Pretty Little Mess

by Rhodes, Carmel

  “I thought we were sneaking in with the caterer, not actually catering,” I hiss to Erin as I lug the crate up the ramp. Max and Jalen grunt their agreement. They look comically out of place back here with us common folk. I would also be willing to bet neither of them had ever done manual labor in their life.

  “Yeah, Thing Two,” Jalen grunts as he and Max hoist a box bigger than me up the ramp. “I signed up for crashing a fashion show, and maybe boning a model, not deboning fish.”

  “Ba dum dum.” Erin slaps her hands against her thighs, then makes a rimshot sound.

  “What?” Jalen retorts. “That was a good one.”

  “If you say so.” Erin turns back to me and Max, ignoring Jalen altogether. “Rhonda needed the extra hands for setup, once the party starts you’re free to execute your zany plan.”

  “By then, I’m going to be all sweaty and gross.” I roll my eyes. I don’t know why everyone keeps referring to the plan as zany. It’s working, isn’t it?

  We make our way into the bustling kitchen. The smell of sautéing onions and garlic make my mouth water. I drop the glasses off on the table where the rest of the service ware sits then smooth an errant strand of hair back into place. It took me two hours to tame my hair into submission, and forty-five minutes carefully applying my makeup so that I could blend in with the sea of models.

  “I happen to like you sweaty and gross.” Max wraps me in his arms, and his hands slide down to the small of my back. I’m wearing a pair of black leggings and a t-shirt, yet he’s looking at me like I’m draped in silk and dipped in diamonds. Dropping my gaze to the middle of his chest I sigh, content for the first time since moving to New York all those years ago. Maybe the sitcoms got one thing right. True love finds you when you least expect it.

  A noise that reeks of skepticism bubbles from Erin’s throat, but before I can respond a loud crashing sound draws our attention to the other side of the kitchen. “I can’t work like this. I QUIT!” A man in a chef’s coat storms past us, leaving a red-faced, French chef standing next to a pile of russet potatoes.

  Rhonda comes rushing in from the dock. “What happened?”

  “Let him go, he’s a pussy,” the chef says in a thick French accent.

  The corners of Rhonda’s lips pull down into a scowl. I never realized how scary Erin’s typically jovial friend could be. Her hands find her meaty hips and she narrows her honey-colored eyes at the man towering over her. “That may be, but we need him to help us prepare food for the two hundred guests who will be arriving in a few hours.”

  I shove Erin forward. “Go.”

  “I can’t work for another French hothead.” She shakes her head, walking back until she lands against Jalen’s chest. He grips her hips to steady her, but his hands linger. Erin doesn’t seem to notice or care, which makes me wonder exactly what happened between them while we were in Chicago?

  “Look.” I step out of Max’s arms and go to my sister. “I know this is hard for you, but it’s supposed to be hard. The hard is what makes it great,” I say, fiercely, reverently.

  “Did you just quote A League of Their Own?” Jalen looks down at me from over Erin’s shoulder.

  “Maybe.” I glare at him. “But it still applies. You got this, girl.” I need a job in fashion, Erin needs a job in a kitchen, and if the last two years were any indication, they aren’t going to materialize. “Dreams don’t come true on their own.”

  Erin looks to Max, then me, then Jalen. He nods at her, and a look exchanges between them. “I got this.” She exhales. I’ve never been prouder of my twin. Puffing out her chest, she marches over to Rhonda and the angry Frenchman, placing one hand on his forearm and says something I can’t quite make out. He stares at her for a long moment, then gives her a clipped nod.

  “We got this,” I whisper, hoping like hell I can muster the same bravery when I finally come face-to-face with my idol.

  Hours later, the party is in full swing. Max and Jalen ran from the kitchen as soon as Rhonda released us. They’d donned their tuxes and headed up to the ballroom, leaving me alone with my ridiculous beaded dress and a stomach full of butterflies. I told Max I would find him in the crowd, which was only partially a lie. I’d heard through the fashion grapevine that Vann’s show would be an interactive art installation. Models would pose as statues, while the fashion elite mingled with the glitterati.

