The last time Nick and I had been face to face had been six weeks ago, outside my house, discussing the merits/flaws of my personality. At the time, I’d been acting as his office manager by day and his girlfriend by night. A few days after that conversation, he’d reached the conclusion that my working for him wasn’t a great idea. He replaced me with a recent college grad and suggested I work with Amanda.
Clearly, that had worked out well.
“Kidd,” he said. His voice was soft and warm, like honey dissolving into a mug of hot tea. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
I hadn’t expected to see him either, a fact made painfully clear by the reaction of my nervous system. I tipped my head to the side and pulled my ponytail over one shoulder. “Hi,” I said.
Nick had thick, curly brown hair that he kept trimmed in a neat business-like style. He’d taken to wearing it differently. Longer and slightly unkempt, which gave him a boyish look. Instead of a shirt and tie like he normally wore for industry events, he was in a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and Converse sneakers. He looked more like one of the interns running around backstage than a highly respected shoe designer.
“I heard about the attack. Are you okay?” he asked. Behind him, Amanda watched us. For as many times as I’d wondered how I’d react the next time I saw Nick, I’d never thought it would be twenty-four hours after being released from the hospital while his maybe-former girlfriend glared at us from twenty feet away. At least I was wearing lipstick.
We were a foot apart. He smelled like clean sheets and freshly baked donuts and New Year’s Eve. I looked away from his root-beer-barrel colored eyes to his T-shirt. A piece of lint clung to his sleeve. I picked it off. He reached out for my hand, but a shock of electricity sparked at his touch and we both pulled away.
“Samantha?” Dante said behind me. I looked over my shoulder at him, and then back at Nick.
The two eyed each other. When it seemed obvious I wasn’t going to make an introduction, Dante held out his hand. “Dante Lestes,” he said.
“Nick Taylor.” They shook. Nick turned back to me. “You shouldn’t be here. Not after what happened.”
I didn’t say anything, and the tension grew to an uncomfortable level. Someone opened the door next to us and a gust of cold air entered. I stepped away from Nick. “Hope everything goes well tonight,” I said. I left him in the hallway and followed Dante through the crowd.
The set-up of the show wasn’t all that different from other runway shows I’d attended. Rows of collapsible white chairs were set up on either side of a raised white platform. A screen occupied the end of the runway, and Amanda’s name was mounted on it in large silver vinyl letters. Colorful lights cast an ethereal orange, red, and yellow glow across the audience. Large urns of orange roses sat on tall cocktail tables at the back of the room, and thousands of orange rose petals were strewn down the runway. Dante followed me as I weaved through the crowd, selecting two seats by the back. I didn’t need to be in front. I didn’t need to be noticed.
I looked for familiar faces. Buyers from Tradava, Ribbon’s own department store where Eddie worked, sat in front row seats along the right-hand side. As was the norm for a fashion show, a couple of pop stars were mixed into the crowd with an an actress who was going to be starring in a new political drama. For a show two plus hours east of New York, Amanda had drawn an impressive crowd.
Dante tipped his head closer to mine. “If I’d have known you were going to ignore me, I might not have accepted your invitation.”
I blushed. “I’m sorry. I get distracted at these things, looking for people I know.”
“Me, too.” He pointed to the end of the platform. “There’s one.”
I followed his finger and saw Clive snapping pictures of the crowd.
“You know Clive Barrington?”
Dante chuckled. “‘Clive Barrington.’ I never heard anybody use his full name before. We used to call him Bare. We competed for a few jobs, but Bare always had a taste for the ladies and eventually it got him into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Underage girl at an unchaperoned photo shoot. Turned into a he said/she said thing. Nobody knows what really happened, but he couldn’t get a job after that. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know he’d resurfaced.”
“I wonder how he hooked up with Amanda?”
“Who knows? Looks pretty much the same as he did back then. A little older, a little less hair. The glamorous life is taking its toll on him. Back in the day, he wouldn’t have been caught dead with highlights.”
Dante worked as a freelance photographer, taking jobs as they came in. Some were for a private investigator. Others were to cover parties and gallery openings. It had never occurred to me that he might know anyone at the show tonight. I watched him watch Clive and wondered what Dante was really thinking. Before I had a chance to ask more questions, the lights went down.
Loud Japanese pop songs filled the air. A Godzilla movie was projected onto the back of the stage above Amanda’s name. A model walked out, dressed in a silver leather motorcycle jacket over a red pantsuit. Her hair was bright red at the roots, fading to orange then yellow, cut in a bob with a heavy bang. She sauntered down the runway, posed at the end, then turned. Even from the back row I could make out the intricate red embroidery on the back of her jacket. The crowd applauded eagerly.
The next model started down the runway. She wore a black leather corset over a silver pantsuit. Her orange wig was pulled back into a chignon, secured with silver chopsticks.
The third girl stomped down the runway in a red Lycra halter dress. Her wig was yellow.
By the time the fifth model paraded down the catwalk, it was clear that the audience was sitting up and taking notice of what Amanda was showing. Did it matter that her choice of venue was a downtown warehouse in Ribbon? Who was to say. More and more designers who had neither the money nor the connections to pull off a major event in New York City were orchestrating pop-up fashion shows, inviting as many industry insiders as they knew, and hoping for the best.
