The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

  And despite the surprising amount of pleasure I’ve gotten from our afternoon together — Hampton being a man, rather than an arrogant industry titan — I can’t help but feel that I’m inches from offending him. He’ll see what I’ve done, and how transparently I’ve done it.

  Look what I used your money to create. These clothes aren’t just not what you wanted. They’re what you can never produce, designed to show you just how shitty your rags are.

  I might as well be about to show Hampton a sign that reads, Fuck you and all you stand for.

  “Let’s see them,” he says, smiling wider.

  “They’re not really to specifications.”

  “I know. We already talked about this, with the last round you gave me.”

  “This is different.”

  “Different how?”

  “They’re less to specifications.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I sigh, then pull the shirt and dress into view.

  At first, Hampton seems excited. He comes forward. Then he slows halfway, stepping up to take the shirt’s sleeve between his thumb and fingers.

  “These don’t look like what you showed me before.”

  “I know.”

  “They don’t look like Expendable Chic at all.”

  Sigh. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You made these for me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “They got away from me.”

  “What does that mean, Stacy? They’re clothes. They don’t design themselves. You must have realized, after making the sketches on paper, that—”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He says nothing. He regards the fabric, then the construction. Even the fabric is a huge fuck-you. It’s a gorgeous broadcloth, tightly woven with a simple over-under weave and very little sheen. Pure white, slightly transparent. It’s phenomenally expensive even in bulk, and I only have a bolt of it because an assembly plant somewhere burned down, and one of my friends was in charge of liquidating an enormous shipment when the customer couldn’t take delivery. Expendable Chic could never afford even a shitty shirt made of this, and I’ve hand-crafted a fantastic one. Forget about stretching what Hampton’s disposable clothing shops can sell. I’ve obliterated it.

  His face is hard. Unreadable. He scans the seams, then moves to the dress. “Tell me what you’ve done here.”

  “Screwed up,” I say. “Wasted your money.”

  “More specifically, Stacy. Explain to me how this happened.”

  I want to meet his eye, if for nothing else than to apologize. But he’s staring so hard at the thread work that I can’t pinch an iota of his attention.

  “Explain?”

  “I want to know every detail.” Finally, he looks up. “Educate me.”

  “It’s not really about educating so much as—”

  “No,” he says. “It is. You’ve basically told me I’m an idiot about craftsmanship. I guess I am because I don’t know what I’m seeing here. So, tell me. Teach me some lessons.”

  My skin feels as cold as his tone. I want this over yesterday. We should never have continued. This tragic deal should have died a week ago, right there on my shameful couch.

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  “I’m serious.”

  I eye him again, but Hampton doesn’t budge. He’s furious with me. He’s mentioned some of his plans for the new line over lunch — enough for me to know how much he’s counting on it. Now here I am, knocking it all down.

  I wonder if he’ll just replace me. If he’ll take my first-round designs and have someone else make them. He can, easily. He owns the patterns if he can reverse-engineer them from the whole-garment sketches. He bought them off me fair and square, that night in the rain.

  “Come on, Stacy. Tell me what makes these articles so amazing.”

  So I tell him. I lay the garments open, showing him all the precision interior seam work. I show him the places I hand-stitched, where I concealed and protected the raw edges, and how I sewed the buttons and constructed the shanks. I explain all of the notions and why they’re a step above. I turn the shirt collar over, pointing out the narrow pockets for the stainless steel collar stays. I explain how I reinforce the placket to keep it from sagging. I bunch the fabric in my hand, then show him how easily it relaxes on its own. I have him feel the weight. Have him heft it. I even show him the needles I used and demonstrate the hand-stitching on the buttonholes.

  “Why did you hand-stitch the buttonholes?”

  “It seemed better.” It’s an imprecise answer at best. The truth is I don’t know why. I worked in a fugue.

  “But it can be done by machine,” he says.

  “By … yes, I’m sure it can.”

  “How would that impact the quality and durability?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I want to know.”

  He’s looking right at me, his mouth a line. Is he asking to torture me? He already knows he can’t make these clothes at scale for a decent price. So why not just dress me down, storm out, and be done with me?

  But Hampton doesn’t flinch, so I give him all the details, and answer every one of his thousand questions.

  He takes the shirt and dress. He removes the hangers and walks to the small window that looks out onto the alley. There’s nothing to see, but Hampton looks anyway. He’s holding both garments over his arm. He raises them to his chest, then lifts them to his face. Maybe rubs them on his cheek, or inhales. I can’t tell and don’t understand.

  “You’re completely transparent,” he finally says.

  My head tips. Hampton turns, then speaks again.

  “When writers write, they expose themselves. Same for singers singing or actors acting. I learned that in high school. I used to be quite creative. I stopped when it became obvious that people who saw what I made knew me better through my creations than they knew me through life.”

  He holds up the shirt and dress.

  “I see every bit of you in these. We could never use them the way they are. Do you know why?”

