by Xavier Neal
“Sorry,” he apologizes hastily. “I am rambling on. I do that. I get in trouble for it when Mr. Rhys has a house full of guests who don’t want to be bothered with stories from a un jeune homme like me…”
“It’s late…Are you working? Do you work for him?”
Chip tugs on the sleeves of his dress shirt. “Occasionally. Usually, only when there are extra hands needed for a party. I was actually studying. Test tomorrow.”
“Well I hope you do well.”
“Merci.”
“Which way is the library?” I question now wondering what it might look like.
“Allow me to show you.”
He bends his arm for me to take, and I politely do. To my surprise he starts gushing about how much he actually loves studying and how fortunate he is to have Rhys’ vast collection at his fingertips. Chip brags about how Rhys always orders him new textbooks or reading material and casually adds how he’s also paying for him to attend college. Hearing the generosity he’s providing reminds me of my own, though obviously more open.
Is it strange to be like someone you share DNA with even if you’ve never spent much time around them?
We arrive at the double doors and he swings them open for me. The sight inside is truly breathtaking. There are bookshelves on two levels filled from end to end, wooden tables and desks with books piled on them, spiral staircases, leather couches, leather chairs, and a nook in the far corner that allows you to read while looking out the window.
“The rest of the library is through there.” Chip points to a door in the opposite corner of the nook. “Computers. Tablets. More books and of course his most expensive paintings for decoration. They’re hideous to me but what do I know? I’m a history major.”
I smirk at his comment.
Chip folds his arms across his chest and coos, “Tu as un beau sourire.”
Is he really hitting on me? Right. Translation. I’ve got a beautiful smile.
My hand falls to my hip. “You think it’s wise to hit on me?”
“No.”
“And yet…”
“J’ai toujours été stupide pour un joli visage.”
‘I’ve always been stupid for a pretty face.’ He’s cute. I would destroy him if I were younger…
“Vous devriez me craindre. Je ne suis pas aussi gentil que l’homme qui vous emploie.”
‘You should fear me. I am not as kind as the man who employs you.’
“Oui.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “But I like it.”
His flattery rolls my eyes. “Go to bed.”
Chip chuckles, gives me a curt nod, and disappears back the way he led me.
The moment I’m completely alone I begin a slow trek around the room, getting a feeling of how the books are organized. My fingers caress the spines along my route, impressed with the leather and sturdiness of the hardbacks.
Ebooks just steal this fucking joy from people…I mean I don’t even really like to read and would much rather have one of these between my fingers than a bright device or listening to someone bring a book to life.
At some point I reach the mystery section and stumble upon a sight that strikes pain into my chest. Carefully, I remove the first edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
One of Brock’s favorites of all times. Pretty sure this is where his love for spies and mysteries began.
I grip the closed book tighter as a tickle appears in the back of my throat.
You know, I’ve never fucking wanted to be wrong before. I’ve never fucking wanted to be proven more wrong than I did when I said sex ruins people. I wanted us to be the exception. I wanted to be wrong when I said there would come a day when he would have to choose between me and Q. Fuck. I did everything I possibly could’ve to guarantee I would be. Yet I wasn’t. I knew what the fuck would happen if we got together, just like I fucking knew as soon as I let him, he’d fucking leave me. Because that’s what happens to me. People always fucking leave. It’s easier to be alone. It’s also easier to banish them before they can banish you.
Tears silently tumble down my cheeks.
“Want to talk about it?” Rhys voice startles me.
Little warning he was here would’ve been nice.
Quickly, I put the book back and sniffle. “There’s nothing to talk about other than your books are dusty and bothering my allergies.”
Rhys leans his back against the railing. “Perhaps the subject you’ve spent the entire day en évitant.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
My scowl deepens as my eyes bore into his. “I haven’t. And much like I don’t enjoy getting the sniffles from your accumulation of dust, I also don’t enjoy trite speeches or conseil non sollicité.”
He lets his head tilt to one side. “Perhaps not, but have you considered the perspective an unbiased third party might be?”
“I. Do. Not. Care.”
“You know French, it is no mystery why you are the way you are. Your walls are thick. Your attitude callous. Your stride impenetrable. All the things that make you, you, are nothing more than results from who we were once upon a time. But your humanity, your need to help others as you were never helped yourself is truly what makes you the most beautiful person I have ever met. It appears as if you do everything for profit. For personal gain. But that’s the façade that keeps you protected. You’re not in it to ‘win it’ as you Americans say. You’re in it so other people have the opportunity to get ahead. To chase their dreams. To not be ashamed of whoever it is they truly are. It’s why you allow people to take shelter in your castle until they’re ready to enjoy the sunlight. Because you were denied that and never truly want anyone else in the pain you were bathed in.”
