“That’s sweet.”
He chuckles. “It’s not too sweet. I had lifted a few other items. Things for me, a thong for this girl I was dating. Anyway, the guy offered for me to work off the items in their stock room. I agreed, and we sort of became close.” He glances over at me. “That guy was eventually promoted, to a high enough level that—when college didn’t work out for me—he had the pull to offer me a job.”
I stay quiet, trying to piece together the picture of a young Trey Marks, one who sounds like a street thug … with the polished man who sits beside me.
He shifts in the expensive seat, a bit of his cologne drifting over and teasing my senses. “You know Vicka Neece?”
Vicka Neece … the name is familiar, but takes a moment to place. “Sure. The Creative Director for Victoria’s Secret.” Maybe the rumor mill had it wrong. I lean forward.
“We used to work together at Bloomingdale’s. There was a bit of a connection there.”
A connection. I don’t have to look up Vicka Neece to imagine what she looks like. Victoria’s Secret doesn’t hire ugly women. She and Trey probably just looked at each other and orgasmed. I wrestle out a peanut M&M with a little more aggression than is necessary. “And?” I say brightly, and it doesn’t sound fake at all.
“And then my father died,” he says flatly, and I suddenly regret my mockery.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
“He didn’t have much to his name, but he had taken out a five-million-dollar policy three months prior to his death. A bunch of Italians came after me for part of that. Vicka Neece was interested in the rest. She pitched me on opening a lingerie brand.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t that hard to talk me into. I was twenty-six. I was stupid.”
His father. Something in my chest, a clog that hates the idea of Trey and an older woman, clears. “How were you stupid? You made it into a real player. I mean, right now we’re struggling, but—”
“I don’t regret opening the company. I regret losing Vicka. We were successful when she was here, when she was in control. And we sailed on her vision for the first few years after she left. But then, everything started to fall to shit.” He glances at me. “I don’t have to tell you that you are the sixth Creative Director we’ve had in five years.”
No, he didn’t have to tell me that. I had all of their files in the cabinet in my office. I had reviewed all of their work, all of their visions. Vicka Neece hadn’t had a file in that stack. Whatever her history with Trey, it had been erased before I got there.
“Did you ever try to get her back?” It’s almost a waste of a question, her job at VS putting her on the top rung of every fashion hierarchy. If I ever got that job, I’d be there until I died, or until I was forcibly carried out.
“No.” He rubs his neck. “We had opened the company as friends. A few months in, we started fucking.”
The words are so rough that I wince. “Just fucking?”
“I don’t know. It got so that I couldn’t tell the company from her, or our relationship from sex. I got jealous, she got jealous. We started fucking less and fighting more. And then she was gone. Packed up her office in the middle of the night and moved back to New York.”
“Do you still talk to her?”
“Fashion’s a small world. We see each other sometimes, but not much is said. I’m pissed at her for leaving; she’s pissed at me and I’m not even sure why. If you ask her now about Marks Lingerie, she won’t even admit that she worked here.”
Ouch. I take another M&M, this one gentler in its retrieval.
“Truth be told…” he glances over at me. “I’m glad you are engaged. It makes everything easier.”
I crunch down on the chocolate-covered candy and my jaw pops in response. My mind tries to process that statement, but draws a blank.
chapter 6
Him
I have grossly underestimated this woman. I stare down at the current sketch, a dark bustier with leather and lace accents. I flip the page and see the exact same cut, same style, but pale pink and white, with delicate cording instead of leather, and petite diamonds instead of silver studs. It’s a naughty and nice collection, two separate lines that will battle each other on store racks, the naughty collection a bit dominating in colors and trimmings, the nice designs almost virginal. It isn’t a new concept, but the brilliance is in the actual designs. “Our team designed these?”
“Yes.” She reaches forward, and I brush her hand away.
“Just let me look for a moment.” It’s too big of an undertaking. I flip through a stack of designs and try to count them. In four months, she’s orchestrated forty, maybe fifty, designs? “How many of these have been actually produced and fitted?”
“Fourteen.”
A more bearable number, but still. I think of production costs, of inventory levels. If it sells, if it sells well … a new set of problems. Cash flow. Production levels. I feel a knot of anxiety grip my chest.
“It’s good.” She sounds irritated, and I look up to see her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “I know it’s a different style than your last few years, but—”
“I agree. I love it.” I set down the page and sit back in my chair. “Sit down, please. You’re stressing me out.”
For the first time in months, she doesn’t talk back. She obeys. Something in the submission stirs at me, my mind losing focus for a brief moment. I close my eyes and return to the issue at hand. “It’s a big investment. Right now … it’s a tough swing.”
“It will be even harder next quarter,” she says quietly. “We need to fix things now. Immediately.”
She’s right, and I know it. My fear is that her fix, these pieces … if I invest in them, if I take that leap, it will be Marks Lingerie’s last. After this, there are no more favors to beg or pockets to pick.
“Let me show it to the sales team.” I meet her eyes. “If they like it, then let’s do it.”
“Do what? The fourteen pieces?” She stands and steps forward.
