The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

  “Why don’t you need a big loading bay? It’s a plant, right?”

  “Yes, but it’s mostly handmade. Come on.”

  He pulls me into the next room. I see rows of sewing machines. Cutting tables and other utilities line the periphery. But it’s a much smaller space than it should be. He’s had the cavernous interior walled at one end.

  “This is it?”

  “You aren’t impressed?”

  “I just assumed it’d be bigger.”

  “You’d be surprised how fast some of the best people can work, using our methods.” He holds up a finger. “But when I say, our methods, I don’t mean they’re cutting corners and making cheap stuff. They’ll do it right, but they’re still fast. This is the home of the Pillar Collection, after all.”

  I try to count machines, but my head is spinning. He’s right about top people; they can haul ass if they’re working patterns on repeat. And this is clearly an assembly line. Rather than one tailor building a garment from scratch, it will be cut by one person, sewn on some seams by the next person, and so on down the line. The space isn’t what I expected, but it’s not small. So yes, they’ll craft fast. And Hampton told me all along that if this program were green-lit, it’d start as a pilot. He’d sell the Pillar Collection via a few key stores, then expand if needed.

  I look at this world with fresh eyes, trying to accept what I see.

  This isn’t a factory. Not by any stretch. It’s what I do every day, multiplied.

  “What’s the rest of the building, if this is all the space devoted to making clothes?”

  His smile widens. “Oh, that’s the best part.”

  I get the rest of the tour. It turns out there is an Expendable Chic store in the building. It’s just concealed and non-ostentatious. He takes me around the side and shows me the small, almost adorable sign, then explains that if the Pillar Collection is to work, its reputation will spread slowly.

  The last thing Hampton wants is to blast its existence to the corners of the globe. If he did that, the wrong people would come in, lured by Expendable Chic’s current reputation. They’d see the simplicity of the clothes, and the high price tags, then leave. Worse, they’d complain. The Collection would be finished before it started.

  Hampton wants slow, purposeful growth, to attract the right customers. That’s why his building proclaims “Billings & Pile Smithery” rather than “Expendable Chic.” It’s more important that the company’s values fit with the town.

  At that, against my will, I melt.

  As we continue through the building, Hampton explains the restrictions in his lease — restrictions the city wrote, but that I secretly suspect he suggested, maybe even for my sake. His plant can’t vent harmful emissions. It can’t employ workers at less than a generous percent above minimum wage, and it can only grow so large. He has to share the building; he doesn’t have a lease to it all. That part is very specific and refers to another document called Addendum A.

  “What’s Addendum A?” I ask.

  “It’s a copy of another tenant’s lease. I have to abide by their terms, and respect their tenancy next door to mine.”

  “Who’s the other tenant?” I ask.

  Hampton pulls me toward another door. This one, he has to unlock with a key — presumably because the next space is owned by someone else.

  In the next room, my breath escapes me.

  The building’s other tenant is the city itself, and in the space is a museum.

  The same museum, I see, that used to be in the clock tower building. I don’t know how he found out what used to be there or where it all was, or who he talked to or how he got them to dig for those old, buried artifacts. But here they are, just the same.

  “Hampton …”

  “It’s a historical building, so I figured it was only fair for my neighbor to be a historical entity. But it’s not all roses for them either, you know. The museum is on the hook for as long as I am. Their lease is also 99 years.”

  He looks at me. Smiles.

  “But on the plus side, their rent is better than mine. It’s only one dollar per month — and it comes with a generous allowance, from the tenant next door, to put on a street festival each year.”

  I blink. Tears fill my eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say that you love me,” Hampton says, “because unfortunately for my company’s bottom line, it turns out I love you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  HAMPTON

  THE MOUNTAIN AIR IS COOL and crisp, like the first bite of an apple.

  It’s cold at night and — for a few more weeks, anyway — still warm during the day. Temperature swings are dramatic. Mateo told us to bring coats. Of course, Stacy pilfered ours from the Pillar Collection. Hers is simple, pretty, goes with anything. Mine is a dark gray pea coat. The fact that we both like these garments for different reasons proves to me that the Pillar Collection will work. I have expensive tastes but until recently no real eye for quality. Stacy is frugal, yet a stickler for excellence. She promises we can have both. In the long term, buying fewer clothes for more money costs less. But there’s another reason, too. She says a craftsman can always trade cost for care.

  I love her concern. It vests Stacy in her role as lead designer and interim operations director of the Pillar line more than her salary ever could. In a way, the Collection is our baby. We made it together. She’ll never walk away now, or stop caring enough to make it great.

  I’m on the deck when she comes to wrap her arms around me.

  “I love it here,” she says.

  “It’s not too shabby.”

  “You’ll have to thank Mateo for making us come here.”

  “He doesn’t own it yet, Stace. That guy Damon, who met us at the desk? He owns it.”

  “The kid? He owns this place?”

  “Not the desk clerk. The older guy who came up like a ninja and surprised you.”

  “Oh,” she says, remembering. “You mean the silver fox.”

  “Is he handsome?”

