Cinq A’ Sept

by Mj Fields

  When he opens his mouth to reply, I remind him, “Not the way I’d try to show the new owner that you give a fuck about this company.” Then I walk away.

  As a child, I was always drawn to women and the softness they carry inside. My mother, my grandmother, both beautiful and caring women. When they were gone, it carried on.

  Each new home, I was more comfortable with the females. So much so that I avoided the men. I would hear whispers through thin walls or closed doors in the quiet of night. Whispers about me and my feminine ways. Some of them were harsh and cruel. Others pegged me as some type of little pervert.

  As I grew older and became more aware that no matter how much the families and social workers tried to tell me I was part of the family, I knew better. The judgement hardened me. I no longer wanted to blend into a family … with people who spoke to me and of me in kindness to my face then berated me behind closed doors.

  I moved from home to home as they tried to find adoptive families. The older I got, the angrier and more withdrawn I became. This made me less easy to place. The families who would take in an older child, one deemed anti-social, were not kind, and the last few homes I was in, they seemed to have some desire to “fix me” and all with harsh hands.

  Even having been physically and emotionally abused in my last placement, I thank God every day for placing me with Oliver’s family. He may have been born into his family, but their treatment of him was no different than it was of me. Had it not been for Maisie and her kindness, had it not been for our friendship, neither of us would have been strong enough alone to get the hell out.

  Getting out was easier than what came next. Neither of our families fought to right wrongs. Every person deserves love, but not every person we desire it from, gives it in return.

  The next part of my life, a life free of hatred and pain, was harder to navigate than one would think. Having known the great love of beautiful women with beautiful souls … beauty became a blinding force in my life. I didn’t learn to easily distinguish between things of beauty and … love. I was conflicted. As luck would have it, I was a quick learner.

  I have been void of emotions for several years when it came to women who I shared physical connections with. As soon as I saw her, though, it all went to hell.

  A man wants what a man wants.

  The eyes see what they see.

  I saw her, heard her, touched her, then tasted, fucked, and made love to her. But she was Brigitte then, and now, now she is Angela. And Angela is connected to one of the greatest hurts in my life. One I forced myself to move past, yet I now find myself immersed in.

  For the past week and one day, conflict hasn’t been just an emotion; it’s been all-consuming. I need time to let it sort itself out. I need to figure out what to do with it. But first, I need to forgive her for the same thing I need her to forgive me for. Then and only then will I be able to find out if she loved … him.

  That’s the only way this conflict will stop consuming me, and then I can decide if I want to fuck her, claim her, or crush her … before she crushes me.

  The entire dinner, I steal glances of her and wish she was on my plate instead of veal, and then I wish that fucker never laid a finger on her.

  I wish my heart and head weren’t in constant battle. I feel like a fucking teenager again, trying to hide a hard-on for my eighth grade English teacher, Mrs. Johnson, who was beautiful and kind … and had a rack on her that caused many wet dreams.

  I hope that, as much as I want her now, it fades quicker than an academic year. Spending time with her outside of an intimate setting, one that may as well have been staged—hell, each of us thought it was up until yesterday—should do it.

  After dinner, the small jazz quartet begins playing as the tables are cleared.

  I stand up and extend my hand to Maisie. “One dance before you leave?”

  “But of course.” She smiles as she takes my hand.

  On the dance floor, she asks, “Miles Davis?”

  “Who else?” I ask, holding my left hand palm up for her to take while placing the right on her back.

  “It’s been a couple years. Do you remember what I taught you?” she chides jokingly.

  “It became a signature move, Maisie.” I wag my eyebrows at her, and she tosses her head back with a laugh.

  “You boys.” She shakes her head as we begin to do the jazz forward move she taught me when I was fifteen.

  “Men, Maisie. You took boys and molded them to be men.”

  After the first dance, Maisie looks up at me then around the dance floor.

  I step back, bow a bit, and kiss her hand.

  I hear applause and look around at those standing around the dance floor.

  “Jesus,” I grumble.

  “Let’s take another turn,” Maisie says, giving me no choice.

  As we dance, she tells me, “Your confidence and intelligence will win them all over. Don’t hide it.”

  I don’t want to tell her I don’t give a fuck, because that would undermine the true impact she had on me.

  “Thank you, Maisie. I’ll do my best.”

  “Don’t overthink it, Bastien.” She looks at me fondly then points her finger up to the ceiling, telling me without words: When you’re feeling down, look up.

  Maisie insists Oliver dance with her as well.

  Both of us are concerned with her wellbeing. She needs rest, but neither of us can tell her that. She’s stubborn and wouldn’t listen anyway.

  When they finish, he and I walk her out to the waiting car where her nurse waits for her.

  “Goodnight, men,” she says as she slips inside.

  We both reply, “Night, Maisie.”

  After the car pulls away, Oliver and I both stand there, watching it. No words are needed, just a look between us, acknowledging how fortunate we are for her being in our lives.

  I walk back in, glance around the dance floor, and see Angela dancing with Burns. I take a step toward them before Oliver grips my shoulder.

