My Muted Love (Muted Hoplessness Book 1)

by Love Belvin

  by Love Belvin

  MKT Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 by Love Belvin

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination.

  Cover design by Visual Luxe

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Love Acknowledges

  Other Books by Love Belvin

  Extra

  1

  -Now-

  “I was so pleased to see you last night.” Lucinda smiles while tossing a cursory glance over her narrow shoulder. “Tyler told me you’d just flown in from France, where you ended an assignment. Cognac, I hear?”

  I trail behind her, admiring the striking, picturesque view of the rolling mountains of Ojai, California. Ventura County sure is an idyllic settlement abounding in historic magnetism. It’s a far cry from the third world villages and impoverished western communities he’s laid his head in to tell a story. Someone of his breadth of work needed an oasis of this serene level.

  “Yes,” I finally answer while absorbing the valley’s view of the dainty shops, galleries, and Victorian structures sitting miles away. They’ve been preserved by the community for generations. “A few miles outside the Crouin locale. The food is remarkable,” I mumble, not wanting to lose a moment of the view. “I may return recreationally for that alone.”

  Lucinda peers over her shoulder again with an arched brow and a faint smirk. “Any new discoveries?”

  It takes no time to consider it. “Pour L’amour du Cochon.”

  “Ah… For Pig’s Sake.” We reach the French doors at the end of the corridor and she turns to face me with an outstanding beam. “I’ve heard delightful things. I’ll have to put it on my itinerary for the next time I’m in Southwest France. If all goes well, I’ll be out there this winter. I can ask you to recommend a dish or two.” She winks innocently.

  “If you want to explain the seven pounds you’ll put on in as many days.” I wink in return. “Go for it.”

  She chuckles breathily. “Oh, don’t you spew such things.” Her delicate hand swats my imitative self-pity. “You’re doing well with your body, Ashton. At this rate, when you become my age, you’ll have more mileage for the long haul.”

  I stop a few feet in front of her. “Are you trying to charm me with blandish and fanning lashes, Mrs. Thomas?”

  Lucinda’s youthful giggle bounces off the floor and walls of the corridor as she reaches for her neck to finger the back of her silver Pixie cut. Her eyes fall away. “Oh, Ashton. It’s a wonder you’re still single, young man.”

  I scoff while shrugging my brows. “A wonder for who?”

  Her chin dips with class. “Your presence at the USC Annenberg dinner last night was generous and greatly apprized.” She tosses her chin toward the office. “He’s been awaiting you.”

  After a courteous nod, I amble into my mentor’s home office. Ghosted Perique tobacco permeates the upholstery throughout the pharaonic room. That and the scent of scotch and whiskey bottled in crystal decanters on the bar stand against the wall. The oversized office features two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with literature he’s read more than once; it’s the only way a leaflet can take up coveted space here. And, at least, a dozen of the books were penned by the man himself. His desk is a cluster of files, loose papers, and a desktop he still fusses about and uses begrudgingly.

  The beloved vintage typewriter he still engages from time to time to “maintain his virtuosity” sits on a pillar just beyond his desk. Symmetric to it is another brass stand boasting his framed Pulitzer Prize certificate. In the adjacent corner is a curio displaying the dozens of awards he’s garnered spanning his fifty-year career: recognitions from esteemed publications, NAACP awards, plaques from state and local organizations, and award statues from renowned academic institutions, including Blakewood and Harvard.

  “You may be younger…and richer,” gruff rings out from across the room. “but I’ve given that woman laps around my heart and in my head for more decades than you’ve been breathing.”

  He sits partially reclined in a leather Lazy-Z-Boy, gazing through the glass of the patio door, out to the amazing vista of the Topatopa Mountains. Tyler Thomas, a giant in the world of journalism and a legend in publishing, never allows a passing miniscule detail before reconnoitering each layer presented.

  “She’s seen me shirtless,” I mutter, lifting a book by a familiar name and title from one of his shelves. Fingering the spine, I continue, “I think you should let the fine lady choose for herself.”

  “How was Cognac?”

  My head swipes up, eyes wildly shooting to the back of his head, then I return the book and glide over to him. Leaning against the glass door, I fold my arms. “What the hell are you up to, Thomas?”

  Finally, his copper eyes reach mine. “I can’t ask about your work?”

  “Only if you hadn’t already done your due diligence last night.”

  Last night, USC’s School for Communication and Journalism honored him at a dinner. Quite a few influential suits in the world of journalism flew in to attend, including a subject loosely related to the assignment I’m now closing. Tyler Thomas is my mentor, a legendary journalist with over a half a century in the game. One of the first impactful African Americans to break American stories overseas and to write for major publications like The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, ESPN, Black Press, TIME, LA Times, and others. He’s the truest standard of what my generation terms as G.O.A.T. He’s even served terms as chief editor for many of them. Thomas has also begun his own small press called 40 Acres. The small digital paper has been thriving for over fifteen years. It’s been the holy grail for Black students pursuing internship opportunities and new writers beginning their career in journalism.