But this was not Amanda’s first rodeo. She’d spent years interning for a famous designer before parting ways and taking a job with a local department store. On the side, she focused on her own collection, slowly building a name for herself by reinventing the classics. What I saw tonight was more than just a departure from the styles that had originally gotten her noticed. But what was fashion without risk? And who ever said that a futuristic silver jumpsuit wouldn’t one day be a classic?
A familiar figure stepped onto the stage. It was Harper, the reticent model in the ill-fitting kimono. Her silver wig was cut in a blunt bob like the first model. Her lips, painted tomato-red, were shaped in a pout. The kimono still didn’t fit, but tonight Harper showed she was the professional they’d wanted. Her sleeves hung down to the floor, making her look like a child playing dress up. She sashayed down the platform, hips swinging from side to side, creating the illusion of sex appeal even though I knew her to be mostly skin and bones.
A smattering of applause filled the auditorium as if what we were watching was part of the show. But something wasn’t right. A thin orange stripe appeared to hover just above the rose petals that scattered over the ground as Harper walked. First one, then another of the rose petals ignited like small bursts of glowing light. And then a whole bunch of the petals caught fire in a path that followed Harper.
And then suddenly, her kimono erupted in flames.
5
The house lights came on. The sudden change of illumination temporarily blinded me. Someone screamed. As my eyes adjusted, I followed the screaming to Harper, on stage. She fumbled with the sash on the kimono. Flames climbed the sleeves from the ground up and wrapped her like a special effect in a movie. She clawed at the fabric. Smoke filled the air, compromising visibility.
Nick appeared from behind the screen where Amanda’s name was printed. He ran toward Harper and yanked the kimono from her shoulde
rs. She left it in a burning pile and ran toward an exit. The flames caught onto the rest of the rose petals that covered the runway. More screams , now from the crowd. People stampeded toward the exits, bottlenecking the doorways with bodies trying to get outside. The fire grew, feeding off the fabric and oxygen in the room. I lost sight of Nick.
Dante tugged me the opposite direction of the crowd. “This way,” he said.
I took his hand and barely kept up as we weaved past the frantic audience. We stumbled over flipped chairs and discarded drinks that now littered the floor. The fire had flashed over, climbing the walls and the ceiling. Sweat dripped from my hairline despite the cold night air. Within seconds, sprays of water shot out of the sprinkler system. We reached a set of double doors. He stepped back and pushed me forward, through them.
We made it to the exit and fell outside. Fire trucks flooded the parking lot, sirens blaring. Professionals went to work on the fire. In the pandemonium, Dante took his keys from the valet booth. He scooped me up, one arm behind my head, the other under my knees, carried me to his car, and set me in the passenger seat. I closed my eyes while he drove us away from the scene. It wasn’t until I heard the engine turn off that I opened them and saw that he hadn’t taken me home.
We were parked in a vacant lot that overlooked a spectacular view of Ribbon. Lights from the streetlamps that illuminated the grid of downtown created a dense glow that slowly expanded into less and less, until it became the nothingness of the neighboring towns. We called this Makeout Point in high school.
“You want to tell me why your ex-boyfriend said you shouldn’t have gone to the show?”
“He was worried about me, that’s all.”
“Does he have a reason to worry?”
I played with the gold bracelets on my wrist. “I had an incident yesterday.”
“Samantha, don’t beat around the bush with me.”
“I’ve been helping Amanda with her show. Yesterday there was a fire outside of Warehouse Five. I don’t know how it started. It came right to me across the parking lot to where I was standing and I caught on fire. I dropped and rolled to put out the fire, and while I was down someone approached me. They were bundled up in an oversized coat, and from my spot on the ground, they looked humungous. Whoever it was told me to stay out of it, but I don’t know what ‘it” is. And then they beat me with a sack of fruit and set me on fire.”
“What kind of fruit?”
“Oranges, tangelos, and clementines. When Amanda found me curled up in the parking lot, they were scattered around me.”
“What happened after that?”
“I spent the night in the hospital.”
“Why did you call me?”
I looked down at my hands. I didn’t want to make eye contact when I said this part. “Everybody else told me to stay home. They thought it was too dangerous for me to come here tonight.”
He sat quietly. I snuck a peek at his face but couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“Do you know who attacked you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Someone involved with the show?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Are you in pain right now?”
“Not really.” It was the first lie I’d told him.
He started up the car. “I’m taking you home.”
“No. My car is still at the warehouse,” I said. “Take me back there. Please.” It had been too much activity for one day. My ribs ached, and I couldn’t breathe. I needed to sit down, lay down, rest, sleep. My internal injuries throbbed, and even if the hospital had determined that none of them were serious, they hurt. Badly.
Dante reached for my handbag and found my pain medication inside. He shook one into his palm and handed it to me.
“You’re in pain. Take this.” He handed me a bottle of water from the cup holder.
I swallowed the pill and sank back against his bucket seats, trying to keep the seatbelt from digging into my midsection. The tension from the runway show, the medication for the pain, and the overall exhaustion of my life combined, and the world went dark as I fell asleep in the car.
