Winter Miracle

by Teagan Kade

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  Saul pulls out his weapon, aiming it at me. “This is a fucking shame, Max, a real fucking shame.”

  Dawn puts her hands out. “Please!” she screams, begging now. “He was only trying to help.”

  “He knows better,” continues Saul.

  “Pop me,” I tell Saul. “But let her go. She’s been through enough.” His finger’s on the trigger. It’s not the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me, but this time it feels different, more urgent. Adrenaline floods my body, but I’ve got nothing to do with it.

  “Please,” pleads Dawn. “Let us go.”

  Saul pauses. Is he actually fucking considering it? But soon the mask is gone, his finger starting to squeeze. “Sorry, Max, but you know the rules.”

  A ringtone sounds out. It’s Saul’s cell, Shake It Off by Taylor Swift, Lucy’s doing.

  “The fuck.” He pulls it out, holding the cell in one hand, his gun still trained on me in the other.

  He goes to answer the call, bringing it to his ear, but it’s on speaker.

  “Dad?” comes the mousy voice.

  He holds the cell away from his ear. “Lucy, baby. I can’t get this shit off speaker. He fumbles with the cell, eventually giving up and holding it before him. “I’m a little tied up here, hon. Can this wait?”

  It’s Saul’s beloved daughter Lucy, now twenty-two and a star socialite. She’s everything Saul is not—compassionate, understanding, the voice of angel. I’ve often wondered if she’s his biological child at all. She’s already signed up to a label, and I have to admit, she’s got talent. She’s going places.

  When it comes to Saul, whatever happens, Lucy always comes first.

  “It’s about the festival, Dad.”

  He looks to Viktor. “What about it, baby?”

  I’m desperately trying to find a way out, but we’re stuck fast.

  “The designer I was using,” Lucy continues.

  “Lindsay someone, right?” says Saul.

  “Linda, Dad, Linda McMasters. She cancelled.”

  “She fucking what?” yells Saul, his voice echoing around the warehouse.

  “She said it was a family emergency or something. She hasn’t even started on the dress.”

  “I’ll give her a family emergency,” Saul seethes. “You tell her…”

  “What am I going to do, Dad? I’m due on stage in eight hours.”

  “I can help.”

  All eyes turn to Dawn.

  Saul presses his cell into his chest. “What did you say?”

  “Dad?” Lucy says, her voice muffled.

  “I can help,” repeats Dawn. “I’m a designer.”

  “Dad? Who’s that?”

  He brings the cell back before him. “No one, baby.”

  Dawn steps forward, raising her voice. “I work for Noel Boone, but I do my own designs. I studied at Parsons here in New York. I know your style. I follow all your feeds. I can make you an amazing dress in eight hours.

  Holy fucking shit. Dawn might be in with a chance here. Even if she can’t do it, she could buy us time.

  “You should listen to her,” I tell Saul.

  “Noel Boone?” says Lucy, thinking, “Yeah, she did that thing last season with the witches hats, right?

  “That’s right,” replies Dawn, trying to regulate her breathing.

  “Dad?” queries Lucy.

  Saul eyes Dawn with suspicion. He places his hand over the cell. “Are you fucking serious? Don’t you dare fucking lie to me now.”

  Dawn nods. “I’m serious. If you can get the materials, I can take her measurements, and whip something up in no time.”

  “I’ve got my own studio here at the apartment,” says Lucy. “Fabrics, machines… everything you need. I’m something of an aspiring designer myself.”

  Lucy might have a great voice, but her talents do not extend to fashion design. I’ve seen her so-called ‘designs.’ A dog wouldn’t wear them in public.

  Saul’s struggling with it, torn.

  “Dad, is this for real? Where did you even find her?”

  “It’s a long story,” says Saul, chewing his lip. “Can this girl help you, Lucy, or what?”

  “It’s Noel Boone, Dad. Kim wore one of her dresses to the Grammy’s last month. She’s got this great shop down in Brooklyn, like—”

  “Can she help you or not?” Saul barks.