  “I’m asking again!” shoots from his belly.

  It’s a tone I decide right away not to test.

  Letting out a fortifying breath, I scratch the back of my head. “Particularly harrowing.” I then brush my hand over my face.

  “Did you get enough meat?”

  Meat is his lingo for details. As a journalist, you need meat and teeth to create a complete, compelling piece.

  “More than I bargained for,” I admit. “Similar to the wine industry, there are cartels destroying product and properties in the name of fair trade.”

  Six months ago, I set out on an assignment for the New York Times to explore the shifting of the brandy industry. For centuries, the spirit was predominantly produced by the French. Over the past six years, the usual renowned brands received several new contenders on the market. The most aggressive competitor is helmed by a Black man. I flew to “brandy country” to research the market and all of its players. What I didn’t expect to discover was the underworld that attempted to regulate the brandy industry.

  His eyes widen with concern. “Jacobs isn’t involved, is he?”

  Azmir Jacobs is a mutual comrade of ours. He’s the owner of one of the most popular brandy line on the market, thanks to pop c
ulture. Jacobs is how I met my mentor and friend, Tyler Thomas.

  I shake my head. “He’s the only giant unscathed by the attacks, though. The JFD Cartel, also known as Justice for Distilleries, is a group of ruffians who’ve taken it upon themselves to right the brandy industry. They’ve gone as far as setting vineyards afire, slashed tires of brokers, and planting bombs in the headquarters of the bigger brandy heads’ offices.”

  I know because I’d shown up to one of the corporate offices nearly three weeks ago to interview the head broker to find a quarter of the building charred.

  His eyes utter the question before it slips from his mouth. “Did you find the players of the cartel?”

  “It isn’t Jacobs or anyone from the Mauve line.” I lift my brows, sucking in a yawn. “Ironically, however, one of the Moreau Brothers is funding the cartel.”

  The Moreau Brothers were the family Jacobs robbed of their heritage several years ago when slowly purchasing the company, Mauve, from underneath them. The brandy company had been in the Moreau family for centuries. When they needed cash to prevent the company from going belly up, Jacobs stepped in. Within a few short years, he acquired the business outright.

  “Jacques?”

  “Nah.” I shake my head. “Jean.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? He’s still salty as fuck about losing his family’s legacy. Jacobs will be enemy number one until he either dies, Jean croaks, or Jacobs loses the company to them.”

  “But Mauve’s vineyard or distillery hasn’t been hit by JFD,” he questions.

  “Because Jacobs is the master of thuggery. His security there is tight as fuck. You can’t get within four miles of the Mauve compound without having laser ammo marking your head.”

  Thomas shakes his head, relief shooting from each pore of his frame. He’s hopeful for Jacobs’ turnaround in life as his past is nefarious as hell.

  I study the lines in his face. Either my guy is still exhausted from his celebration last night or he’s stressed.

  “You going to tell me what this meeting is about, or are you going to continue to shoot off causerie topics to delay it?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  His eyes appear on me. “My cardiologist called two days ago. She wants to go back in.” He pats his chest.

  “Another surgery?”

  “Replacement.”

  “Still issues with the…” I snap my fingers, begging the terms back to memory. “the aortic valve?”

  Thomas’ been suffering from valvular heart disease for years.

  “That would be the adversary.”

  “What can I do?”

  He takes a deep breath, eyes still on the vista. “Mark Kevinjohn called in a favor—”

  “Sports Illustrated?”

  Thomas nods again. “You’ve heard of the shakeup over there. He asked for a freelance piece. A 10K word feature.”

  Damn…

  “What, specifically?” Lots of my personal friends are being or have been laid off. Mark and his team are changing the entire outfit of publishing over there.

  “He asked for something groundbreaking…something to create a cloud to cover the melee happening over there.”

  “Of your choosing,” I surmise. Thomas nods in confirmation. A pirouette of topics swiftly populates my mind. Then I scratch my brow. “What can I do to help?”

  Thomas’ eyes are on me again. “Assume my assignment.”

  “There’s a slight problem with that, Thomas.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Sports Illustrated is exclusively sports.”

  “Last I checked, yes.”

  “I don’t cover sports.”

  “Which is why this would be a favor, son.”

  I scratch my brow to process this. “In my entire ten-year career, I’ve never covered sports.”

  “And I know why.”

  My forehead narrows. “Do you?”

  “It’s because of the injury.” His regard brushes against my legs.

  My eyes flutter. Yes— “No. Not wholly. And what is the piece about anyway?”

  “The latest boxing sensation.”

  “Deontay ‘Bronze Bomber’ Wilder?”

  His head shakes. “The latest female sensation: Tori McNabb.”

  My damn knees go weak, heart slingshots only dropping to the floor, lungs fumble, and suddenly, I’m severely dependent on the glass door to remain vertical.

  “Spencer,” he tries.

  I can’t comprehend much more than that with my head spinning like a fucking dreidel.

