Triggered by Love

by Rachelle Ayala

  She hoped it was the concierge, but the gravelly voice on the line dropped the temperature several degrees. It was Richie Overton, Congressman Overton’s playboy son. His babyish round face, boyish eyes, a smooth, clean-shaven face and overall nonthreatening demeanor was a deceptive trap to the unwary.

  Avery fell into it when she dated him in her modeling days. He wasn’t a good influence on her, and he should know better than to reignite their disastrous relationship.

  “Richie, I’m on my way to a meeting.”

  “This will be quick. Got tickets to the Schitts of Fifth Avenue.” It was the season’s hottest Broadway show, a billionaire’s version of West Side Story, and tickets were hard to come by.

  “Oh, Richie, that’s so kind of you to think of me, but I’m up to my ears with work preparing for Manhattan Fashion Week.” While she would have jumped at seeing the Broadway show with a best friend or even one of her brothers, she couldn’t afford to fall off the wagon and go back to Richie and his lifestyle.

  “All work and no play,” Richie said with his sandpapery voice. His throat was perpetually irritated from all of the drugs he took. “Come on, Avery. Haven’t you punished me long enough?”

  “I went through rehab, and you haven’t,” she said. “I’m late for a meeting. I’m sorry, but I can’t see you until you get off drugs.”

  “You used to—”

  She hung up. She hated cutting him off, but it had to be so she wouldn’t relapse. He had no idea how hard it was to stay clean.

  Twenty minutes later, she alighted from a cab and made her way to her publicist’s office. The city was caught in a midsummer heatwave, but as much as she wished she opted for jeans, she was aware that image was everything in the fashion business.

  Tucking her large-framed sunglasses in her purse, she ascended the elevator to Alida’s twentieth floor office. After her discussion with Detective Burnett, Avery was sure she didn’t want Matt Swanson or any other man with her on the ramp walk.

  She would do it alone, and she’d show whoever was gunning for her that she wasn’t afraid.

  “You’re late,” Alida said, standing at the window of her corner office.

  Avery was about to protest when she caught a movement from the corner of her eye.

  Quarterback Matt Swanson leaned against the doorway with one elbow up, striking a pose designed to show off his muscular shoulders and arms.

  He gave her a slow wink and said, “Every inch worth the wait.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know you had company,” Avery said to Alida who was primping her severely cut bob of sleek black hair.

  “Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.” Alida gestured to a chair opposite her desk. Her overly red lips gleamed with a fresh application of gloss, making her look like a hungry wolf.

  Avery sank onto the chair and noticed it was lower than the one Matt took, making her feel like a child at the school principal’s office.

  “Now that we’re all here,” Alida said. “Let me make the introductions. Matt Swanson, meet Avery Cockburn. Avery, meet Matt.”

  Avery went through the motions of shaking the big man’s hand and keeping her composure. Why was Alida so keen on putting them together?

  “Alida tells me one of your male models has come down with mono,” Matt said. “Since I’m going to be at the fashion show, I volunteered to take his place.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Avery looked him square on the shoulders. “I don’t have your measurements, and I’m sure you won’t fit into anything Jorge was wearing.”

  “How about your Cocky Heroes big and tall collection?” Alida suggested. “Think what a boon it would be to have Matt Swanson modeling it. You couldn’t pay for such publicity.”

  Alida did have a point, but in the business world, nothing was for free. She wanted to ask directly what was in it for Mr. Swanson, but she was sure she already knew. He wanted to show the world he was brave enough to be in the Cocky Heroes lineup for Manhattan Fashion Week, especially since it would be the one-year anniversary of the shooting.

  “I’ve taken a look at the outfits,” Matt said. “Such power. Dazzling boldness. The colors and fit. Totally on fire. It’s like you designed them with me in mind.”

  Actually, Brando was the muse for this new line of active and formal menswear. It was cut to fit powerful and heroic men—the first responders who put their lives on the line without a thought for their own safety.

  It was definitely not inspired by a selfish athlete with their multi-million-dollar contracts and off-field antics.