  “Because—”

  “Because they’re you, naked. I can see you in every stitch. I can feel you in the touch of the fabric. In every choice that went into these, your face is as plain as day. They have your look. They have the smell of your skin. They’re like your children. They’re too intimate, Stacy. Too close to the bone. If I sold these, I wouldn’t be selling shirts and dresses. I’d be selling you to whoever was willing to pay.”

  He shakes his head. Looks out the window. His emotion is impossible to read. He seems angry and forlorn. Disappointed and sad. Furious and aroused.

  “Why did you show me these?”

  “I—”

  He turns. “You’ve been thinking about me.”

  “Of course I have. You asked me to make—”

  “Make what? Not these. How do you expect me to respond to this?”

  “I thought you’d be angry.”

  “So why, then?”

  “Because I had to. Because they’re what came out of me.”

  “You had an assignment.”

  “And I did it wrong. I already said I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  But he won’t look at me.

  “I don’t understand. Hampton, tell me what’s wrong!”

  One more time, he turns back to face me. There’s something new in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that they’re perfect. The amount of attention you gave these — the amount of care you put into them? It’s as obvious as the sun during the day. What’s wrong is that you made …” he sets the dress aside and shakes the shirt with a fist. “… something intimate. I don’t have to try this on to know it’s not just a shirt. It’s my shirt. You wrote down my sizes, didn’t you? From the jacket.”

  I didn’t write his sizes down. But I know them. I know them from worki
ng his fabrics, from cutting his jacket’s lining. I know them from putting my arms around him. From feeling the breadth of his chest against my bare breasts. I didn’t realize I was cutting the shirt to fit him, but he’s right. He doesn’t have to try it on for me to see the fit will be better than perfect.

  “What does this mean, Stacy?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I …”

  “You have been thinking about me. It’s obvious. You asked me what’s wrong? What’s wrong is that you made me a goddamn shirt. A shirt with your heart on its sleeve. You’ve made me something I could never put my arms through without feeling like I’m inside you.”

  “I just did what you asked!”

  But now he’s tucked the shirt under his arm. He takes two steps forward and reaches for the buttons on his shirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  As the top button opens. Then the next, and the next. It happens faster and faster, and in the frantic fumbling, the second-to-last button rips the fabric. It’s a shoddy shirt. Expensive, probably. Quality? Not like what I’ve made him.

  “Trying it on.”

  “It’s only a demo,” I say.

  But his shirt hits the ground, and he picks up the new one. He slides one arm into the hole, and when he does I feel a shiver.

  Then the other.

  “Like a glove,” he says.

  “Hampton, I—”

  He steps forward. “Like a lover.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HAMPTON

  I CAN’T DENY IT. I won’t try anymore.

  Stacy’s been on my mind since the moment I left her. The woman is a curse. She’s become every stitch of clothing I wear. When I wear something tailored by hands other than hers, it feels like I’m cheating on her. And she’s tainted my lucky shirt forever. Whenever I wear it now, I’ll remember Stacy. Our lips together. Our bodies close.

  “Take it off,” she tells me.

  “Why? It’s mine.”

  “You’ll rip it.”

  “This will never rip.”

  “You’re wrong. It wasn’t made for you.”

  I button it instead. I’ve never worn anything like it. The tailoring is intimate. She knows every inch of my body, and how to treat it.

  “Coincidence,” Stacy says, eyeing the fit. “What the hell is wrong with you? Will you stop looking at me like that?”

  “Now you,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Now you,” I repeat.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You have been thinking of me. And not as a client. Not as a boss. Just me.”

  Her lips firm, but she’s fooling nobody. With this shirt on my back, I can see right through her.

  She picks up the dress. “I think you should go.”

  “Why these two?” I ask.

  “What two?”

  “A shirt. And a dress.”

  “I guess they’re both for you,” she spits. “Since you know everything.”

  “Try it on.”

  She looks at me. Then the dress.

  “You’re joking.”

  “They go together,” I say. “Prove me wrong.”

  “You really are an—”

  I take her arm. Gently.

  I draw her toward me.

  For a half-second she resists, but then she comes to me as if on a reel. I don’t stop when we’re face to face. I pull her until our chests are touching and my mouth is beside her ear. I know I have her before I even speak. Her chest is heaving. Her body is shaking. She’s completely undone. Her breath in shambles, as if broken.

  “Try on the dress,” I tell her, “and prove we don’t fit together.”

  There’s a long moment. Then she steps away, pulling us apart. She reaches down, pulls off her shirt. Halfway through, she turns, for unnecessary modesty. I see her bare back, then watch her fingers creep back to unfasten her bra. It drops to the floor, but she won’t turn toward me. She reaches for the dress, then pulls it over her head.

  Quietly, she says, “Zip me.”

  I come forward. My hands shake as they find the zipper, closing her in.

  “How’s the fit?” I ask, moving to press against her, to thread my face past her hair, near her neck.

  In a whisper: “It’s perfect.”

  I move down, my lips on her bare shoulders. My hands trace her sides. When I reach the bottom, I reach up beneath the dress, around to the front. I unbutton and unzip her pants, then hook my fingers under her panties and pull everything down. She kicks off her flip-flops and leaves the puddle of clothing at her feet. The dress settles against her skin, hanging naturally.