  The models were being corralled behind a curtain until after Vann made his opening remarks. All I had to do was blend in until the curtain dropped.

  Smoothing down the soft blue, beaded organza gown that took me weeks to perfect, I push my way out of the bathroom, stumbling into the holding area. The space is bustling with activity. Hair and makeup artists poke and prod at models of varying shapes, shades, and sizes while tailors work quickly on last-minute alterations.

  Lucky for me, Vann is known as much for pushing for diversity on the runway as he is for his designs, so no one bats an eye at the five-two mess stumbling around in the shadows.

  Ornate floral tapestries hang from the ceiling in varying shades of whites and creams and blues all woven together to tell the story of his rise. The lights are low and twinkling as the handlers push us into position. My nerves spike, sending the butterflies in my stomach into hyperdrive. I hear the crowds of people on the other side of the wall. This is it, Ellie. Don’t barf.

  Taking my place near a cluster of models, I stand, in my homemade gown, like the Venus De Milo.

  “Fashion is art.” Vann’s voice echoes from just beyond the curtain. “The way you dress, your personal style, your uniqueness. It’s something that has always fascinated me. In an industry obsessed with being avant-garde and groundbreaking, I’ve made a name for myself by taking what everyday people love and shining a light on the beauty that’s often overlooked.

  “I knew this collection didn’t belong in Bryant Park. I knew it didn’t belong at fashion week. These clothes, my art, it’s a timescale. I am a vessel for forward thinking. What you are about to witness isn’t a fashion show. It’s an art collection, representative of who I am as an artist, and where we are as a generation.”

  The curtain falls, and one by one, spotlights beam down on the models. Every head turns to face us. “I welcome you to, Utopia,” Vann says waving his arm in a dramatic fashion. People scramble in every direction to get an up close look at the gowns.

  An Italian fashion influencer I recognize from Instagram comes over to me and snaps a photo of my dress, muttering something in Italian before moving on to the next model. My cheeks burn bright and for the first time all night I start to think that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

  “Congratulations,” I say, walking up behind Vann as he admires one of his pieces. I’d been waiting for the crowd surrounding him to disperse for nearly an hour. I’d lost Jalen to a sea of models and hadn’t seen Ellie once since the party began, so I settled for nursing one of the signature cocktails, some fruity blue shit that didn’t seem to contain more than a tumbler of vodka.

  Vann turns, his eyes brim with the pride of a man who is at the top of his industry. “Prince of Manhattan. I was hoping I’d see you here.”

  I fall in line at his side, raising my glass to his. They clink as I say, “Last we spoke, I was disinvited.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  “Here I am.”

  “I didn’t take you for a man who’d accept failure lying down, and I’m glad I was right.”

  We walk to another cluster of models, one is wearing the half-finished piece he showed Jalen and me that day at his gallery. “You found it.” Vann arches a brow at me. “The pulse. That’s what it was missing before, right. The heart of the thing. The thing that makes it come alive.”

  “I see you’ve done your homework.” He does a shit job of hiding the shock from his face. Almost like he’d expected me to fail again. I didn’t blame him though, half the financial world counted me out.

  “My girlfriend is a fan of yours and a very good tea
cher. Though I have to admit I am a shit excuse for a fashion student, she wouldn’t give up on me.” I launch into the story about the Vann war room, and how Ellie, all five foot two inches of her, nearly brought three grown men to tears.

  “You two are causing quite the stir in the New York social scene,” he remarks casually, as we continue to stroll through the sea of human statues.

  “You know how it works, once the next scandal happens people will forget all about me and Ellie.”

  “To the next scandal.” He lifts his glass and we cheers again as I swallow the remains of my drink. “Look, I know this isn’t the time or the place to discuss your stock portfolio, but I wanted you to understand how serious I am about representing you. Your work is important to you. Preserving your legacy matters; a lesson my late grandfather continues to teach me even from beyond the grave. It isn’t just about how much we leave behind, but the good we do with it.”