  Avery’s lips twisted, holding back the words that would get her in trouble.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” Alida filled in. “We all know your brand took a beating after you ghosted the media the entire winter and spring season. I did the best I could, milking the sympathy for Brando’s heroic death, cultivating the mystery of the unknown assailant, and yes, I did amp up the danger inherent to your designs. One could get hurt with some of the hardware you stitch into the apparel.”

  Avery had taken to enlarging sequins into colorful and iridescent metallic scales and stitching them onto the bodices of her evening gowns. She’d also incorporated quill-like spikes down the backs and over the shoulders of fitted jackets, and of course, she littered her party dresses with dazzling arrays of sewn on crystals and shimmering chains.

  “The Cocky Heroes menswear line is paying homage to first responders,” Avery stated, hoping Matt would get the hint.

  “And every dollar raised will go to the firefighter’s widows and orphan fund,” Alida said. “Matt is prepared to write a huge check in addition to being the public face for Cocky Heroes.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Avery stuttered. This was beyond what she’d ever imagined. If she were to look at it objectively, having all-pro quarterback Matt Swanson be the public face of her Cocky Heroes line was like getting a presidential pardon for jaywalking.

  What’s in it for him?

  Before she could think of a polite way of determining what she had to do in return, Alida shoved a contract across the desk.

  “Just say ‘yes’ and sign,” she said.

  “How much are we looking at?” Avery had the presence of mind to ask. She couldn’t afford to pay a world-famous quarterback for his endorsement. “I’d like to speak to you in private, if Mr. Swanson doesn’t mind.”

  “Of course,” Matt said. “I’ve got to go to the little boy’s room.”

  Avery waited until the hotshot football player swaggered out of the office. She was aware of Alida checking out the quarterback’s backside, but she kept her gaze on the contract.

  As soon as the door closed, she said, “I wish you’d consulted me first. I’m not sure Matt is the right face for the line. He’s not exactly heroic and way too noisy for the strong, silent hero I’m thinking about.”

  “Oh, Avery, I know you’re thinking of Brando.” Alida’s brows bent in a sign of concern. “And we’ll dedicate the line of clothing to his memory, of course. But for publicity’s sake, you need a living, breathing icon.”

  “He’s not a first responder. He’s an athlete,” Avery countered. “Besides, how much is this going to cost?”

  “Nothing.” Alida blinked as if proud of herself. “Not a red cent.”

  “But why? Matt Swanson’s endorsement is worth a fortune. He does shoes, hotels, and luxury cars.”

  “Not lately.” Alida’s mouth turned down. “Got himself in a bit of trouble at a strip club. You know how it is these days. A guy gets handsy, and someone complains.”

  “Oh … then why would I want my line associated with him?” Avery’s hackles rose. “He’s damaged goods.”

  “Not quite. We took care of it—got the stripper to retract her accusation with a nondisclosure agreement. I see this as a win-win. Your branding needs sprucing up. I know you’ve been bowled over by grief, but your clothing is designed for the upbeat and optimistic young man. One who loves life and has places to go. Lat
ely, there’s been too much doom and gloom, and I’ve been having trouble placing the men’s line in some of the shows.”

  “I don’t care about the men’s line, other than to honor Brando,” Avery said. “If people don’t like it, too bad. It’s not easy being a first responder. The pressure. The sacrifice. All of it.”

  “That’s exactly it,” Alida said. “Your absence from the party scene is dragging down the rest of your Club Cockburn brand. The fun, young, glitzy out on the town cocktail and evening gowns.”

  “I’m still doing the colors and bling,” Avery countered. “You’ll see. The models will stun the fashion world. Think Maleficent meets Mardi Gras.”

  “I have no doubt your women will be stunning. It’s your men’s line I’m concerned with. These days, there’s an ambiguous gender trend for guys on the lines of Conan on top and Scarlett’s ballgown below the waist—the ultimate melding of ultra-masculinity with antebellum femininity.”

