by Megan Bryce
He nodded. “We’ll just mark the rest sold out.”
“Good. I’ve begged my friends to come model for me. And promised my soul to a photographer to get him to show up tomorrow on such short notice.”
She shut her office door behind them and turned to him. She crossed her arms. Then sighed.
“At least you didn’t sleep in your suit jacket. Take your shirt off.”
“Huh?”
She stepped all up into his personal space, her perfume wafting into his nose and short-circuiting his brain.
She undid his tie, pulling it from his neck and laying it gently on the back of a chair.
He was still standing there stupidly when she reached out to unbutton his shirt.
“Whoa, what. . . I’m still sleeping, aren’t I?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. You’re a mess.”
She slid his shirt down his arms, shaking it and taking it to the row of storage cabinets behind her desk. She opened a door, taking out a hangar, an iron, a bottle of Febreze.
She grabbed a packet of baby wipes and handed it to him.
He looked down at it and she said, “Pants, please.”
“No, thanks.”
“They need to be ironed. . .well, they need to be thrown away but ironing is all I can do at the moment.”
“They’re fine.”
She said, with steel in her voice, “I’m stronger than I look.”
Flynn took a small step back. “Well, jeez. Turn around or something.”
She did, hanging up his shirt and spritzing it.
She pulled down a mini ironing board, turned on the iron.
She turned around again just as he was pulling a leg of his pants off. “Hey!”
She choked back her laughter and grabbed for his tie.
“Flynn, I’ve been around models, male and female, since before I could walk. I’ve seen it.”
“Not mine, you haven’t,” he said, as if he could possibly be proud of not ever being naked in front of her.
But she was turned around again, spritzing his tie and shaking his shirt, and he didn’t have to think about it for too long.
She turned around again as he was pulling off the other leg.
He glared at her. “Okay, now I know you’re doing it on purpose.”
She laughed that time, no choking it back, and she scooted around him to grab a stack of fashion magazines.
“I just had to make sure I wasn’t imagining that your boxers were plaid.”
He looked down, grabbing the gaping front and mustering all the courage he had, to say with as much dignity as he could, “What the hell color are they supposed to be?! No one’s supposed to see them anyway!”
She smiled at his flustered exclamation as she scooted past him again, grabbing his pants from his hand and saying, “Wipe.”
He started wiping his chest and underarms muttering about women, especially women in fashion, who lose all sense of decency and decorum. Prancing around half naked all the time and expecting everyone else to do the same.
Her shoulders were shaking as she did his pants and then checked his shirt and tie again.
“Be right back,” she said. “I’m going to get your jacket.”
And he yelled as she opened the door, “Come on! Am I getting punked?”
Flynn was trying to hide behind her chair, still wearing just his plaid underwear, when she came back in smiling.
She ironed his jacket quickly, saying, “It’s not in too bad of shape.”
“That’s because I don’t wear it.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, his underwear safe from her prying eyes. “Are you okay now?”
“No, I’m traumatized.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Yeah, right.”
“If I give you my robe to wear, can I do your hair?”
He looked down. “Pretty sure anything of yours is not going to fit me.”
“Sit down and I’ll drape it over you.”
He waited for her to turn around again before sitting down and crossing his legs and arms in front of him protectively.
She took out a long pale peach robe, draping it over him from shoulders to knees and he sighed in relief.
He said, “You have to freshen yourself up a lot in here?”
“Yes. And I don’t prance around half naked in my office.”
She smiled at him, a close mouthed grin that showed off a dimple he hadn’t known she had. And before he could come up with a smart answer to that, she’d grabbed two wipes and was vigorously rubbing his head between her hands.
“I-I-I d-d-don’t ha-a-ate this-s-s.”
When his hair was damp, she grabbed a small bottle sprayer filled with–
“Wait, what’s in it?”
“Water.”
“You may proceed.”
–water and spritzed lightly, running her fingers through his hair.
Flynn closed his eyes in near ecstasy, and missed when she squirted a dollop of gel onto her palms.
He smelled it, though, when she started rubbing it into his hair.
“Aw, come on. I hate gel.”
“Why?”
“Because I look like a guy with gel in my hair when I wear it.”
“Trust me.”
“I would have, if you hadn’t kept sneaking glances of my boxers.”