  “What are ya gonna do? Go kick his ass?”

  I turn quickly to face him, to tell him yes, and then set about to do just that when I realize I fucking can’t, because she isn’t mine. I still haven’t figured out what she will be to me … if anything.

  “Can you give the room full of assholes the ‘piss off, I’m in charge’ speech so we can get the fuck out of here and take these monkey suits off, for fuck’s sake, man?”

  “Yeah, just give me a minute.” Walking toward them, intent on cutting in, I’m thankful for the five second delay caused by Oliver to reel in the impulsive instincts I have when it comes to her.

  Tapping Burns on the shoulder, he looks back and up at me.

  “I’m cutting in.”

  He nods and steps back. “Talk soon, Angela?”

  She looks pensive when she says, “Of course.”

  Both my hands fall to her hips, and again those primal instincts kick in. I find myself pulling her closer than one would a casual dance partner.

  She takes my hand from her left hip and holds it up.

  Before I can say a word, she begins, “Around Maisie, you act like a gentleman. I’d appreciate the same respect.”

  “How have I been disrespectful?” I ask defensively.

  “I’m cutting in.” She uses a tone in which I assume is an interpretation of what I sound like to her, and I have to bite back a laugh. “Furthermore, I have no idea what happened last night—”

  “I was a gentleman.”

  Her face flushes as she clears her throat before beginning again. “I have no idea what happened last night—”

  “That’s why Autumn was asked to come,” I interrupt again.

  “Asked,” she whisper-hisses. “You threatened to fire her.”

  “It was an urgent matter.”

  “Meaning I was drunk and you knew sober I may have told you to stick it in your ass.”

  I bite my lip again, holding back a laugh. “Meaning that I had to prepar
e something for tonight and welcome you back and—”

  “That’s crap and you know it.”

  “I have no idea why you’re so angry, Angela. It was a very lucrative offer.”

  “Which is the only reason I’m here and not having an attorney deem the damn thing illegal.”

  No longer humored, I ask, “Did you speak to Jean the way you’re speaking to me?”

  “He was not you.” She stops and looks away. “He and I were strictly business.”

  “So, when his cock was inside you”—she begins to pull away, but I hold her firmer—“was that business, Angela?”

  When she doesn’t answer, I demand, “Answer my question.”

  “It’s certainly none of yours, Bass.”

  “You didn’t withhold a damn thing at the beach. Anything I asked—”

  “That was …” A V forms between her eyes as she scowls. She looks pained, and it fucking hurts to see her that way, but I hurt, too. “Different.”

  “I hate that he had you. A man like that doesn’t deserve a woman like you. He’s shit, Bridge. He’s shit, and he fucked you? How?” As soon as the words leave my lips, I wish I could take them back.

  She blinks a few times and swallows hard. “I’m sorry that he treated you the way he did. There is no excuse.”

  “I should say I appreciate the words, but you don’t look convincing.”

  “Then you don’t know the real me. And that’s fine, Bass. It’s fine because it was … It was a fling. It was fun. Had we known each other … truly, it would never have been.”

  When she tries to step back again, I hold a little tighter.

  “Then tell me who you are, because I can’t seem to get you off my fucking mind.”

  “Void the contract.” Her tone is even, but her eyes seem to beg me. “Nothing good will come of this.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Absolutely fucking not. Not until I have some questions answered. Not until I can decide what to do with you next.”

  “What to do with me next?” She shakes her head and looks away. “I’m not yours.”

  “Were you his?”

  “I was never his. We were equals. Now, stop please. Just—”

  I lean in and whisper in her ear, “You were never his equal, Bridge.”

  I feel her grip my shoulder a little tighter, and fuck if it doesn’t feel good to get a reaction out of her.

  “He didn’t deserve you, just like he never deserved me.”

  Her grip tightens further. “You need to let go.”

  I look down at her and see a bit of fear in her eyes. “Do I?”

  “What do you mean do you?”

  “I have you for three months. We’ll work side by side. And my fucking hope is I see something in you that turns me off.” I pull her closer, just enough to make damn sure she sees how hard I am because of her.

  Her eyes widen, and she steps back.

  “It should make me sick that a man I despise fucked you. It should make me want to run from you and not keep you close. But I don’t buy for one second that the Bridge I know would willingly lie down for a man like that. It makes me want to protect you from men like him, like Burns, like—”

  “I knew what I was doing, Bass.”

  Her words impact me harder than her slap to my face had.

  “There was no manipulation on his part, nor on mine.”

  “Did you love him?”

  She shakes her head and looks at me sadly. “You want me because he had me. You want me to tell you things that are untrue in my experience with him. I’m not a liar, nor am I one to hurt someone, so please … I beg you to stop the questioning. My heart breaks for the boy who felt his own father didn’t want him. And it hurts me that I can’t despise him like you do.”

  “One more question.”

  She sighs and looks up.

  “I was better.”

  She sighs. “That’s not a question.”

  “I was going to ask whose cock was bigger, but then I remembered how hard I had to work to get into you from behind.”

