“Bev Rodney.” The woman clears her throat, looking over her work area intensely. “Terry’s go-to when he needs a big favor.” She does not look impressed.
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that, since Terry is the one doing the favor for me.
Two male models, definitely older than the girls, arrive. I try to imagine my designs on the youngsters giggling in the corner. But I can’t even wrap my brain around it. They are different creatures altogether from the dancers.
I tap my finger on the forearm crossed over my chest and look around the room. Terry is still on the phone. I look at the time. We should be starting in five. Guess I am a little early. I’m fiddling with my phone when Patrick texts. Whatcha up to?
Me: Wow, he surfaces.
Patrick: Sorry babe, things have been crazy. I’m at an interview with Beat Magazine as we speak. Miss you.
Of course Patrick is busy—he is releasing an album in the next twenty-four hours. But did he forget about last night, or is he brushing off my career as unimportant compared to his more illustrious one?
Patrick: Is embroidery cool?
Me: What kind?
I can’t resist a wardrobe-related question, and I don’t want to cause any scenes with him before his big night. I will point out that he let me down once we get through his release party. I guess that means I am going.
Patrick: Cowpoke? I can’t read the label, and I am in a meeting so I can’t take off my shirt to look. It’s a burgundy short-sleeved dress shirt with white embroidery.
Me: Western Vintage, good call.
Patrick: Thanks, babe, wish you were here.
Me: Sounds better than hanging with the very bitchy makeup artist I am alone with here.
Patrick: Who, Bev?
Me: You got it
Patrick: She’s iconic. Sylene tried to get her for my shoot, but she was too busy. Only the best for my hottie.
I bite my tongue, because if it weren’t for his party tonight I might have said the best would have been you showing last night, when you knew how much it meant to me.
Terry finally emerges, running his fingers through his hair, and I shove my phone in my pocket.
“Good news.” He rubs his hands together, and I blink up at him. “The prototypes you sent me of your designs… well, I have some interest from potential investors for your label. Once we have the shoot under your belt, I am willing to take it to magazines, but you have to be able to back it up with a production line. It’s going to be a lot of work, and you’ll need at least two mil to get started—hence, the investors. We might have some interesting photos after today, but no magazine will do a fashion feature on you unless you have the collection ready to back it up. Unless it’s a purely artistic shoot like the one you did with NY Style for Driven. We could go that route, but no one is going to pay much attention to it, and until you have the resources to put out your own line, we are wasting our time.”
His lips iron together as he twists off a lens and cleans it. Terry is right, though. Nothing has materialized since the NY Style spread, at least not so far.
“Okay.” I nod, taking this in. “Um, you’re one of the most in-demand photographers in this city. Why take such an interest in helping me?” I wrinkle my brow, slightly baffled.
He sighs. “You’re obviously talented, Londyn, but in all honesty, this is a favor to Patrick. I owe him big-time after the music he made for SNAPSHOT, my film project. It’s had a few growing pains. And his music helped create the vibe it needed.” Terry props a booted foot on a stool, looking up at me. “Plus I like you two, you’re a great couple, might even remind me of myself when I was younger and trying to make it in the city. I know you’ve had a few bumpy patches…”
“Well, it’s not easy to be with someone as talented and admired as Patrick.”
“I don’t know the details.” He eyes me in a way that makes me wonder if he does. “Londyn.” He has a serious look on his face as he pauses. “You should really think about if this is what you want, because if you go the fashion label route, you simply will not have the time to keep your job at that dance company.”
That dance company? You mean the best dance company in New York, famous for Kent Morgan’s production went viral? My company. My wardrobe. My peeps.
My shoulders slouch. “Of course.” I nod, trying to be assertive, even though I’m scared shitless.
The rest of the shoot is one big daze. All I can think about is Terry’s ultimatum and if there is any way around it, which certainly there is not. It’s one or the other, and it should be an easy choice. But what if my new label fails like so many of the other ones out there, and I give up on the job I love more than anything only to become one of Manhattan’s fallen? No, that can’t happen, because I know what I am capable of and how far I am willing to go when push comes to shove. But for some reason, I’m not sure if I am that person anymore.