  “I think she can. Thank you…” Lucy’s beaming through the phone. “What’s your name?”

  “Dawn. Dawn Hayes.”

  Saul’s screwed now. “We’ll talk it over—”

  “Please, Dad!”

  “We’ll talk it over, Lucy. I love you.”

  “Call me back, Dad!”

  “I will,” he hangs up and breathes out, addressing Dawn. “If she doesn’t have the best fucking dress she’s ever seen in eight hours, consider yourself dead.” He turns the gun to me. “And you, you should consider yourself very, very fucking lucky I’m letting you leave here without any holes.”

  “There’s a condition,” stutters Dawn.

  “Let me guess?” says Saul. “Afterwards, I let you go.”

  She nods.

  Saul lowers his gun. “You make my baby girl happy, consider it done. However, I don’t need to tell you what’s going to happens if you don’t.”

  She did it. It’s risky as hell, but Dawn has actually got us off the hook here. I just hope she isn’t bluffing about the dress.

  Saul looks to me. “You two better drive straight to the apartment. Viktor will follow you. I don’t care what Lucy says. Eight hours isn’t a lot of time.” He focusses on Dawn. “If you break her heart, if I see a single tear, you’re gone—both of you.” He holsters his weapon and claps his hand together for dramatic effect. “Dust.” He jerks his head. “Now, get out of my fucking sight and get to work.” He points to Dawn. “I’ll be over later. Don’t fuck this up.”

  I take Dawn by the arm, waiting for the bullet in my back, but it never comes. We make it into the car and I waste no time getting us out of there.

  Once we’re safely on the freeway, I turn to Dawn. “Tell me you were serious in there.”

  She’s smiling. She’s actually smiling. “Do you know what this could do for my career?”

  “Your career? it could get us fucking killed if you don’t deliver.”

  “I can deliver,” says Dawn.

  I see the purpose and possibility taking her over. She’s even sitting up straighter. “You’ve done your part, Max. I owe you my life, but now it’s my turn. Let me do what I do best.”

  “Okay,” I tell her, and I believe it. We might just get out this thing alive.

  We might get our happy ending after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  DAWN

  It takes half an hour to get to Saul’s apartment on the East Side, a multi-levelled monstrosity overlooking the Central Open. Viktor stands waiting on the sidewalk while Max parks.

  Max turns to me. “Are you sure you’ve got this? Because we can still run.”

  I smile back. “I’ve got this.”

  We get out, Viktor ushering us inside and up the stairs to Lucy’s floor. That’s right. She has a whole damn floor to herself. I check out the rooms as we pass, see the labels on the doors: Club Luce, The Alley, Cinema Paradiso.

  Max taps my shoulder.

  At the end of the hall is the world’s biggest wardrobe-slash-design studio. It’s insane.

  Natural light floods the space. The ceilings have to be at least two stories high in here, so many clothes that ladders are required. It screams ‘expensive.’

  I run my hand along the clothes. It’s all couture. There must be thousands, no, millions, of dollars’ worth of clothes here.

  We come around into the main studio space where a young woman is standing. She wears black Aquazzura boots, a black top, J Brand Edita leggings that have to be easily over a thousand dollars, all topped off with a white Nike Destroyer jacket
that she’s miraculously pulling off.

  She’s gorgeous. I mean, I’ve seen her on my feeds, but in the flesh she blows it all out the window. She shares nothing of her father’s harsh facial features—only his smoky eyes.

  “Dawn?” she says, looking up from a series of sketches.

  I reach out to shake her hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

  She smiles at Max, looking confused. “Max. Hi. What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story,” he says.

  She rolls her eyes. “Why does everyone keep telling me that? Anyhow, like I said. I’m due on stage downtown at nine. She checks a rose gold Cartier Tank Americaine, a good ten-thousand dollars, “Which means we have seven hours. Is that enough time?”

  I look around the studio. There are rolls of plush fabrics, top-grade sewing machines, cutting tables, style boards… It’s paradise. “I think so.”

  Max makes his way over to a chair in the corner, picking up a copy of Vogue featuring none other than Lucy Barnes herself on the cover. “I’ll wait here.”