  “Without question.”

  “Should I be jealous?”

  She hugs me harder. “Yes, please. Come inside and show me how jealous you are.”

  That causes a stirring. But it’s simmering slowly. Right now, she’s more loving than lustful. That will come soon enough.

  I chuckle. But then I kiss her, long and slow.

  We look across the mountains together.

  “Thank Mateo anyway,” Stacy says.

  “Why?”

  “For being paranoid enough to insist you go as a spy.”

  “I don’t plan on doing any spying. I’m on vacation.”

  “And that’s what we thank him for.”

  Stacy sits on the soft deck couch. Our hands linked at some point. They don’t unlink now, as I sit beside her.

  “Is this going to work, do you think?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  It’s out of the blue. But my mind wanders. Always restless. Life and business are together, now more than ever.

  “The Pillar Collection. Expendable Chic selling quality clothing for higher prices.”

  She seems relieved. “Oh, that. It’s already working, isn’t it?”

  “As a pilot program. But people know Expendable Chic for expendability. I just don’t know how well it’s going to translate in the long term.”

  Stacy leans back. Becomes the very picture of relaxation beside me. “We’ve already had this talk. Haven’t you learned anything?”

  “Learned what?”

  “People don’t know you for expendability, or being cheap, or low quality, or anything like that. They know you for the feelings they get. Positive self-image — that’s what your company is really about. Making people feel good. Distracting them from the drudgery, letting them feel beautiful for a change. Core values.” She pushes me. “Come on, fella. I thought you went to business school.”

  “Saying those are our core values doesn’t make it t
rue in everyone’s eyes.”

  “Yeah, well.” She settles deeper into the pillows. “They haven’t seen how much you give to charity. They haven’t seen you take shopping bags full of pretty things to kids with cancer.”

  We sit in the rarified air, saying nothing.

  Then: “What did you think I was talking about?”

  Stacy turns her head, not lifting it from repose. “Hmm?”

  “A moment ago. When I asked if this was going to work.”

  She laughs self-consciously. “At first, I thought you were talking about us — whether or not we were going to work, as a couple.”

  I finally settle back. Stacy has this effect on me. She slows me down. Calms me. She’s my missing, comforting half. “You shouldn’t wonder that.”

  “I don’t wonder it. I just thought you were saying that you were wondering it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I know.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Don’t ask a girl how her mind works, Hampton. Half the time, we don’t know, either.”

  More quiet.

  “Because, you know, I bought you that ring.”

  She rolls toward me. Puts one arm on each of my sides. Watches me for a long few seconds, then leans in. Again, we kiss. For a long time. It’s a few degrees hotter this time, my blood slowly rolling toward a boil.

  “You also bought a building for my city.”

  “I bought it for me.”

  “Then gave it to my city.”

  “I didn’t give it away. It was a sale, fair and square.”

  She nods. “You’re right. You’re a ruthless, bloodsucking capitalist pig.”

  “There’s my little hipster darling.”

  More kissing. Now my skin is warming. Hers, too.

  She gives me a long, lingering stare. And very deliberately, she says, “I don’t know that I ever thanked you for that.”

  I tip my head toward the bedroom. It’s encased in glass. You can draw the curtains, but that buries the view. Considering that we have the most luxurious of the resort’s dwellings, I want my view. If anyone can see us from across the valley, so be it.

  “Thank me in there,” I say.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Me too.”

  Another quiet beat.

  “I thought you’d given up on me,” she says.

  “Never.”

  “I never returned your calls.”

  “I know. Fortunately, your dad is more polite.”

  “You didn’t have to donate the building. Once I saw what you did with it, I’d have come around.”

  “I didn’t feel like taking that chance.”

  We wait. There’s more to it than that, but it’s hard to say. I don’t like admitting I was wrong.

  “Besides, Williamsville has grown on me. And it deserved better.”

  That earns me the longest, most passionate kiss yet. I’m hard. She knows; her hand has found me.

  “If Mateo buys this place,” I say, “we’ll be able to come up here whenever we want.”

  “I thought he wanted to build some climbing thing. Sounds like an ultimate Spartan Race or something.”

  “Yes, but I think he’d keep the buildings. It’d be stupid to knock them all down. People need places to stay. This mountain could just as easily be a writer’s retreat as a rock school. He’s never going to be able to buy it, though.”

  “That Damon guy doesn’t want to sell?”

  I shake my head. It’s getting harder to talk.

  Stacy is unbuttoning my pants.

  “It’s not him. It’s his daughter. She doesn’t want her father to sell, and the way Mateo tells it, there’s not even a good reason. She’s just a bitch.” I laugh. “Elizabeth. That’s how Mateo says it. Like it’s the name of a growth people find on their bodies.” I repeat the name, grinding it out for comic effect: “Eliiiiizabeth.”

  Now Stacy’s hand is fully inside. Wrapping my cock. Her skin is velvet on mine. I could come right here, just like this.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Stacy leans in to kiss me again, but this time it isn’t sweet. There is passion, brewing in her as surely as it’s brewing in me.