The models do their dazzling thing. Somehow in front of the camera they are much more natural and graceful. They look older, more mature. Primal. They are performers too, after all. The shy model who wouldn’t look me in the eye moments ago is taking over the floor, flashing some serious bedroom eyes straight into the camera as she rolls like a feline onto her back. And… I look at my phone. We are making good time. It looks like I will have time to go change before tonight after all. That’s until Patrick texts me.
Drink?
Me: I am thinking of going home to change.
Patrick: Our place? Pick you up.
Me: Okay.
He wheels up to the Lower East Side building where Terry’s studio is moments later, and I hop in the passenger side of the car.
“Hey, babe.” Patrick reaches in for a kiss. “Fuck, you’re hot.”
“Think this is okay for the party?” I cock a brow, because the look I have going on is more office trendy not launch-party glam.
“Perfect.” He looks over his shoulder, maneuvering his hands on the wheel. “I have a few things for you at our place if you decide to change, though. I know how fussy you are.” Our place. Again.
“So how was the shoot? Are you pumped about your Londyn label finally being financed?”
Patrick’s referring to the name we came up with together a few years ago while dreaming, and perhaps it is an obvious choice.
“Yeah.” My voice catches. Only because Patrick knows me so well, he gives me that look that says he knows me better. “It would have been nice if he had taken an interest in my work for its merit, and not because I have the coolest guy in all of Manhattan as a boyfriend.”
“I’m your boyfriend?”
“No.” I smile.
“You love me though, right?”
I pull a face.
“Can I help it if I’m feeling a tad insecure about our status?” He smiles. I am glad to see he is feeling so relaxed with all the pressure around him today, even if I am torn up inside. I’ll tell him why tomorrow. Today is about him. The weeks leading up to and following an LP release are always the most important in ensuring the album’s success.
To Patrick’s comment, I shake my head and look out the window at the bustling streets filled with suits, designer handbags, and trance-walking commuters. Man, I love this city. It is literally the epicenter of the universe.
“Terry does have a genuine interest in your work, by the way, and he likes you. He told me that. We just started talking, and he mentioned that you would need resources before any magazine would take a feature seriously, unless the shot was purely artsy. I think he may have been inclined to go that route, but when I mentioned that you have always wanted your own label, and that you’d been promised one in the past but had it taken away…” Patrick sighs, and I swallow down the tension knit through his last few words.
I almost forgot about the comment made earlier about Terry’s motivations for helping me, and all because being around Patrick lately—I am at ease with him. I’ve rarely even lit up since he’s been around, until what he pulled yesterday.<
br />
“Is there something else bothering you?” Patrick clears his throat, and the look on his face drops to something more serious. He rubs the bristles on his jaw with the hand that isn’t on the wheel.
“Terry made it very clear that I be committed before he gets back to his financiers, ‘committed’ being that I quit my position at Driven.” It’s not the main thing on my mind, but it’s definitely a biggie.
Patrick rubs his fingers over his jaw pensively. “Londyn, for as long as I have known you, you have always wanted to have your own label. It was your original dream before you got caught up in Driven.”
“Driven is the reason we are where we are today.” It’s also the one thing I can count on.
“There is a reason behind every success.”
“And tonight is your night, so I am just going to go along with you.” I pull another face.
“Are you asking me to marry you?” Patrick smiles.
“No!” I laugh.
“What would be so crazy about that? If I did ask, would you say yes?”
“I think we’ve tried that before. Besides, it would be a serious boner killer for your record label and your fans, especially the young female ones that are shopping for sexy panties to toss at you as we speak.” I step out of the Karmann Ghia and onto the SoHo street.
“Tossing panties, huh? Never experienced that before.” There’s a quizzical expression on his face. “Do you think you could, uh…” His eyes drop in distraction. “Give me a demonstration?”