Another round of tears pricks my eyes, yet I remain silent.
“I can’t undo the past, Poppet. I can only build a future. Maybe today you don’t want my advice. Maybe today you don’t want to hear that I understand. But someday…Someday I truly hope you do.” Rhys stands up and slides his hands into his robe. “And I have a fierce determination like you. I do not plan to stop trying to be your père until I actually am him.”
My chest tightens and unease clinches around my lungs.
No. Don’t! Look what happened the last time I let my guard down. He fucking barged into my office and broke me. I won’t go through it again. I…can’t. Easier to keep everyone shut out.
“Voulez-vous du lait chaud ou du thé while you browse?”
I try to speak, but my jaw trembles in betrayal.
Without hesitation, Rhys reaches out and wraps his arms around me. The pressure of his body pressed against mine breaks the willpower I had left. Silently, I bawl against his chest while he gives my back a kind stroke.
“I hate crying,” I growl yet don’t stop. “Crying is a sign of weakness.”
He pulls back and gently tips my chin up. “Crying is often a result of being too strong too long.”
Fuck. How is he already good at the fatherly thing after like a day?
“It’s alright to lean on others every so often, Poppet. To let us be there for you the way you have been for so many others.”
My lips press together as I nod.
“Am I right to assume these tears have something to do with the man you were willing to sacrifice anything to give him his brother back?”
I don’t answer.
“No advice here,” he surrenders his hands, “but I am more than willing to share a few stories about how stupid men are when we are amoureux.”
“Very stupid,” I snip.
“Extremely. And in my personal experience the harder we have fallen for someone the dumber we become.”
In Chip’s case, literally.
“While I do not know Brock personally, he’d have to be a complete idiot not to be in love with a woman as incredible as my daughter. And…typically someone doesn’t stay by your side the way you claim he has for ten years for anything else. Loyalty can lead but love makes it last.”
Rhys drops his arm around my shoulder. “Why don’t we have some waffles and watch an old movie? We can talk about my epic fails or what’s bothering you whenever you’re ready.”
I lean into his grip. “Which movie?”
“You’re a Gene Wilder fan.”
“You remember.”
He smugly smiles. “I do. How does Blazing Saddles sound? It’s one of my favorites by Mel Brooks.”
“Sounds like this weekend might be exactly what I need after all.”
Maybe I don’t have Brock to lean on any more, but who knows. Maybe I’ll learn to let Rhys be there for me…We all should have someone we can rely on, right? Maybe if I give him a chance, he’ll step up like he never has before. Sometimes some people just need a chance to prove they are capable of more than we ever believed they could be.
French
I settle into my office chair to prepare to sort through the missed calls and emails.
Never been this long away from work or my phone before. Have to admit. It was rather refreshing. After a late night of chocolate chip waffles with Rhys and numerous stories about his relationship mess ups, I began to feel a little better about Brock’s mistake of assuming the worst of me. On Friday, we went Paris where we had pastries and replenished our wardrobes. I let him introduce me to a few friends of his by attending a cocktail party with him. Afterwards, we sat on his balcony, sipped champagne and discussed mine. Well, my employees. I’m not sure they consider me friends though after describing them I realize they’re definitely more like family. Saturday, we slept, enjoyed a late lunch, and went horseback riding once more around the property before I boarded my private plane, which he brags about buying me. Insisting it was the best gift a twenty-one-year-old could have ever gotten. While it wasn’t the weekend I predicted, it was perfect. I agreed to spend more time with him, to make more of an effort, and he expressed his gratitude for the opportunities, present and future. Rhys was right. I’m not weak. I’m just constantly too strong for too long. It’ll be nice to have a shoulder since I lost one…
My hand reaches for the cell when there’s a knock on my door.
It’s fucking six a.m. on a Sunday. Everyone should be asleep.
“Enter.”
The door cracks open and Brock’s solemn face appears around it. “May I come in?”
His polite behavior forces me to snip, “You’re asking? Ha. There’s a first. Maybe I should go out of town more often.”
He doesn’t bite back. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t move.
I gesture my hand. “Yes. You may come in.”
Brock takes two steps in and exposes his truly exhausted look. The body I’ve missed falling asleep beside is cloaked in the black Tom Ford suit pants and white shirt I picked out the evening he spent with his brother. He has the top few undone and is proudly sporting the black hat on his head as always.
My heart pounds harshly against my chest. “What can I do for you, Prince B?” I try to hide my pain. “New phone?”