  “Thomas,” I try heaving in a deep breath without revealing my turmoil. “I’m sure Mark will understand when you tell him you can’t make good on the favor.”

  “I’m not telling him that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the story will be done, and well. She’s the biggest phenom in sports since Michael Phelps. Never in the history of boxing has the federation seen so much panjandrum from a female boxer. You know this. Before McNabb, a female boxer hasn’t had several nationally promoted commercials and the broad landscape portfolio of endorsements she’s had. Ali, in her height, didn’t have half the corporate engagement as this young lady.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t.”

  The room grows quiet and after seconds of his annoying ass stare down, Thomas faces the mountains again.

  “It’s been years.”

  “And not enough.”

  His head whips to face me. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Not enough to make me want to cover sports. Why can’t you have one of your students take it over? I’m sure they’d all be biting at the bit for this opportunity!”

  “Because it belongs to my prize pupil.” He swivels to face me.

  My veins flood with shame. I hate to disappoint this man. No one ever says no to Tyler Thomas when presented an opportunity to run a story for him—much less a 10K word feature for S.I. No one!

  Not even stubborn ass me…

  But this is a hard limit for me. No way am I committing to meeting with Tori Mc-fucking-Nabb over weeks to get a 10K word feature piece, much less holding a twenty-second conversation with her.

  No fucking way!

  I shake my head again, eyes below. “I can’t do it, Thomas—”

  “Lucinda’s going to leave me!” he belts abruptly.

  My face tightens with perplexity and my eyes absently range over to the door she ushered me into just minutes ago. “What?”

  “Yes.” His throat cracked. “She wants me to stow the typewriter for good.” Retire? “And I don’t mean take a two-year hiatus. That was my last failed attempt at placating her. She wants me out by the time I go under the knife. Completely.”

  I sigh. “You and Lucinda have been through rougher times. I’m sure she understands the minutiae of fading to black in this industry. She’ll allow for more time.”

  “Lucinda’s left my ass before. It would take an imprudent mollycoddle to not recognize the opportunity to keep a woman when she’s one foot out the damn door.”

  The muscles in my face drop, weakened by the overtone. Thomas is pulling out all guns for this one, making it clear why my presence today was requested.

  “Now, listen,” he begins, short of breath from managing his temper. “you’re going to have to give it your all. I’ve already created an itinerary with her agency. We’ve synced calendars, and I’m willing to tell them it needs to happen again to accommodate your schedule. She’s preparing for a big fight. Monica “Four Clover” O’Connor. Lots of attention has already been given to this one, because of the money on the table. One point five million for O’Connor and 70 million for McNabb. They’re estimating $975 million in pay-per-view revenue from nearly 16 million paying HBO customers.” I blink successively at those figures. “This isn’t just some fluff piece. What this young lady is doing is significant to the culture. Fuck yes, I want her success plastered in a white publica
tion. Shit, you better believe even 40 Acres is covering it, too, but the reach isn’t as broad.”

  I turn away, adrenaline running at the announcement of one name. A name I’ll never forget as long as I live. The name that’s brought pleasure and pain in equal servings.

  “Thirteen years is a long time, son. What’s at stake here is this Black ass history this young lady is about to bring to American and sports history. And I know no one can cover this event like my most erudite, culture-protective protégé.”

  My nostrils widen as defeat coats my body from head to toe.

  “Hey, Tori, heeeeey!” Candice, the receptionist, sings as I approach the desk outside of my PR head’s office.

  Her gaze goes between me and the area behind me, toward the elevators.

  “Hey you, Ms. Hunter,” I return, then turn around to find the area empty.

  No one’s on the other side of her booth besides me and the plush furniture and massive plasma television mounted on the wall.

  “Who ya waiting on?”

  Her eyes are on me again. “Goddamn Rut Amare is on his way up here.”

  “And?”

  “And,” Her head swings dramatically then. “errrrbody know that’s my forever crush!”

  My head draws back. “Even though he’s married with a kid?”

  “He was my crush before he fucked her. Before the million-dollar endorsement deals.” Her nose spreads and top lip lifts above the teeth line. “She better be lucky I ain’t go awf at their lil’ ceremony.”

  I don’t recall seeing her at Rut and Parker’s wedding this past summer. “Were you there?”

  Candice’s eyes roll, hot air rushing from her nose. “My brother said I couldn’t.”

  Jackson Hunter, the head of Dynamic Branding’s public relations firm, is Candice’s big brother. Dynamic Branding is the parent company to the sports agency I’m signed to, Love Is Action. And it so happens that Jackson is my agent at Love Is Action—he and his wife, Elle Hunter. They sort of do this dynamic duo thing, without the intended pun.

  But Rut, who she’s referring to, is the homie. I know how he feels about his new family, and Candice here doesn’t stand a chance. Nevertheless, this is Candice Hunter; always on the prowl. She’s young, only in her early twenties, so much of her behavior is dismissed. Today, I don’t want to be around for her trying her hand at Rut’s attention.