Patrick unlocks the door to the apartment and holds it open, giving me a look that makes me forget that I am supposed to be angry with him.
“After I give two orgasms, there’s something I want you to consider.” He unzips his jeans.
“Only two?” I ignore his stripping.
“Okay five, then I was thinking you could move back to our apartment.” He licks his lips, and the embroidered dress shirt from his earlier interview falls open. “Why, are you still dressed?” His chin lifts.
“I’m not moving in with you.” I can’t help smile.
He steps toward me, and his hands slide under my blouse and up my back to unclasp my bra. I don’t make it too easy for him. “Will you at least consider having my babies?” His lips land on my neck, and I roll my eyes, lowering my lashes.
“Lanvin.” I comment on his shirt, ignoring his question. I think the eye-roll is a clear enough response.
“Huh?” His gaze is turning a darker shade of green as he steps out of his jeans.
“Your shirt. It’s hot, but I like what’s underneath better.” I let out a sly smile. I might as well go with it. Today is about him. Tomorrow is another story…
“Can I help you with those buttons?” Patrick lowers his fingers to my shirt. They look large and tanned next to mine. When the shirt finally falls away, his breath is hoarser as he lowers the shirt over my shoulders and we kiss.
His hands cup my waist and find their way to cradle my ass as we open to one another. Then I wiggle out of my panties and crumple them in one hand. God, I’ve missed him.
Patrick’s eyes slowly open as he unclasps my bra. I scoot out of his reach around the corner to his bed and strike a playful pose. Here goes the demonstration.
“Oh, Patrick,” I simper, lying on my side with my hand propped under my head.
“Yes, love?” He follows me to the bed.
“Catch!” I toss him my lacy bottoms.
“Shit!” I yelp a few hours later, tangled up in a white sheet and waking from a dream about an invasion of mono-toothed little people in diapers. “We fell asleep!”
“What time is it?” Patrick yawns. He reaches his hand down beside the bed, voice groggy. Then he sits up and walks out of the room naked and my eyes fall to his ass, which is slightly whiter then the rest of him and pretty damn cute if you ask me.
“Have you been working out?”
He shoots me a crooked grin. “The label suggested a personal trainer.”
“Maybe your label isn’t so bad after all.” My eyes scan the floor for my panties.
He rustles his fingers into the pockets of the men’s pants that were on the floor.
“Uh, Londyn?” He looks up with his phone propped in his hands. “My release party starts in fifteen minutes.”
I practically leap out of the bed, frantically searching for my clothes.
Patrick quickly buttons up his shirt.
“There’s a drawer in the bathroom with a few things for you in it.”
Whoa.
I grab my clothes, hang them on the hook behind the door, and swing open the top drawer. There’s a toothbrush, hairbrush, ChapStick, and black eyeliner, mascara, and a mineral powder. There’s even a small bottle of my favorite citrus and ylang-ylang essential oil–based perfume, since the smell of synthetic ones doesn’t agree with me. Patrick Moss, you are so hard to stay mad at. I glide toothpaste onto the toothbrush, coat my lids with a thick layer of eyeliner, powder my nose, and dab the fresh scent on my wrists before throwing on my clothes.
Patrick is holding up one of my old designs when I step out of the bathroom.
“Remember this?”
How could I forget the bead-embellished silk jacket I made a few years ago, which was very unorthodox for my otherwise minimalist approach?
“I threw that out.”
“Yes. But I kept it, and good thing, because it matches my shirt.”
It’s true. I couldn’t stand the sight of the gaudy jacket I had slaved over, because it was such a departure from my branding. But it’s exactly the kind of thing that’s made a big comeback this season. I shake my head, taking the jacket between my fingers.
I slip into a black dress and a pair of black Tom Ford heels conveniently stored at our place.
On the drive downtown I tell Patrick about my strange dream.