* * *
Breakup Rule #3: Don’t wake up in another man’s bed.
The bed was comfortable enough, but it wasn’t mine. It took me a second to recognize whose bed it was. Dante’s.
Dante lived in a studio apartment on Duryea Drive, on the side of a mountain off the beaten path of Ribbon. He’d once explained it as the place he kept here when not living in Philadelphia. I’d been here before, but never on a sleepover.
Being a studio apartment, the interior wasn’t divided up into separate rooms. It was one large room that split off to the right into a modest kitchen, and to the left into a modest bathroom and makeshift closet. The bed that I currently occupied was of the futon variety. Which meant there wasn’t any place else to sleep, which meant even though I was alone now, I probably hadn’t been last night.
Not sure how I felt about that.
There was a tap on the front door, and then Dante entered. He carried a bag from the grocery store. I pulled the comforter up around me.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“So I am.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I’ll make breakfast.” He held up the shopping bag. “Eggs and bacon okay with you?”
“Sure.” Things were getting curiouser and curiouser. But I was already slightly down the rabbit hole. Why not get some bacon while I was there?
I peeked under the sheet and saw that I’d slept in a T-shirt and sweatpants, neither of which were mine. I stood up and hopped across the cold hardwood floor to the bathroom. My dress, smelling faintly of wet ash, hung over the curtain rod. I found an empty hanger in Dante’s closet and hung the dress up, did other bathroom-type things, and rejoined him.
The futon had been folded up, and a small table with a large plate of bacon and eggs sat on a table in front of it. There were forks poised on either side of the plate. Dante patted the seat next to him. Rocky and Bullwinkle filled the screen. I pinched a piece of bacon and ate it before sitting.
“You should have told me about the attack,” he said.
I figured we’d get around to this sooner or later. “I don’t always make the best decisions.”
“That’s a very mature thing to admit.”
I shrugged. I couldn’t really say anything else. My mouth was full.
“I talked to my sister this morning.”
“How is Cat?”
“She’s great. She’s in Paris on a buying trip.” He continued. “She filled me in on your recent history. Helps explain last night.”
Dante’s sister, Cat, traveled in the same fashion circles that I did. Our initial antagonistic relationship had morphed first into acquaintances and then into friendship. She knew about my employment issues since moving to Ribbon, about my frequent run-ins with the law, and about my recent breakup with Nick. If you needed gossip on me, she could give you the Cliff Notes version.
“I don’t question the fact that you wanted to go to the show. It seems as though your ex and I have very different ideas on letting you live your life, regardless of what appears to be questionable judgment. But like I said, you should have told me.”
“What did you expect me to say? Somebody put me in the hospital at a fashion show setup and now I need help figuring out who it was? You were going to pretend that was normal?”
“You think asking me out on a date was normal?”
“What’s so abnormal about that?”
“You were set on fire outside of the show and there was a fire at the show tonight. Somebody put a lot of people in jeopardy. If you hadn’t been attacked, it might have seemed like an accident. But connect the two, and there’s forethought. Somebody intended to hit that show. That same somebody thinks you’re a threat.”
It was true. Hearing him spell it out made it all the more real and all the more scary. I couldn’t pretend that everything was okay. I set th
e bacon back on the plate.
“I keep trying to figure out what I know. Somebody attacked me. Me. Not anybody else connected to that show. All I’ve been doing for the past month is showing up at Warehouse Five to help Amanda get the show ready. I agreed to do it for reasons I don’t want to get into, it was important to me to fulfill my obligation and protect my reputation. I didn’t threaten anybody, I didn’t see anything shady, I didn’t have any confrontations. I was the perfect employee. And if you must know, Amanda basically fired me before I was attacked.”
“That may all be true, but somebody still set the show on fire. What else do you remember about what happened?”
“The warning. ‘Stay out of it’ What is ‘it?’ How can I stay out of ‘it’ if I don’t know what ‘it’ is?” I tried to stand, but doubled over as a flash of pain shot through my torso.
“Slow down, Samantha. You might not be in the hospital anymore, but it’s going to take time for you to heal. For now, you’ll have to rely on me for whatever you need.”
“I’m not moving in with you.”
“Don’t worry. It’s temporary. And I’m not the babysitting type. Can you drive a motorcycle?”
“No.”
He tossed me a set of keys. The key fob was shaped like a flame. “Looks like the Stingray is your ride for the next couple of days, but for the record, I think it’s best that you stay away from the places you usually go.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know who attacked you or why. You might be able to explain it away as a wrong place/wrong time kind of thing, but I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”
“You think someone might still be after me?”
He nodded once. The thought, now verbalized, was scary. I wanted to discount his theory but at my core, I agreed with him.
After breakfast was finished, Dante shrugged into his black leather jacket and left the house. As soon as his motorcycle disappeared around the curve of Duryea Drive, I tossed the dirty dishes in the sink and changed the channel to the local news. I’d expected the fire to be the top story. It wasn’t.
Some Like It Haute: A Humorous Fashion Mystery (Style & Error Book 4) Page 3
