Couture Love

by Fields, MJ

“The twins needed braces, Bec was losing her home until she married Scott, Kimmi is a fucking—”

  “Shelby is right outside this door.”

  “Well, she’s gonna get help, because that one”—he points toward the door—“has been through enough.”

  “Why did you stop paying support?” Shit. Not now jackass, I tell myself. “Never mind—”

  “Never stopped. Addicts will say whatever they need to get what they want.” He chuckles.

  “Why’s that funny?”

  “The situation’s not funny, but that one”—he points toward the door again—“reminds me of me. Resourceful.

  “Had nothing but a hard-on for the sweetest girl I’d ever seen in my life, and I swindled to have enough to put gas in my car and buy a meal for that woman.”

  “She shouldn’t have to—”

  “Never wanted any of you to. I gave you all that I could and then some.” He looks away. “Never wanted you to struggle like I did. And got lucky enough that a man like Jean took a chance on me, or we wouldn’t have been able to keep your mother’s house, because I had to bust my ass to pay taxes and feed a family. Up until a couple years ago, I didn’t know how to get the rights back to her work. You have an inheritance, steady monthly income, due to a man giving me the name of a literary agent who made her work relevant again.”

  “I didn’t realize—”

  “And I wished you never did. It’s embarrassing to have your firstborn look at you like you are shit beneath his Italian leather loafers.”

  “I’m sorry.” And I was.

  “I know things need to change. Hell, Jean’s boy could sell out or get rid of us all, basically said he was going to. That happens, and I have five kids who aren’t going to get an education paid for and two of the four women I married have no legal skills or means to take care of them.”

  “I’ll do what I can to help.”

  “I know you will. You have her heart.” He holds his hand over his.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “It’s fucking killing me.”

  I hear a giggle and look toward the door where Shelby is peeking in.

  “Literally.”

  “Get your behind in here.” Dad smiles. Then he looks over at me. “I do love you, Eric.”

  “Love you, too.”

  * * *

  Dad came through his surgery, and when he finally woke, he was an irritable asshole, which meant he was back to his normal self.

  When he told me I need a tux and asked me to make sure it was de la Porte worthy, I was about to tell him that wasn’t fucking possible because I had no means. Shelby must have read my mind, though, because she kicked the fuck out of my ankle to shut me up.

  When he falls asleep, she pulls a wad of cash from her pocket, bigger than I remember leaving her. “Go get something de la Porte worthy. Grab me some greasy food while you’re out.”

  “I’m not taking your dirty money. And wherever you got it—”

  “Sold the Fendi and the—”

  “I told you not to do that shit.”

  “Well, I needed cash so when I ran away from Dad’s, I had enough to—”

  She stops when I snatch the entire wad of cash out of her hand. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

  She shrugs. “Well, you are, so go get the proper attire, Eric. We Cartwrights are expected to show like Westminster Kennel pups.”

  She’s spot-on. We’re that family who look picture-perfect, in our matching couture clothes. But before the camera’s shutter snaps, it’s, “Enough fucking around and sit, for Christ’s sake. Look like you’re actually enjoying this, or we’ll be here all fucking day.” Then five smiling faces appear on print in a Christmas card for all the assholes out there putting on the same facade.

  “I have shit at home. This is wasteful.”

  “Then leave the tags on and return it when you’re done.” She sits back on her seat. “That’s what Mom does when she wants to impress someone.”

  “That’s not what we do,” I tell her, standing up.

  “It is if we’re broke.”

  “Jesus, Shelby, remind me to run down a basic list of wrongs and rights when I get back.”

  “Wrong door, EJ. That’s the bathroom.”

  “Then it’s the right door, because I have to piss.”

  Standing in front of the mirror, I look at myself and realize how fucking badly I need a haircut and a shave before this thing.

  Autumn.

  Well, you may look like shit, but there is a possibility that you’ll see her again.

  I close my eyes and say a half-ass prayer. “Please.”

  I look at my phone and hit the notifications to see if, by some miracle God works that fast, but there is no snap. However, there is an email from Star Lines.

  I hit it and open the email, simply based on the word star.

  It’s from the CEO, Philip Ellison

  Eric,

  I received your information, email, and back account from Jimbo. Don’t be pissed at him for giving out personal information. Trust me when I tell you that I was a little shocked he gave it out so freely.

  He heard from your stepmother about your father and neither of us wanted you to stress. Just want you to know how seriously we want you.

  Attached is the contract that links to an electronic signature site, all legal. If you accept the offer, we’ll get notification that you signed and will immediately transfer the sum of thirty thousand US dollars and an extra thousand for the toughest negotiator that I have ever had the pleasure of doing business with.

  We know that you’re dealing with a family crisis and will work with you however we can to get the shoot done in the timeliest manner possible for you.

  Our prayers are with you, Eric. Regardless of your decision, we wish you and yours the best.

  From our family to yours,

  Philip, Kathy, Kylie, Krissy, Kasey, and Kaden Ellison

  Fuck it.

  I hit the link, download the document, and sign it without reading a fucking word.

  After all, it was written with stars.