“So did these… little mono-toothed people have green eyes?” He smiles as he mans the wheel. There’s the sound of a few horns in the background, but we block them out.
“I can’t remember if they were green or brown or maybe both. All I know is that they were very demanding, and they thought they were cuter than they were, and there were a lot of them.”
Patrick looks at me when we are stopped at a red light.
“Like how many are we talking?” Patrick’s rubs his jaw with a glimmer in his eye.
“Maybe five, but it felt like ten or twenty. It was terrifying, really.” I smile, and Patrick laughs.
A few minutes later, and fashionably late, we arrive at Patrick’s launch party dressed to complement one another, even though you can’t really see Patrick’s shirt that well under the sexy, fur-lined, long black leather jacket.
He reaches for my hand as we walk through the door, and the photos start snapping.
Still seeing spots from the bright flashes, Patrick and I are pulled into a group of fans, before Sylene spots us from across the room and makes her way toward us wearing J.W. Anderson.
The music from Patrick’s album is playing, with its strung-out synthesizers and drop beats. The room is flooded with red light and is overcrowded with very well-dressed people. It’s even more of a scene than any of the Driven parties, which are quite extravagant though slightly more upper-crust, and I’m out of my element without the artistic staff and dancers who for some reason all take me seriously at Driven.
Patrick squeezes my fingers in his and keeps me close by his side.
Sylene arrives with a shorter man in a suit next to her. “Patrick Moss, my new favorite client.” The man grins, shaking Patrick’s hand, and Patrick’s lips curve into a relaxed smile. I wish I could be as chill as he appears. “The release of your new LP is making more waves than we expected.”
“It’s definitely going platinum with all the media we’ve been getting.” Sylene sips on a glass of champagne. “And will be getting.”
“This is my… uh… fiancée.” Patrick looks at me with a sly grin, and I almost choke on my drink. It’s been a l
ong time since the term applied.
The smile on his lips drops. “Vin.” He shakes my hand in introduction, clearing his throat. “I thought you two broke up?” His brow crumples as he scans my left hand for a ring. I would like to thank him for the vote of confidence, even if Patrick is embellishing.
A guy with black hair, long on top and tapered at the back of the neck, wearing pink-lensed tea-shade sunglasses and a brown leather jacket with Burberry pants, shakes Patrick’s hand after Vin gives him a friendly slap on the back and they tap knuckles.
“Patrick, man, I love your album. Some innovative shit you’ve come up with. We are going to have to think about a collaboration.”
“For sure, man.” Patrick rubs his bristled jaw.
“Londyn, you know Zachary Price?”
“Of course! We love your music. Patrick plays it all the time.” I get excited as I say it.
“I’m honored. Hey, are you the girl on the cover?” He looks up at the massive poster plastered on the wall.
I wince. “Not sure, but I can definitely attest that I had nothing to do with the title.”
He laughs. “So you aren’t the girl who broke Patrick’s heart, then?”
My cheeks fill with heat, and I bat my lashes in embarrassment.
“No.” It’s just a small white lie. “The girl who broke Patrick’s heart is a total bitch,” I tease, assuming he gets my sarcastic sense of humor.
“Where’d you find this one? She’s cute,” Zachary says to Patrick and turns to me. “Don’t worry, I can’t tell it’s you on the cover. Besides, no one looks at the cover or reads too much into the title of an album anyway, especially not with cryptic music like Patrick’s.”
“This album isn’t nearly as cryptic as his old stuff. This is the new direction we are taking his brand. It’s Coldplay meets electronica with a touch of street vibe, and it’s going mainstream,” Vin says.
Patrick hates the word mainstream. He avoids it like the plague. Has Patrick changed, or is he biting his tongue? Suddenly, it looks like he doesn’t want to be here at all.
“Cool.” Zachary inhales. “I’ve only heard the single ‘One Night,’ and I am sold.”
CLOSING NIGHT: Driven Dance Theater Romance Series, Book 2 (Standalone) Page 19