She smushed his hair this way and that, again and again, not denying that she had sneaked her peeks.
He waved at his head. “You do this every day?”
“Sometimes multiple times.”
“And you like it?”
“I think it’s important to look good. I think it’s fun to make myself pretty.”
Fun was not a word he connected with Nicole, so he smiled at her and said, “Good. You don’t always look like you’re having fun.”
Her eyes met his. “The same could be said for you.”
“True.” He sighed, then said, “I had fun last night.”
“Good. Even if it did make you look like a wild man staggering out of a forest.”
“Wild and hairy?”
“Yes. I had no choice but to try and make you presentable.” She grabbed a comb. “I do like coming in to work every day even if I don’t look like it. I like making pretty things.”
He remembered her curled up beside the AV cart and said, “You didn’t like doing the runway.”
She picked at his hair until it looked how she wanted it to look, then grabbed a wipe and started cleaning up her hands. “I don’t like being looked at.”
He eyed her, so beautiful she could stop a man’s heart cold.
“Must be tough to be you, then.”
She just looked at him, and he realized she hadn’t done that looking thing in a while.
“I thought I had to do the runway because it was next. I’ve never really had a plan, just done whatever was offered to me. I’ve never known where I wanted to go, just knew it was somewhere.”
And that sounded so much like himself that he just said, “Yeah.”
“And sometimes I don’t know that I don’t want to do something until I’m in the middle of doing it.”
He nodded slowly. “Oh, I get that. For example, I didn’t realize I wouldn’t enjoy taking my pants off in your office until I was halfway done.”
The smile came back into her eyes, if not back onto her face, and she said, “I apologize for peeking.”
“I accept your apology. But it’s only fair if I get a peek of yours.”
She looked, again, then smiled.
“Okay.”
She bent down close to him, putting her hand on his jaw and rubbing gently. She said softly, “Baby wipe. It’s stuck in your stubble.”
She blew lightly on his face, and Flynn was too busy trying to see her bra to say anything in reply.
She said, “It looks good on you.”
He looked up. “Baby wipe?”
“Stubble. Some men’s comes in splotchy, but yours lo
oks good.”
Flynn grunted and whispered, “This peek is no good. I can’t see your bra.”
“I know. I designed this blouse and it irritates me to have it gape open every time I need to get into my purse. It irritates me even more to see my bra in tomorrow’s tabloid.”
“So this wasn’t you giving me a peek?”
“No. A peek is clandestine. Showing you isn’t a peek.”
He opened his mouth and said, “Aaargh.”
She patted his cheek and stood back up. “I’ll owe you one.”
She went back to his clothes, ironing them meticulously and then handing them over.
Flynn dressed quickly, happy to be clothed like he’d never been before, and he didn’t even complain when Nicole turned around before he’d finished buttoning his shirt.
She stopped him, sliding her hands inside and dabbing the cologne sample she’d neatly ripped from one of her magazines against his skin.
“It’s not quite you but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m wearing gel and cologne. It’s definitely not me.”
She buttoned his shirt for him and tied his tie and helped him into his jacket, and he had to admit, to himself at least, that he didn’t hate that either.
Nicole folded a swatch of fabric into a neat square and tucked it into his breast pocket, then pulled him toward the full-length mirror hanging inside one door.
She stood him in front of it, turning him this way and that and critiquing him silently. Finally, she shrugged.
“Well. You’ll have to wear it ironically.”
“You know I’m going home in like an hour. What was the point of doing all this for just an hour?”
“You’ll see. Look better, feel better. Look great, feel great. Can I design a suit for you? I’ve never made menswear before.”
“That’s because men won’t pay three thousand for a pair of pants.”
She patted his side. “You’d be surprised.”
He probably would be because he thought his cheap suit looked pretty good.
And he grudgingly admitted, “The hair’s not bad.”
“Sometimes I know what I’m doing.”
But. “I hate the cologne.”
She agreed. “It’s not right.”
She grabbed his hand and tugged him to and out the door. She didn’t stop until she was in front of her staff and presenting him like she was Vanna White unveiling her newest vowel.
And when everyone looked and gasped and clapped, Flynn said, “Great. Thank you. Now, I need to see a man about a Red Bull.”