“Whatever you want, as long as you can back the product up with cost margins and deliverability.” I reach out and touch her hand, stopping her from picking up the presentations. She looks at me, and I choose my next words carefully. “I’m wagering everything on this. On you. I need you to understand how important it is for this to succeed.”
She nods, and in her eyes I see the confidence I once had. The reckless belief that, no matter what, I would succeed. When did I lose that fire? When did I become convinced I would fail?
She turns to leave, and without her, the room feels dead.
Her
Black strips of latex cut across spandex. A collar with a front ring, back buckle. Hidden underwire that makes the sample-sized model look magnificently large-breasted. In any other setting, it should be trashy. But with the right lines, cuts, and support, it is sophisticatedly beautiful.
Six months into this job, and I fight the urge to jump up and down like a school girl.
“It’s uncomfortable.” The model punctures my elation with two simple words.
“How uncomfortable?” I glance down at Vern, the technical designer, who looks at the model.
“Pretty bad.” She tilts her head, then turns it. “The worst is the collar-thing. It’s itchy.”
“On the edges or the backing?” Vern stands and moves behind her.
“The edges.”
“What else is uncomfortable?” I look down at the fitting schedule, cursing to myself. We are behind schedule, not just for today, but for this month. I shot for twenty-two new pieces, and I’m kicking myself in the ass for it. Something that seemed possible two months ago turned difficult one month ago, and now appears to be pretty-fucking-impossible. I glance back at the model and fight the urge to scream at her to hurry up. Maybe this is why Claudia was such a bitch. I am just six months into this role, and I can already feel the fraying of human qualities.
“It feels like it’s cutting into
my rib cage. The boning.”
“Okay. Move around for me and tell me when the pain increases or decreases.”
“Pain?” I interrupt Vern. “Or discomfort?”
The model stiffens, her lips parting, eyes widening, and I growl without looking over my shoulder. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”
From behind me, he chuckles. “You didn’t think I’d let you have all of the fun, did you?”
I turn, and, from my place on the stool, we are eye level. “Fittings aren’t fun. No one thinks fittings are fun.”
“I like fittings,” the model breathes, and she suddenly doesn’t look uncomfortable at all. Trey’s eyes don’t move to her; they stay on me. I thought he was beautiful from my spot on the ground. At this elevated level, he’s even more devastating.
I hop down from the stool before I lose all intelligence. “What do you think?” I nod to the woman.
“It’s gorgeous.” He walks around her slowly.
“Right. It looks great, but she’s saying it’s uncomfortable.”
“I can manage. It’s not that bad,” she offers.
Vern mumbles something under his breath, and Trey chuckles in response. “Uh-uh.” I shake my head at them. “Stop that shit.” I push at Trey’s shoulder, then point to the door. “And you, go crunch numbers somewhere. I’ve got a dozen more of these to work through.” I flip over the page. “Vern, you got this? I’m going to move on to Cecile’s model.”
“I’ll leave in a minute. Let me borrow you for a second.”
I look up from the page. “Now?” I shake my head. “No. I’m going to keep these guys here ’til midnight at this rate. Whatever it is, shoot me an email or show me in the morning.” I can’t deal with any more problems, or decisions, or his need for an opinion on the interior pages of the spring catalog.
“I’m borrowing Kate,” he calls out. “Everyone, take five.”
“No one take five,” I yell. “Everyone keep working.” He pulls at my arm and successfully manages to drag me toward the door. I half-heartedly struggle until we are in the hall, the door closed. “What?” I beg. “I’ve seriously got so much to do.”
“I just got off the phone with Paris.”
“And?” I grip his arm.
“They doubled their last order. They loved your designs.”
I shriek, throwing my arms around his neck, my clipboard catching him on the side of his face. I apologize as I grip him tightly, jumping up and down. When I release him, he rubs the side of his face with a wince. “Sorry,” I breathe. “I’m just so happy!”
“Are we able to deliver?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “I think so.” I nod, my fingers drumming excitedly over the clipboard. “If you stop interrupting fittings and turning my models’ brains to mush.”
He chuckles and steps back. “I’ll let you do your thing. I’ve got more pitches to make.”
I smile and hold his gaze. It’s his victory in sales, and mine in design. And this moment, this baby moment of joy before the panic returns, is the best in my career so far.
“They doubled their last order. They loved your designs.”
Marks Lingerie is on its way back.
The Honor Bar in Beverly Hills. We steal two spots in the corner, my purse hanging off the back of the chair, his jacket taken off, and order dinner. I ignore my diet and get a cheeseburger. He orders the same, then adds two Coronas.
I make a face. “I can’t drink tonight.” I pull at the clip, loosening my hair. My scalp burns, and I run my fingers through my roots, massaging the skin.
“Why not? We’re done for today. I’ll have your car brought to your house.” He smiles, and pushes the tabletop candle to the side. “I think you need a night to relax.”
“I’m relaxed.” I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
“You’re exhausted. There’s a difference.”