  She tries to look angry, but when she bites her lower lip, I know she’s amused. Then I look down and see her nipples poking into the fabric of the dress, and I know damn well she’s turned on.

  “Come with me.” I put my hand on her back and guide her to the nearest exit.

  She comes freely.

  Now I will make her come in multiples.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Angela

  What the hell am I doing? I think as he hurries me out the door, his hand now lower on my back.

  “Fucking dress is ridiculously hot on you,” he sputters as he hurries me down the hallway toward what I think are bathrooms. “It’s gonna look hotter on the fucking floor.”

  Hell. No.

  “Is everything okay?” Eric Cartwright’s voice stops us.

  “Of course it’s okay,” Bass all but bites his head off with just four words.

  His hand goes to his chest. “Thank God. I thought—”

  “Shit.” Bass removes his hand from my ass and shakes his. “You’re Eric.”

  “I am.” He nods.

  “How’s your father?” Bass asks him sincerely.

  “Not good.” Eric leans against the wall. “The bypass is done, just going to have to see how much damage—”

  “What happened?” I interrupt.

  “Daniel had a heart attack,” Bass tells me then looks back at Eric. “His son is stepping in. Which isn’t necessary, but—”

  “It is. Our family has been part of de la Porte for years.”

  “I’m so sorry, Eric. If there’s anything I can do—”

  He laughs. “Oh, there is.”

  Bass audibly growls.

  “I met your friend Autumn this summer. She seems to think—”

  I interrupt, “I’m not sure this is a good time to discuss—”

  “The Hamptons?” Bass asks, clearly less annoyed by Eric now.

  Eric runs his hands through his thick hair. “Christ, what a mess. But you two should get to wherever it was you were going in such a hurry. I was just concerned.”

  “We were just going over my speech. Should be a real snooze. But some folks were confused as to why Angela hasn’t been around. She’ll be back Monday.”

  Eric nods. “My father will be glad to hear it.”

  “It won’t be Monday. I’m going overseas on Monday.” I look at Bass. “Remember?”

  He nods, studying me.

  “Well, we’ll see you in there.” Eric turns and walks away.

  As soon as Eric is out of earshot, Bass asks, “Are you going to see Natasha?”

  “I’m hoping to surprise her.”

  “Okay, then. Why?”

  I feel nauseous knowing this will hurt him. “Jean asked that Alfred contact me when he passed to take care of his personal affairs.”

  His affliction is obvious, painfully so.

  “Bass, I don’t think this is going to work. I don’t think—”

  His demeanor changes. “Maybe not for you, but for me, this is exactly what I need.”

  When he turns to walk away, I don’t try to stop him. What good would it do?

  I sit at the table and watch as he discusses the Fall line and the three designers he found that had been discarded. Designers he feels will be a better fit for de la Porte’s new direction. A younger more youthful direction.

  It stings a bit, which I’m sure is the intention, but he’s doing exactly what he should be doing.

  “Did you see him?” Autumn whispers from beside me in the car that is taking us home.

  “I spoke to him. I’m so sorry I forget to tell you. I’m a horrible friend.”

  “Did he say something?” Her panic is apparent.

  “I didn’t know about his father.”

  “I didn’t either until tonight!” she exclaims. “My God. You need to come back soon.”

  “So, is he—”

  She lu
nges at me and buries her head in my neck as she sobs, “We fucked in the coatroom!”

  “You—”

  “I’m a horrible person. I am. But he needed it. He told me he needed it and … God, he needed it,” she moans

  There are a million things I should say to her right now, motherly things, bossily things, professional etiquette … things, but right now, she needs a friend.

  “Well, I … um.”

  “I’m so screwed!” she cries.

  “Everything will be okay,” I say, soothing her the best I can, again feeling awful because I’m so glad it wasn’t me having sex tonight.

  “It never will. Not ever.” She continues to cry.

  “We’re both going to be just fine.”

  “At least yours isn’t in college.” She sniffles.

  “At least you didn’t sleep with his father,” I admit to her what she already knew.

  “Were you in love with him?”

  I shake my head. “I thought it was the perfect arrangement. I respected him, and he me. There were no commitments, no dates, no overnights, no nothing but the occasional orgasm.”

  She sits up and wipes her face, ridding it of her tears while waiting for more.

  “I’ve already broken my agreement.” I smile sadly.

  “Can’t you take me with you?” She pouts. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Him or yourself?”

  “Both.” Her shoulders rise in a quick release of forced laughter.

  I sigh and lean back against the soft leather seat. “We’ll be fine.”

  I agree to stay with her in her one-bedroom apartment until the holidays. She’s right; it’s a win-win situation. She needs me, I need her, and it’s pretty safe to say that we both need a little therapy and a lot of Jesus.

  Arriving at Jean’s home, located in the Le Septieme, at the Quarter des Invalides of Paris, I walk through an overgrown garden of wild flowers and beautiful, full Japanese maple trees surrounding the home. I follow the short path to the wrought iron gates where I see his home.