  “My men will always be men,” Avery declared hotly. “No skirts. Ever.”

  “Never say never.” Alida wagged a finger at her. “Still, you have to catch the eye. I know you want to honor Brando, but the 1930’s classic look won’t catch anything other than the sympathy press. What you need is bold and viral, garnering free publicity through social media.”

  “Might as well put a bloody head on a stake,” Avery grumbled. Last year, she had designed a set of animalistic skins, feathers, and scales for her male models to wear, but her professor had pooh-poohed it, so she’d refrained for her debut show.

  “You’re not the only talent in town.” Alida’s voice lowered. “There’s a young artist who showed me an edgy line of menswear—blurring the line between man and beast.”

  Avery’s lips stiffened, and she glared at Alida. “Those are my designs, and she had no right showing them to you.”

  “I know you tried it in private, but you backed off. There are others bold enough.” Alida leaned back and steepled her fingers. “I know about the nondisclosure, but I’m sure any halfway decent artist could design her own shapeshifter’s line. After all, there are millions of animal patterns to incorporate.”

  “I’ll sue the pants off of her,” Avery said. “She won’t have a leg to stand on.”

  “Only if you come out of your shell. Come on, we know with your connections and the Cockburn name, she’d stand no chance against you if you weren’t wallowing in the background.”

  “Honoring Brando is my main objective.” Avery ignored the snide remarks. “The Cocky Heroes line has to reflect well of him: well-tailored, classic, and twentieth-century retro.”

  Alida made an exaggerated yawning motion. “If your audience is the Greatest Generation fawning over Cary Grant and Clark Gable.”

  Deep inside, Avery knew Alida was right. No one wanted conservative tweeds and pinstripes when they could have sparkle and shine, even in menswear.

  These days, FacePlant posts sold more clothing than sending lookbooks to traditional department store buyers. It was all about capturing the blink of an eye and shocking the sensibilities enough for a viral moment.

  Brando’s killing had gone viral, for sure. And the outpouring of support had made her online Shopahol storefront sales skyrocket. But that was so “last year.”

  Eons ago.

  She picked up a hawk feather from Alida’s desk and twirled it between her fingers, considering whether to make her hands into wings. “I might be able to tastefully introduce some of the animalistic material on my men’s faces and hands. Would Matt Swanson agree to have feathers glued to his forehead and fingers covered with scales or quills?”

  “I can get concessions,” Alida said with a smile. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. The fashion world doesn’t wait for anyone, and if you have a bold idea, you strike first.”

  “The employee you spoke to is Ivanna Chu, correct?”

  “You already know.” Alida turned to her computer. “Let me update Matt’s side of the contract and print it out. He might want informal concessions for gluing material to his flawless skin.”

  Of course, nothing is free, and knowing the kind of man Matt Swanson is, he’s likely to demand sexual favors.

  Avery was used to that kind of bargain, but she had limits to what she’d do. Dates, yes. Kisses, maybe, and public appearances, but nothing behind closed doors.

  “As long as I get to dictate the limits, I’m fine with it.”

  She got up from the low-slung chair and walked to the window. Up so high in the atmosphere of Manhattan, it felt like the world was at her feet. Fortunes were made and lost within a New York minute up and down canyons of glass-walled buildings.

  Alida was right. She could no longer hide behind her personal tragedy. A year out of the party scene, away from the fashion press, especially for a new designer would be fatal. Her label needed a face behind it, and she was it. She couldn’t let tragedy derail her lifeline goal. Besides, the freedom to create eclectic designs and get invited to the major fashion shows required a level of celebrity and knowing the right people—especially in today’s social media marinated world.

  Decision made, she whirled around and remained standing, looking down over Alida’s desk while the printer churned out updated contracts.

  “If Matt Swanson’s doing this for free and you can guarantee I won’t suffer any blowback, then I’ll sign. However, I’m canceling him at the first sign of indiscretion. He needs to behave. No grabbing, no touching, not even a sniff of controversy. The boy better be on his best behavior.”