  “Exactly.” He finishes his champagne and we stand in comfortable silence for a beat. The models shift, and from my periphery, I notice a very familiar beaded gown, wrapped around a pair of tits I could point out in a police lineup. Ash eyes widen when they land on Vann. I nearly choke. I knew Ellie had intended to corner Vann to show off her design, but I was not aware that she planned to do so while crashing his fashion installation—whatever the hell that meant.

  A woman walks up to us, pulling her fur shawl close around her unnaturally tanned shoulders. “The beading on that gown is impeccable.”

  “There’s no beadwork in this collection?” Vann says, confusion lacing his tone. His gaze falls on Ellie and her dress. They stare at each other for what is surely the most awkward thirty-six seconds of my life. “I didn’t design this.” Ellie, in true Ellie fashion, blinks both eyes closed and starts backing away, still holding her pose. Vann arches his brow at me. “She’s yours, right?”

  “Don’t hold it against me.” I bite back a laugh. “Ellie, baby, come here.”

  Her arms fall to her sides and she shuffles toward us. “I didn’t mean to crash your show, well I did, but it went better in my head. I didn’t break anything, so I guess that’s not so bad,” she rambles. Her cheeks flush an adorable shade of coral.

  “Vann, this is Ellie,” I say, stepping in before my girl inserts her foot any further into her mouth. “She’s obsessed with you, a fact that I’m going to try to ignore since I’d like to have you as a client, and tell you she designed this dress, and orchestrated this entire plan so she could meet you.”

  His eyes widen. “You made this?”

  “Yes.” She nods. “I did, for you, as sort of a resume. I don’t know if you follow the news at all, but I kinda lost my job, and I was hoping…”

  “Let me get this straight, you both crashed my five-year-anniversary gala to ask me for jobs?”

  Ellie and I look to each other. “Yes,” we say in unison.

  “How are we doing?” I ask only half joking. Before he can answer a photographer comes up behind us, his camera poised to shoot. “Vann, Miranda wants a picture with you and the beaded dress that, her words, not mine, makes her want to vomit.”

  Ellie scoffs. “Excuse me, I worked hard on this dress!”

  Vann laughs, dropping a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a compliment, deranged and completely toxic, but a compliment nonetheless.”

  Ellie’s mouth pops open. “Like an eating disorder?”

  “Welcome to fashion.” They take the photo and the photographer scurries back to his boss.

  “Vann, darling, this is your best collection yet,” a woman calls from the other side of the room. Vann regards her with a kind smile before turning back to us. “I gotta go. Max, call my office in the morning to set up a meeting. Ellie, if you’re serious about working for me, I have an intern position available. The pay is shit, but there is pay, and if you have more of these”—he gestures toward her gown—“I have no doubt you’ll work your way up in no time.”

  “Yes”—she nods emphatically—“I am absolutely interested.”

  “Good. I’ll get your information from Max. You guys enjoy the rest of the party, and please, no more posing as a model.”

  Ellie lifts her hand in salute. “Yes, sir.”

  We say our goodbyes and Vann wanders into the sea of well-wishers. Ellie wraps her arms around my neck. Her ash eyes sparkle with glee. “Are you happy, Piss Girl?”

  “I was until you called me Piss Girl.” She scowls.

  A little triangle forms between her eyebrows and I kiss it smooth. “How would you like me to make it up to you?”

  A devilish grin finds her face. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “Chinese food and eighties movies?” I suggest.

  Ellie throws her head back and laughs. “God, it’s like you know me.”

  “No,” I say kissing her sweetly. “It’s like I’m in love with you.”

  Six months later

  “Maxxxxxxxxxxx,” I groan, swiveling in the chair opposite his desk. “You promised to feed me. I wouldn’t have begged Vann to let me skate out early had I known you weren’t going to be ready.” My lips pucker into a pout and I fight the urge to push the stupid metal Newton balls click-clacking, off his desk. It might be childish, but I left work—a week before Bryant Park, because Max wanted to have a romantic dinner.

