’m not afraid of her.” I stand and take my phone from him and walk toward the door.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“I’m going to walk my grown ass out of here and find dinner.” I twist the door handle and start to pull it open.
From behind me, he pushes it shut. “Like hell you are.”
Turning around quickly, I look up at him and put my hands on my hips. “You aren’t my father!”
He steps back and crosses his arms over his chest. “No, but I’m the man who just told my friend, who will be your stepfather someday, that I had this handled.”
“You worry about Bass, I’ll worry about me and my mother.”
I turn to open the door again, and again, he shuts it.
“What the hell, Oliver? I’m not your goddamned prisoner!” I spin around and poke him in the chest. “Got it?”
His blank expression changes to amusement again.
“God, you’re such a dick.”
I turn again and before I even have my hand on the doorknob
, he grabs me around the waist and picks me up. Somehow, I end up feeling like a damn football, my body horizontal to his vertical as he marches toward the bed.
He tosses me on it. “Sit your little ass down and chill.”
“I’m–”
“Hangry and high on probably the baddest ass text you’ve sent in your whole fucking life. So chill, Little Warrior, and I’ll tell you–”
I interrupt him, “I’m an adult.”
“Yeah, you sure are making some great adult decisions these past twenty-four hours, aren’t you?”
He sits on the bed and grabs the room service menu off the nightstand.
“I’m sure you always made the best decisions.”
“As an adult, hell yes, I did,” he nods then tosses the menu aside. He picks up the room phone and orders two filet mignon dinners from room service.
I’m so pissed at him, I push myself off the bed and march to the bathroom.
“Hey big girl, you may want to fix my shirt you’re wearing as a dress, your Muggle in the streets, Wizard in the sheets panties are showing.”
Oh. My. God.
I’m gonna kill Shana for buying these damn things.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Oliver
She’s not Grace.
Not at all, but I can’t stop comparing them. Not when I got off the flying love shack because she asked me to go to lunch and I declined and felt bad after, not last night when I saw her at the bar, and certainly not this morning waking up with her, dropping her off at school, kissing her fucking nose for show, using every bit of control I possessed to walk away and not kiss her like I wanted to.
I knew I was fucked when I opened a goddamn Instagram account so I could see her posts when I was in New York, yet I knew I had control over it. But when I saw that bitch liking her posts, I knew I had to stay and put in place something I thought I might have to in the future, but not after this morning… not now.
Of all the places to bring her, I chose back here, to my fucking hotel room. It makes perfect fucking sense because if that bitch has someone following her, they won’t know why I need to see her, yet it’s also insane, because she’s here in my fucking shirt.