  “That won’t be a problem.” Alida’s chin tilted up, and she winked. “He’ll be your boyfriend and your responsibility.”

  “What? Wait!” Avery’s jaw dropped. “You’re not serious.”

  “Actually, those are the terms,” Matt said, coming through the door without nary a knock. “You go on a few high-profile dates with me, let the press and gossip rags write it up, and I’ll endorse your Cocky Heroes line.”

  “My personal life isn’t for sale,” Avery said. She picked up her copy of the contract and shook it at him.

  “You’re not dating anyone, are you?” Alida checked. “I didn’t think so, and it doesn’t have to be for real unless you two decide to take it to the next level. The way I see it, Avery, you need to make a splash on the social circuit. Matt needs to be seen as a steady, loyal kind of guy. It’s a win-win.”

  Matt raised his hand in a swearing on the Bible motion. “I will take my cues from you, Avery. Our dates are in your control. I’m sure Alida filled you in. I swear, I will look but not touch.”

  “How many dates?” Avery asked, turning the pages of the contract.

  “I wouldn’t hold you to an exact number,” Alida said. “It’s for publicity and buzz. You two play it by ear. Who knows, maybe you’ll hit it off.”

  “You’re in control.” Matt spread his hands and gave her an engaging smile designed to lower her guard.

  If they thought she was afraid, they needn’t worry. While she wasn’t ready for another relationship, no one was asking her for an emotional commitment. She could do this.

  “Sure, a few parties. I can fake it.” She tipped her head as confidently as she could and placed her hand in his. “Let’s get your measurements and start an advertising campaign.”

  Matt gave her hand a tight squeeze. “You won’t regret this.”

  Chapter Five

  Jason didn’t truly have an off day, not where Avery was concerned. But come Saturday, he did have a day off duty where he should do normal things like laundry and groceries. He’d already gone to the gun range where Avery had her firearms lesson. This time, he stayed out of sight, waiting for her while cleaning his gun and chatting with the gun range owner, who was polishing the sign above the counter that read, Making good people helpless won’t make bad people harmless.

  Jason knew Avery’s schedule down to clockwork. She rented space inside the studio and workshop of an established designer, and she worked long, but regular
hours on the weekdays. She shopped for materials in the wholesale areas of the garment district, used the same freelance models as her associates, and attended as many trade shows as she could.

  She worked some weekends, but her spare time was devoted to exercise, skills-building, and spending time with family, which included Brando’s widowed mother. Her desirable apartment was in the Melbourne Building, an upscale complex on the west side of Central Park.

  The proximity to Central Park meant she regularly ran through the park for exercise. Thankfully, her guardian twin brother, Damon, ran with her most evenings, but on the weekends, he partied too much or stayed up late working at his video game and online entertainment company, leaving Avery to stroll through the park on her own.

  Sure enough, after Avery finished with the gun range, she stopped at a neighborhood market to buy groceries and then headed upstairs to her apartment. Jason was already dressed as a jogger and ready to follow her through her workout routine.

  A group of men hung out on the corner, smoking and bouncing a basketball between them. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry to go into the park, so Jason jogged by and tried not to stare.

  On his way to Avery’s doorway, he was hit in the back by the basketball. He missed a step, tripped on the curb, but caught his balance and managed not to fall on his face. The rough laughter of the men grated in his guts. That had to have been on purpose.

  Whirling around, Jason kicked the bouncing ball into traffic.

  “Hey, what you do that for?” A tattooed tough with stringy blond hair growled at him. “Oh, it’s you, the cop.”

  “Too hot out here for you?” A chubby guy with curly brown hair jeered while a third guy smashed a giant cup of ice water over Jason’s head. “Rough me up, cop. Let me have the video.”

  Raw anger blew from Jason’s veins, but he was fully aware of the gathering crowd pointing their camera phones at him. He swiped his hand through the cold liquid dripping from his hair and forced himself to walk away with as much dignity as he could.

  New York City wasn’t a friendly place for policemen.