  I look behind myself, catching sight of Viktor standing by the doorway. The reality of the situation starts to sink in. What if she doesn’t like the design? What if I can’t make it in time?

  I clear my head. Think of it like a college assignment.

  I look down at the table. “Are these your designs?”

  She pushes them into two separate piles. “Mine on the left, Linda’s on the right. I was thinking of something in-between, maybe, but I’m pretty open to suggestion.”

  Lucy’s designs aren’t great. Truth be told, they’re awful, but I can see what Linda was trying to get at. Ideas start to come, one in particular. It’s especially risky, but I think it could pay off. I have to take the chance.

  I stand up from the table nodding. “Okay. Let’s start with your measurements.”

  Lucy opens a drawer and fishes out a manila folder. I open it up and there they are in minute, exacting detail.

  “I have them taken every week,” she says matter-of-factly. “Accounting for fluctuations in weight, temperature, and so on.”

  I look them over. “O-kay.”

  “Oh, they’re accurate. Don’t worry,” she enthuses.

  “You’re pretty serious about this, huh?”

  She spins around, eyes closed. “I know Daddy spoilt me by building this studio, but there’s a practical side to it, too. There’s wi-fi in here, no cameras. No one can smuggle out designs.”

  Now I understand. “So you pay designers to come here and design your outfits?”

  She shrugs. “It’s got everything they need.” And she’s not wrong.

  I take a seat and a pen, shifting over a fresh sheet of paper. “Here’s what I’m thinking.”

  *

  Two hours in and I start to appreciate how tight this is going to be. Thankfully, Lucy is far from the diva I expected, helpful when needed, even if I’m not used to people looking over my shoulder while I work.

  I can tell Max is nervous. He sits in the corner tapping his foot, flicking through the same copy of Elle over and over, his eyes darting up to check on progress every now and then.

  Four o’clock arrives and I’m starting to get nervous myself. I start to cut the fabric, cursing myself for such an intricate design. I work as quickly as I can, but it’s going to be tight—no doubt about it.

  An hour to go until her car arrives and Lucy disappears to do her makeup and hair, leaving Max and I alone. He lets me be, thank god. I don’t think I’ve ever worked as fast as I have in that last half an hour, literally doing the final stitch by hand.

  Lucy returns and we have just enough time to get her into the dress, but it’s too tight around the thighs. I have to unpick the hem and start over, barely any time to double-check things before Lucy’s throwing it back on again.

  Saul arrives at the same time Lucy looks at herself in the mirror.

  “Baby,” he says, beaming. “You look incredible.”

  He ignores Max and I completely. “Do you like it?”

  She looks down to him, hands on her hips. “I do, but it’s up to my followers. I guess we’ll find out what they think when I take the stage.”

  The pressure’s off a little, but it’s not over yet. Saul points between Max and I. “You two sit tight until her performance is over. Sit tight and start praying people like that dress.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  MAX

  It’s hell. I’d rather be on death row in a six-by-nine than stuck in this oversized wardrobe. Dawn, on the other hand, seems to be in her element. While I sit there stewing she walks the rows of clothes, pulling the odd dress or jacket out from time to time, fingers playing with the material. How can she even smile so close to death? Is she that confident?

  I have to admit, what she did here in the last few hours was a damn miracle. The way her fingers moved, the fabric passing between them, was magical. She was born for this. I promise myself she will have her dream, one way or another. I’m going to make it happen, whatever it takes.

  I check my watch. It’s nine o’clock. Lucy will be on stage by now, but here at the apartment, it’s radio silence, only Viktor’s occasional sniffles to make the minutes pass.

  “Dawn,” I call.

  She comes out of one of the aisles. “Everything okay?”

  “Sit.”

  She sits on the chair beside me.

  I lower my voice so Viktor can’t hear us. I hold her hands, marveling once more how delicate they are. “Whatever happens, I’m proud of you.”

  “I know.”

  “No, I mean it. That dress was amazing.” I point outside. “If they don’t think so, they’re fucking screwed in the head.”