  * * *

  Standing at the bar at the La Plume Manhattan for a de la Porte company dinner, I scan the room like a predator seeking the one and only thing that will satisfy a craving, knowing it’s not here or I would feel her like I did every other time she’s been in near proximity. That awareness.

  Taking a sip of my scotch, I look around and recognize the majority of these people from other social events. All board members, major shareholder, and new designers. I know at least twice a year Father … Dad attends these functions when a new line is announced.

  The place looks very couture. Waitstaff dressed in black and white designer uniforms, the tables draped in black and white color linens and topped with the finest dinner and glassware, with the de la Porte banner hanging beautifully behind the podium in the corner.

  “How’s your father doing?” It’s Burns, my least favorite asshole on the board.

  “Not great, but he pulled through the surgery. He’s expected to recover just fine.”

  “Thank God for that. Couldn’t imagine being in the boardroom with that arrogant little fuck without him. Did you know he used to be a fashion model? What kind of man—”

  “I’m not my father, Burns, and I have no desire in tearing down someone else to feel good about myself. Now, excuse me while I find the man in charge and congratulate him on what I know will be a successful transition.”

  “Listen here, EJ—”

  “Piss off,” I say as I turn and walk to the other end of the bar. And that is the moment I feel her.

  I turn around just in time to watch her red lips and can clearly read the word shit dropping from them when her eyes meet mine. Her hair’s different. No more highlights, now it’s chocolate brown. It’s upswept, lose braids framing the soft curls around her gorgeous face. Her dress, deep and shimmering burgundy—Autumn—fits like a glove and isn’t short like the others, but modestly hits abo
ve her knees. And those calves are popping above delicate feet in heels that scream leave me in these and fuck me senseless.

  I follow her line of vision and whisper, “Shit.”

  Then she turns to face Angela and says something before she turns and starts to head back to the entrance, but Angela stops her and guides her toward the dining tables.

  As they pass a waiter, Angela grabs a glass of bubbly and hands it to her as she speaks to the waiter, who then guides them to their seats.

  When they sit down, I know she’s in for the long haul, and I feel a bit surer about getting face time with her. I just have no fucking clue what to say. But I will figure it out.

  I get another drink from the bar, and then, like a common criminal, I sneak around the room, staying in the shadows, and find a seat behind her at an empty table.

  “I feel like Taylor Swift’s album titles somehow mimic my life at the time she releases them. Like she knows me.” Autumn sighs.

  “What?” Angela asks in confusion.

  “Speak Now was released in 2010. I knew I shouldn’t have married my ex. The ‘Wedding March’ sounded like the imperial stormtroopers march. In 2012, she released ‘Red.’ In 2014, ‘1989’ was released, and I wished I could go back to that year because I was in marital hell. Now ‘Reputation’ is released, and I have single-handedly ruined mine, and in the fucking Hamptons of all places.”

  “Oh, dear, you’ve just not visited the right parts of the Hamptons,” an older woman who just arrived at the table states.

  “Angela?”

  I assume Angela confirms that it is in fact her.

  “It appears we’ll be sitting next to each other for the evening. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Maisie.”

  I can’t help glancing over my shoulder when Angela stands and shakes her hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  I also can’t stand that there’s a man standing there, too damn close to Autumn, the place I want to be.

  The woman laughs. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course,” Angela says as they sit.

  Autumn reaches up as a waiter passes and takes two glasses of champagne off the tray. She pushes one toward Angela, and Angela scolds her with a look. Autumn just quirks a perfectly shaped eyebrow and smirks.

  Mischievous little minx.

  When I hear another man’s voice, I look up. “Impeccable timing.”

  “Are you causing problems?” he asks as he looks down at the older woman with deep admiration.

  She reaches back and pats his hand. “Have I ever been a problem starter, young man?”

  He laughs.

  Then I hear Autumn say, “Is he smiling, laughing, rocking the hell out of that tux, and kissing old ladies?”

  “Watch the old lady comment, will you?” Angela whisper-hisses at her.

  “There’s no excuse in his change of behavior, aside from mental health issues or something that can only be seen in a movie.” Autumn smiles at Angela roguishly.

  Exactly. Yet you run from it.

  I feel like a kid again, waiting by the curb after a game, waiting for Father to pick me up, while all the other kids are leaving with theirs. Their fathers giving them accolades and words of encouragement. Or when any of my siblings first came home from the hospital, the way my father seemed so enamored with them. Both feelings I craved. And here I am, still wanting to be part of something that I’m not.

  When music starts and the man that Autumn was lightly teasing Angela about, the man I can safely assume is the one who kept Angela preoccupied so that I had Autumn most of last weekend, takes the older woman from the table and onto the dance floor, it hits me.

  Plot twist. He’s Bastian Josephs, the man Father described as Jean’s bastard son and Burns spoke ill about because he was once a male model.

  Fucking plot twist, I chuckle inwardly.

  Nineteen

  Autumn

  Knowing the object of every sexual fantasy I have ever had in the past, faceless then, and every fantasy I will have in the future, and that any man who happens to come into my life will be a slight disappointment because of him who is in the same room should have me on edge. But with Angela in the same position, it makes this bearable.