  We stand. And with our hands linked and my fly still open, we walk inside to have our fun.

  WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

  (Read on for a sneak peek of The Restaurateur)

  The story of the Trillionaire Boys’ Club continues in The Restaurateur.

  SNEAK PEEK: THE RESTAURATEUR

  Continue reading for a sample chapter of the ninth book in the Trillionaire Boys’ Club series:

  The Restaurateur

  CHAPTER ONE

  MATEO

  DAMON IS BREATHING PRETTY HARD when he says, “Gummy bears?”

  I get a minute of vertigo. We’re on the north face, on a ledge that’s no wider than a bookshelf. The wind keeps kicking. The hike here was tough — I’m breathing almost as hard as Damon, and he’s nearly thirty years older than me — but right now I’m most aware of the need to not plummet to my death.

  I’m an experienced climber, but this shit is scary. It has to be a three-hundred-foot drop, and instead of being geared up, I’m in a pair of athletic shorts and tennis shoes, with no harness or helmet. There are bolts in the rock like any ascent route, and there are even quickdraws — two carabiners with strong webbing between them. But the second carabiner isn’t being threaded with my climbing rope. There’s just a thin cable — a makeshift handrail. If I let go, I’ll end up broken on the rocks below.

  “I’m sorry?”

  I look back at Damon, sure I must’ve misheard. If he said anything it was probably, “Hold on tight!” or, “Shit, we’re going to die!”

  But Damon doesn’t seem mildly concerned. The mountain I want to buy has been in the Frasier family for generations. Damon probably grew up walking this path before the railing was added. He’s spry for an older guy, trim and distinguished. Even in the rare places I’ve slipped, Damon is as sure-footed as a mountain goat.

  “People don’t really put gummy bears on pizza, do they?” Damon says.

  I take a few more steps. Whore’s Leap, where we are now, is the only truly perilous part of the Bulldozer trail. It’s about fifty feet long, where you need to weave past a big out-jut in the rock. Before and after, the path is technical but safe for all but ankle sprains. If Damon doesn’t mind, I’d rather be on the more solid ground before answering.

  But Damon’s just hanging out, not past the end of the ledge himself. His salt-and-pepper hair stirs in the breeze. He’s even less appropriately dressed than me. I came dressed to explore, but I caught Damon leaving a meeting. He’s in khakis and loafers.

  “Sometimes.”

  “No shit?” He laughs. “What else?”

  “Did you build this railing yourself?”

  Damon looks down like he forgot he was holding it. When he notices, his hand moves. Which shakes the railing in my hand, since it’s little more than a rope.

  “Yep!” he says brightly. “When I was a kid, my friends and I used to run back and forth on these ledges, but Elizabeth said it wasn’t safe. She made me do it.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “My little girl, yep.” Damon points at me as if I’ve reminded him of something. He frees his railing hand as if to prove that a real man doesn’t need something to hold. “Hey, she’s only been out of college a handful of years. Didn’t you say most of your PEZA shops were on college campuses?”

  “A lot of them are.”

  “I wonder if she’s ever eaten at one of your restaurants.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I never have, myself. I hear the buzz about them, but I’ve never eaten much pizza, yours or anyone else’s. I’m a little lactose intolerant. People seem to like it, though.” He laughs again. “Gummy bears? Seriously?”

  “We can put just about anything you want on a pizza,” I say, looking down at what would probably be a beau
tiful view if I had a harness and a rope. “That’s our promise.”

  “What else?”

  “Do you mind if we move ahead a bit?”

  Damon looks around. “I figured you wanted a rest.”

  Here? Seriously, Damon?

  “I’m good,” I say. Though honestly, I’m a bit south of “good.”

  Damon shrugs, and then moves ahead. Two minutes later we’re on a trail that’s more or less normal, and even as an experienced outdoorsman and climber, I’m relieved.

  I sit on a stump. Damon makes himself comfortable opposite me, perched on an outcropping, legs swaying like a toddler.

  Damon is edging sixty and looks forty. He’s adjusted to the altitude, so he doesn’t huff and puff like I do. It’s humbling. It’s not just Damon, either. The resort staff — the sole commercial enterprise on Damon’s mountain — is the same. It’s something in the air up here. It keeps people young.

  I assume he’ll ask me more about my business, so my favorite anecdote is queued: We built the first PEZA shops on college campuses due to the munchies factor. It’s not strange to order all sorts of stupid shit on a pizza when you’re baked harder than burned cookies.

  “This race you have in mind for my mountain. Tell me more about it,” he says.

  Damon has been tough as hell to convince on the matter of selling, but people usually fold quickly around me. It’s not that I’m swaying anyone, or using any other voodoo. I just make friends easily, and they come to see my way.

  “It’s like a Spartan Race. Only much harder.”

  “I don’t know Spartan Race. You just told me it’d be a rough endurance thing. Man versus the elements.”

  “Or woman versus the elements. Maybe your daughter could compete.”

  Damon laughs at this. Hard. I don’t get the joke, except that I gather Ms. Frasier wouldn’t be interested.