  Max rolls his eyes at me—they are as deep and as blue as they were the first day on the elevator. “I’m almost done.” His fingers fly over his keyboard. He doesn’t look anywhere near ready to log out for the day. I sigh and settle for staring out the window. The view from thirty is even more impressive than it was from twenty-nine.

  Max successfully evicted Karen from the top two floors of the Anderson Building and converted it into office space for TW Financial. Max and Jalen are still small fish in the very large Wall Street pond, but thanks to Vann, the few clients they were able to poach from Anderson Capital, and ten-hour days, they’ve been able to hire a small staff and are growing larger each day.

  “Look, if you’re busy, I can call Erin. I haven’t seen her in a few days and it might do me some good to stay the night at my apartment.” Guilt zips through my chest. I’ve become one of those girls who spends every free minute with her boyfriend. Erin doesn’t seem to mind though; she and Luca are back together and he’s at our place more than I am.

  “I’m not getting into this with you today. I’m in a good mood.” He finally shuts his computer down and stands, shooting daggers at me from across the room. He hates when I refer to my apartment as my apartment. It’s the one sore spot in our relationship. He wants me to move in with him, officially, and I told him six months of good sex isn’t enough to change my zip code.

  “Why so happy?” I ask, licking my lips. God, this man is perfect. His long, lean body draped in a gray Tom Ford suit has me pressing my thighs together.

  “Because I talked to Mom and Graham today. The doctor said she’s recovering from surgery nicely, and she’s starting to regain normal brain function.”

  A few months after Vann’s show we found out that the root cause of Gwen’s brain disease was due to a tumor that had gone undetected for nearly two years.

  “I’m so glad.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Things got scary for a while. Although my mom died when Erin and I were babies, I know what it’s like not to have a mother, and I’m glad Max will get a little more time with his. “We should plan a weekend trip to visit.”

  “We will, but for now let’s get you fed.” He arches a brow at me, as he not so discreetly adjusts himself.

  “Food first, then we can discuss dessert.”

  He chuckles, taking my hand in his as he leads me out of his office. Dexter is gone for the day, but Jill, the new receptionist, winks at Max as we pass. “Have a good night, Mr. Anderson.”

  Once we are inside the elevator, I shoot Max a sideways glance. “Something I need to know about you and Jill?”

  “Of course not. I’m madly in love with you. Not to mention her husban
d is a New York police officer, and I’m pretty sure he’d shoot me if I came anywhere near her,” Max says, scratching his left eyebrow.

  My eyes widen. “What was that?”

  “What?” A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and he looks in every direction but mine.

  “You scratched your left eyebrow. It’s your tell. You’re lying to me.”

  “You’ve been hanging around Jalen too much,” he scoffs, but I don’t miss how quickly he drops his hand.

  “Are you fucking Jill?” I seethe, retreating to the furthest corner of the elevator. I have a pencil in my purse. If I stab him with it, I wonder if it will give him lead poising? As I weigh the pros and cons of poking holes in Max’s aorta, the elevator car jolts to a stop. “Are you kidding me?” I scream to the heavens. I have to murder my boyfriend, and be stuck in this stupid death box all in the same day?

  “Ellie.” Max’s legs eat the small distance between us. “I’m not fucking my receptionist.”

  “Then why are you acting so shifty?” I shove him in his chest. No eye scratch this time, so I don’t think he’s lying about sleeping with Jill, but he is keeping something from me.

  “Because I’m nervous.” He smiles a shy, toothy smile that makes me see rainbows and unicorns.

  “Why are you nervous? I’m the claustrophobic one being cheated on.” I dig a finger in the collar of my shirt. Is it hot in here?

  “I’m not cheating on you.”

  “I know, but why is Jill so winky.” Are the walls closing in or am I expanding?

  “Because she knows what I’m about to do.” His face turns serious, and for a second I forget about my paralyzing fear and focus on P-Three.

  “Baby, talk to me?” I cup his face in my hands, but he shakes me off. “Max—” My mouth pops shut as he drops to his knees before me, tugging a velvet box from his pocket. “OHMIGOD.”