  As soon as she’s whisked away, I feel like a baby lamb being circled by a ravenous lion that hasn’t eaten for days and only wants a fucking lamb chop. Therefore, I quickly make my way to the safety of the woman’s bathroom.

  I’m not a runner, although the thought of being one of those women who run 5Ks … for fun has always intrigued me … Anyway, seeing that woman’s bathroom door must be similar to seeing the finish line with no one ahead of you to slow you down or take away the extreme pleasure you’ll gain from attaining your goal.

  “Stop avoiding me, dammit.”

  For the love of sexy voices, girl type wet dreams, and the embarrassment of wanting to become a lamb, I swoon inwardly. But I’m a fierce bitch, especially this past week, so I slow the hell down and decide, tits up.

  “Now, why would I avoid you?” I turn around and look above his head, because … all the reasons. “Because you decided to leave a frat party in freaking North Carolina to stalk me?”

  “Stalk you?” he huffs. “I’m here in my father’s place.”

  “What happened to your old man? You finally decide to do the world a favor and bury his ass in the backyard?”

  He doesn’t reply, but even looking over the top of his head, I can see his beautiful, sexy smirk come and go just as quickly as it appeared.

  “EJ?” a woman’s voice comes from behind him. I have no idea who it is.

  When I look at him, he apparently catches on that I may not like the fact that he brought a date here and represses another self-satisfied smirk.

  I give him back a who the hell cares look.

  When the woman walks around him, I realize it’s Harrison Fuller’s current wife, Lita.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry about your father.” While she hugs him, I feel my jaw drop and hit the floor.

  “Thank you, Lita.” He steps back from a hug that he only briefly participates in.

  “He’s here in the city, right?”

  He nods. “Surgery went well. He asked me to be here in his place.”

  “Well, with Harrison leaving right after dinner for a weekend golfing trip with his son, I would love to offer you a place to stay if needed.” She looks back at me briefly then turns toward him. “We have a very nice place in the heart of Manhattan.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Fuller, but we’re all set.”

  “Staying in a hotel?”

  “Staying with him at the hospital.”

  She giggles. “A big boy like you needs a nice bed to stretch out in. The offer stands, EJ.”

  “Again, I appreciate it. Shelby might actually like that.”

  She clears her voice. “Is she still having that problem?”

  “What problem is that, Lita?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

  “You know, the ‘lifting’,” she whispers, but just barely.

  “No more an issue than Harrison’s son, Arnold, had with hookers or stepsisters.”

  I cover my mouth to capture the pure, joyful sound that may escape caused by anyone putting these assholes in their places.

  She gasps. “He never—”

  “Lita, I don’t want to go into details about what happens to the children of parents who pay more attention to their social standings than their own kids, but I will gladly—”

  Time to step in.

  “Eric, have you met Bastian?”

  “Officially, no,” he answers, tight-lipped.

  “Let me introduce you.” I walk past him and, for some reason, I know he will follow.

  Once we turn the corridor out of earshot from anyone else, I turn and look at him. “I’m sorry I said anything bad about your father. I didn’t know. Is he okay?” I realize my hand is on his bicep and start to take it away when he grabs it. />
  “He’s gonna be fine. But let me ask you something. What in the fuck—”

  “Shh … Jesus,” I scold as I look behind me.

  When I feel him yank my hand, I turn just as he’s pulling me into a dark room, and when I hear a click, I assume he’s locking it.

  “This is not okay,” I snap, pulling my hand away from his.

  When the light comes on, I realize we’re in a coatroom.

  “You know what’s not fucking okay, Autumn of …?” He stops and makes a face as if he’s disgusted with himself then begins again. “Sending message after message to a woman who you know damn well has fucking feelings for you and having her little groundhog emoji taunt the fuck out of you when she’s typing a response, and then this grown-ass woman decides not to answer. So, tell me, Autumn, why you’re either fucking with me or denying yourself this?” He waves his hand up and down his body.

  Smug bastard.

  “Tell me, Eric”—angry, I poke him in the chest—“why you sent a fucking picture of us to my ex-husband, and then why I have to find out about it from my mother!”

  “He called your mother!”

  I poke him again. “Not the point! You’re a frat boy who made a frat boy choice! Then, when you send me all these fucking snaps.” I snap my fingers in his face. Thinking to myself, I add the unspoken truth, And even after that bullshit I wanted to reply.

  “He sent a dick pic while you were wrapped around me. Was it immature?”

  I start to answer yes, but he cuts me off.

  “No, it wasn’t because, at that moment, I was trying to figure out how to make this thing with us … something. And I didn’t need a big leagued, little dick asshole, who had you for all those years, flopping around a piece of grade Z beef, distracting you or making you remember why the hell you don’t trust men.” Anger and defeat mix in his tone and expression. “Now, tell me, Autumn”—he hits himself in the chest—“why you didn’t reply.”

  “If I had, it would have been far less than I”—I hit my own chest now—“am willing to give to a situation that I don’t have time to do a thing about because my life is pretty fucked up right now. I also vowed to myself that I would never ever do that to myself again, and then I realized I couldn’t do it to you either.”