I am exhausted. Half of me is dying for my bed, my quiet apartment, my ability to sleep in late tomorrow. The other half of me feels like celebrating. It was that half of me that accepted his dinner invite.
“Why don’t you call Craig? See if he can join us.”
The waiter returns, beers in hand, and I watch him set down the bottles. “He can’t,” I reply. “He has a Chemistry Association meeting tonight. It’s a monthly thing.” I smile. “Exciting stuff.”
“Sounds like it.” He lifts his beer. “Cheers.”
I lift my bottle. “Just one drink,” I say. “I can’t be out too late.”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “You’re the boss.”
I smile at the joke, and take a sip.
I lean forward. “So I walk into the room and they are both standing there, naked.” I giggle, a hiccup forcing its way out. “I thought they were gay. And I started to apologize, you know, for interrupting them—”
“You started to apologize to your boyfriend?” Trey leans forward, a confused look on his face.
“Yes,” I wince. “It was right when there was all this PC stuff about accepting homosexuality, and all I could think was that I wanted him to know that it was okay—you know—him being gay.”
“I don’t understand where this story is going.”
I lower my voice and lean in. “They weren’t gay. They were…” I glance to the table beside us to make sure they aren’t listening. “They were waiting for me.” He doesn’t respond and I sigh, forced to fully explain it. “They wanted to have sex with me. Together!” I take a sip of the beer. “It’s called a threesome.”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “Oh yes. I’m familiar with the term.”
Of course he is. He’s probably had one. Or two. Or five. I move past his smirk and on with my story. “So anyway … that was my first boyfriend. A terrible candidate to lose my virginity to.”
“Wait.” He holds up a palm. “You just skipped over all of the good stuff.” He sits back in his chair and lifts his beer. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Enjoy what?” I eye my now-empty beer, and try to calculate how many I’ve had. Three? Four? The waiter swings by and delivers two more.
“The threesome.”
“Ew!” I make a face. “Seriously? You think I did that?”
He studies my face carefully, then shrugs, his broad shoulders lifting the crisp white shirt. “I guess not.” He sounds almost disappointed.
“Why would I?” I press, and now I’m getting irritated. “Do you know how offensive that is? Two guys taking turns on me? Using me? I didn’t even know the other guy. ”
“Easy, Kate.” He pushes aside his old beer and reaches for the new one. “I was just asking for the story.”
“The story is that I left. And I don’t know what they did amongst themselves.” I make a face, then realize my voice may have gotten a little too loud in my indignation. “Sorry for yelling,” I whisper loudly.
“It’s okay,” he whispers back.
I pick up a spoon and stab at the brownie, a desert from an hour ago, one that has been stabbed to death by my occasional tastings. It is okay. It’s more than okay. It’s normal. Normal people think that threesomes are gross. Craig would definitely think that threesomes are gross. I’ve never even told him that story for fear that he would judge me out of mere proximity to the act.
“So…” Trey drawls. “You don’t like threesomes. Anything else I should know about you?”
I glance up and meet his eyes, and with just a flash of that smile, we are back to normal.
The lights of Torrance are blurring, the taxi bumping along the street, and I watch two bums argue in the brief moment before we pass. “It’s the next right,” I call out.
Trey checks his phone. “God, I can’t believe it’s almost midnight.”
“Normally in bed by this time?” I tease.
“Normally in someone’s bed by this time.” He grins at me, a playful one, and I groan in response.
“You didn’t have to escort me h
ome. I’m a big girl. I could have gotten my own ride.”
“I would have worried. This way I can properly see you to your door and earn gentleman points in the process.” He looks out the window. “No offense, Kate, but we have to get you out of this neighborhood.”
I reach down and grab my purse, the car slowing down before my building. “This neighborhood is fine. But if you want to give me a raise…” I shrug. “I won’t fight you on it.”
“Stay here. I’ll get your door.” He gets out, and I wait, watching as he approaches my door and opens it with a grand flourish. “M’lady.”
I laugh, stepping from the cab and over the broken sidewalk. Before me, my building looms, and I have a moment of drunk appreciation for my first floor unit. He tells the cabbie to wait and walks me to the door, pausing before it, his face growing serious. “Monday, let’s talk about a raise.”
“Wow. You really are drunk.” I pull out my keys and flip through them.
“No, I’m serious.” He meets my eyes. “I’ll give you anything you want.”
He meant an increase in salary, but it came out wrong, his voice too husky, his body too close. I step back, but our gaze holds, and I almost change direction, lean in, reach out. He clears his throat, and the moment breaks. I look down, and manage to fit the key in the building’s front door.
“Thanks for seeing me to the door.” The words squeak a little on their way out. “I’ll be fine from here.”
He steps back, and the darkness of the walkway obscures his face. “Have a good night, Kate.” He pauses, his hands sliding into his pockets. Behind him, the cab exhaust smokes in the night air. “See you tomorrow.”
I give a little wave and escape inside, my heart beating, hands trembling as I flip the deadbolt over.
“I’ll give you anything you want.”
In that moment, it wasn’t a raise I wanted.