“No-”
“New vehicle?”
“No-”
“Problem with schedule? Trouble with a dancer? Trouble with a client?”
“Stop,” he basically whispers. “I don’t wanna talk to the boss.”
“Then you’re lost because you’re in my fucking office.”
“I wanna talk to French.”
The ache grows.
“I wanna talk to the woman I’m ready to fall to my knees for.”
Oh God…
“I wanna talk to the only person in my entire life I fucking need.” His body approaches my desk. “I wanna apologize. I wanna beg. I wanna be forgiven for being so fucking stupid I didn’t realize she was hell bent on fucking protecting me the same way I was her.” Brock’s hands land on the surface and he leans towards me. “Can that be arranged?”
Well when he puts it like that…
Nodding, I grab my cell, but leave my computer behind. After locking the office door, the two of us ride the elevator in suffocating silence. It isn’t until we’re in my penthouse and standing in the living room that either of us make the effort to speak again.
“So,” a defeated sigh escapes, “what is it you wanted to say?”
All of a sudden, Brock barks, “How the fuck could you not tell me Q was harassing you!?”
That….That doesn’t sound like fucking begging or apologizing.
“How the fuck could you keep that from me, French?! You don’t think I deserve to know my so called best friend not only tried to fuck you but then tried to fucking hurt you?”
“How-”
“It doesn’t matter how I fucking know, French! It matters that you didn’t fucking trust me!”
“I did trust you! I didn’t want you to have to choose between us!”
“There’s no fucking competition, baby! It’s you! It’s always fucking you! It will always be you! I’ve always fucking told you that!”
“Then how could accuse me of cheating on you!” I shout back my voice now shaking. “How could you for one fucking minute ever believe that!”
“Because I have never in my entire goddamn life believed that I’m fucking good enough for you!”
His words lower my eyebrows.
“Because why wouldn’t you cheat on me? I’m fucking nothing! Literally without you French I would’ve been nothing. Most likely fucking dead.” He shakes his head. “How the fuck in a million years could I ever be worthy of someone like you? No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, it’s just not something I fucking believe. And so yeah…I let Q get the better of me. I bought his bullshit because the insecurities inside of me, eating me alive, couldn’t pass up on a buffet of more self-loathing.” Brock takes a step towards me. “I am sorry for what I did. All of it. I didn’t trust that I was enough and that caused me to break whatever trust you did have in me. But from this point forward, no more fucking cover ups. No more secrets. No more bullshit. You be up front with me about everything because that’s what you do when you fucking love someone.”
I fold my arms across my chest.
“I am…forever at your feet for finding my brother,” he continues, voice softening. “For bringing me back something I lost…But it almost cost me you and that shit is unacceptable.”
Why are you taking his side?
“Why didn’t you tell me, French?”
“Because what if I couldn’t find him? You think I wanna dangle a dream in front of you and then kick it away for a field goal? You, Brock, are the last fucking person on Earth who I would ever want to damage.”
“But you did when you kept all that shit from me.”
Was that wrong…?
“I need you to get it, French. When I agreed to be by your side through this shit, it didn’t just mean for the good and the bad. I agreed for all of it. The successes. The disappointments. The threats and the expansions. You either trust me with everything you have French, or you trust me with nothing. I’m sorry. I fucked up by accusing you of cheating-”
“Fucking right you did.”
“I own that.” He moves closer again. “Now you own not trusting me enough to be able to make the right choice when it came to protecting our home and finding my brother.”
A wave of bewilderment washes over me.
Was it a mistake to not tell him about looking for Brice? Was it a mistake hiding Q’s crimes and behaviors because I didn’t wanna ruin that friendship? Was it wrong to try to protect him from getting hurt?
“I didn’t want you hurt,” I sheepishly repeat.
“It fucking hurts more that you took away my choice like I’m a child not mature enough to make proper decisions without having to be pawned to do so.”
Fuck. He’s…ugh. He’s right.
“I’m sorry,” I quietly state. “You deserved…not to be kept in the dark.”
And maybe if I hadn’t this fight wouldn’t have occurred nor would Q have been given the chance to even imply I was screwing around behind his back. Or maybe
if I had told him about Q’s shit from the beginning less people would’ve got hurt. Holy shit. Does this mean I’m fucking to blame too?
“Everything on the table from this point forward, French. Everything.”
“Everything.”
“Good.” He nods. “Because I fucking quit.”
What the fuck is happening today?!
Brock denies me the chance to respond. “I’m not going out on that stage any more. I’m going to be by your side as your security detail and your second in command running The Castle.”