  Dawn shrugs. “Fashion’s a fickle business.”

  I smile. “You couldn’t have bet our lives on, I don’t know, something less subjective?”

  “I told you. It will be okay. Have some faith.”

  Faith. I haven’t stepped foot inside a church since I was six, and even then it was only to spit in the holy water. Maybe that’s where it all started, where my life started to take a turn for the gutter. I send up a silent prayer regardless, anything for one more night with this angel.

  I hear footsteps. We both turn to find Saul storming in. He stops before us. I can’t get a fix on his emotional state. He’s got his cell in hand.

  He shakes it at Dawn.

  Fuck.

  “Lucy just finished,” Saul says. “Let me read you some comments she forwarded me from her Quitter feed or whatever the fuck it’s called.” He clears his throat.

  Please, god.

  “BitchesGotBritches says, ‘That dress was dope, girl,’ which I think is a good thing.”

  “Another, this one from Dexter23: Stunning, Lucy. Who’s the mystery designer?”

  “Lynn Yaeger, who’s some kind of bigshot critic, said, ‘Forget Bruno Mars. Social hotshot Lucy Barnes stole the show with that incredible dress tonight.”

  Saul swipes the screen. “And this, from Lucy herself.” He holds the cell up.

  It’s a voice message from Lucy, hard to hear because of the background noise, but enough to make out. “Dawn!” she cries. “You’re a wizard. They love it. I love it. I love you! Consider yourself hired.”

  Hired?

  Saul pockets his cell, but he’s smiling. “Hired? You hear that. Girl’s got more business sense than I give her credit for.” He looks to Dawn. “You fucking did it, Dorothy. Luce is happy, and that makes me happy, so here’s what I’m going to do.”

  I’m waiting for the catch.

  He pauses a second before continuing. “The extra money? Forgotten… so long as you keep making Lucy happy.”

  “You want me to keep making her dresses?” asks Dawn.

  “Are you fucking deaf? You heard her.”

  “And Max?”

  Saul looks at me. “Up to him, but we’ve got no beef, do we, Max?”

  “No, sir.”

  And bam. It’s o
ver. It’s finally fucking over.

  *

  My apartment’s closer, so it seemed like the natural place to head to. I close the door, my hand on the knob still unable to believe we’ve come through this unscathed. Even more miraculous, I’ve come out of it with Dawn. She was worth all of it.

  I sit beside her on the sofa and pull her into my lap.

  We kiss, soft and hard, messy and emotional. It’s the kiss we’ve been waiting for, the kiss that cements our freedom.

  She pulls back breathless. “That. Was. Incredible.”

  I smile, playing with the bottom of her shirt. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

  She shakes her head in disbelief. “This still feels like a dream.”

  “A wet dream?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” She looks down at her crotch. “No penis and all that, remember?”

  “Touché.”

  She shifts in my lap, my cock concrete.

  “You heard Lucy on the radio, right?” I say “She killed it out there tonight. Even the hosts commented on her dress.”

  “They did, didn’t they?” Dawn replies.

  Why wouldn’t they? Even I had to admit, basing the design on my sleeve tattoo was genius. I’ve never seen a dress like it.

  “Like you missed that.”

  She smiles. “Yeah, I don’t miss much, do I?”

  “You’re the ‘mystery designer.’ Once your name’s out there you’ll be able to take your pick of clients.”

  Her expression darkens slightly. “As long as they’re Lucy Barnes.”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “Working for the Barnes family?”

  “Trust me, even Saul answers to Lucy.”

  Dawn runs her hand down the side of my face. “You know, I think I’ve lost track of how many times you’ve saved my life now.”

  “Why don’t we call it even?”

  “Because it’s anything but.”

  “So, what’s my reward?”

  Her hand snakes down to my crotch. “Whatever you want. Name it and it’s yours.”

  But I want to savor this.

  “You want a drink?” I ask, standing awkwardly thanks to my diamond-hard erection.

  Dawn kneels backwards on the sofa, placing her chin on her hands.