  “Now it’s perfect,” I say.

  I stand and turn her around.

  “Why a shirt? Why a dress?”

  “They go together,” she barely whispers.

  My hands are on her waist. We’re chest to chest. Her eyes close. We’re two planets sharing an orbit and waiting to collide.

  I kiss her neck.

  “You’ve been thinking about me.”

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  Another kiss.

  “I’ve been thinking about you, Stacy Grace.”

  My cock is rock hard as she presses into me. So hard it’s uncomfortable. Her hands move down. Unbutton. Unzip. The velvet feel of her small hands, skin on skin. I throb against her touch, as she caresses my length.

  She pushes my pants down, leaving me bare. Our lips meet. And Stacy says, “Prove it.”

  I walk forward, nudging her back. Into the back room, away from the window. Her butt strikes the cutting table, littered with scraps, threads, cloth pencils, and scissors.

  Her hand on my cock, gripping tighter, rubbing harder.

  I kiss her and whisper, “Turn around.”

  Her hand leaves me only for a moment. The second she’s turned, it’s back, pulling me in as I lift her dress to expose her smooth, bare ass. She rubs my cock’s tip against her skin, leaving wet trails.

  “I want you, Stacy,” I growl into her ear.

  An animal sigh escapes without words.

  “Put my cock in your pussy,” I say against her neck. “I need to be inside you.”

  Her hand moves me lower. My balls tighten, and a shiver runs up my inner thighs, threatening to explode. Then, on the hot head of my cock, I feel warmth and wetness. Everything is slippery as she rubs me against her pussy. She pushes back, just a little. The heat increases and I feel her open for me, but then she pulls away. Her hand is wet from her juices, lubricating my shaft. She plays me up and down, teasing.

  I grip her hips. I pull my custom shirt up and push hard, parting her hot flesh as I slide inside.

  Stacy moans, face-down on the table. I withdraw and push in again, buried in her pussy to the hilt.

  I stay that way until she begins to grind against me, eager for the thrust. But for the moment it’s hard to leave this place. Stacy is all around me like a hot, wet fist, tickling every inch of my throbbing member.

  “Fuck me,” she whispers.

  So I do. Long, slow strides. It’s hard to last, so I vary the tempo. Quick, hard strokes in and out mingle with a slow tempo. I breathe slowly, trying to steady my imminent eruption. Even restraint is a turn-on. I just want to fuck her and fuck her again, over and over, until she overflows.

  I reach down, then lift her from the table with my cock still inside her from behind. I caress her breasts through the fabric. Through the elegant, beautiful fabric. I can feel her hard nipples. The soft curves of her skin. Her hair swings as I thrust. As I fuck her in our matching garments.

  “Oh my God, Hampton. I’m going to come!”

  But no, she’s not. Not without me.

  I fuck her faster. Faster. It’s a race, and we’re both about to be winners.

  “OH GOD!” Stacy cries as I near my peak, as my balls tighten and my thighs firm and my thrusting cock twitches inside her.

  I feel her reachi
ng the finish line before me as her pussy grabs my cock hard, trying to milk it. And then it does as my orgasm crests, as her little pussy holds me tightly and I fuck through her spasms, coming and coming, together as one.

  When it’s over, I pull out and we slouch to the floor. We lie there for a while in silence.

  Finally, Stacy takes the shirt’s tail between her thumb and forefinger. “You like them, don’t you? Both of my mock-ups.”

  The funny thing is, I do. Apart from the sex, I do. The idea that’s been building, like my orgasm, has crested into something beautiful.

  “They’re perfect,” I say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  HAMPTON

  THE SELLING REALTOR IS MORE exuberant than Carlo. For Jocelyn, everything about the Billings & Pile Building is Wonderful and Amazing and Classic and Breathtaking. Her adjectives all have capital letters. She’s maybe five-two, on heels that represent a significant portion of her overall height. She tells Mateo and me that the windows on the third floor, above where the kids’ rocks can reach, are absolutely Wonderful.

  “They’re Perfect,” she says again as if maybe I hadn’t heard.

  They’re perfect.

  Stacy in the crook of my arm. Not talking about windows or columns or original plaster and lathe, but about the clothes we were still wearing while falling asleep.

  I told Mateo about the clothes on the flight up here. As before, we’ve made our compromise in which both of us suffer. He has to endure more of Williamsville’s real estate, and I have to tolerate Mateo’s mountain and his meathead posse of rock climbing instructors once we leave.

  I think we’re both insecure about our errands and want the company. Mateo tells me that his mountain deal looks like a go with one big catch: the guy who owns the property is cool — but his daughter, who has the old guy wrapped around her finger and doesn’t want to sell, is a “raging cunt.” My errand is equally shaky. The only problem is that I can’t tell Mateo what’s shaking me. I talk about the clothes. But without context, I do sound like an idiot.

  Mateo asked, “So to solve your problem of being over budget with All-American Clothes and your problem of process time, the solution is to spend more time and money making them?”