Megan BryceBoring Is The New Black
Ten
Nicole watched Flynn walk around like he’d suddenly realized he was the lone man in the office. His back was straight and when the printer wouldn’t print, he puffed out his chest and took care of it.
Look better, feel better.
Maybe it was superficial and shallow but she knew the power of put together.
Look great, feel great.
She’d have to really start thinking about menswear. Flynn wore suits because that’s what he was supposed to do not because he loved them, and she wondered if she could make him a suit he would love. She felt the challenge of it calling to her, and she quickly reined it in to focus on the challenge she’d already started.
Tomorrow she had the photographer coming, and Victoria and Gia had agreed to model for her.
Gia had squealed with excitement and asked what else she could do to help. Victoria had bartered for one of Nicole’s runway designs for her services, and Nicole was lucky they didn’t wear the same size shoe or she would have lost her favorite boots as well.
Flynn stopped in her doorway before he left for the night and Nicole smiled at him. “You should go clubbing. You look too good to just go home.”
“See, that’s the problem with gel in the hair. People start thinking you club.” He nodded at the phone in her hand. “Are you going home soon?”
“Yes, I’m just trying to call my sister. She wanted to model for me, so I’m giving her a second chance. If she’ll ever answer her phone.”
“I’ll stick around for the show if you’re going to call Nikita and ask her to model for you.”
“Bye-bye.” She waved at him and he grinned, turning away. When he was out of sight, she yelled after him, “I know you like the gel in your hair!”
“I hate it! I’m going home to wash it out right now!”
Nicole chuckled, then hung up with a put-upon sigh when her sister’s phone went to voicemail again.
She wasn’t going to call Nikita, because a show it would be. But she wouldn’t be home from work and maybe Colette would be. At home. After school. . .
Probably not, but their loft was on Nicole’s way home anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to at least stop and see. Offer an olive branch.
And give her sister something to do.
Colette was home, and when she opened the door Nicole just blinked at her and said, “Oh. Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I didn’t think you’d be home.”
“I’m going out. Soon.”
Colette turned away, leaving the door open for her sister to close softly behind her.
“I called you.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m doing a shoot tomorrow and I need models. I am sorry you couldn’t do the show, and I thought this might make up for it.”
Nicole followed Colette through the loft to her bedroom, standing awkwardly as her sister sat down at her vanity.
Colette said, “Eh. I’m over it.”
Nicole took a deep breath. “You’re over it? You were in my office yesterday yelling at me.”
“It sucked. I was left standing outside my very own sister’s show like a lameass. But I’ve got things tomorrow so. . . Thanks for the offer?”
Thanks for the offer?
You’re welcome, you ungrateful little. . .
Nicole watched her sister put her makeup on, almost meditatively, and it reminded her of watching her mother.
And feeling the exact same why do I even bother.
Nicole turned away, catching a glimpse of white hanging on the closet door.
“Please tell me you are not wearing that, wherever it is you’re going tonight.”
Colette looked into the mirror at the white bustier and finally showed some emotion.
She turned around, excited. “Want to see it on?”
Nicole shook her head no but Colette was already pushing past her. “Be right out!”
And a few minutes later, she was standing in the doorway wearing all white– bustier, skintight hot pants, open-toed boots that laced up to her knees, and fingerless gloves.
“Has Nikita seen you in this?” Nicole asked, and at her sister’s nod sighed hopelessly.
“Our mother is a failure as a parent.”
“What are you talking about? I look amazing!”
“You look like you should be dancing in a red window.”
Colette looked down happily. “I was going for virgin whore.”
And all Nicole could say was, “Yes.”
“I’m going to a party at the marina. The Wind Weaver yacht. And I probably won’t be recovered by tomorrow, so that’s why I can’t help you with your shoot.”
Sounded horrible to Nicole but her sister was talking, at least.
“Who’s all going?”
“Everyone. Jonas got his dad to pay for Afrojack to come DJ, can you believe it?”
“Wait. Are you going with Jonas. He’s only a few years younger than me.”
“He’s twenty-five. Older guys are hot.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“Age is just a number. And I’ll be eighteen in three months.”
“So wait until then to date a twenty-five-year-old!”
Colette snorted. “Please. It’s not like he’s my first.”
And she sounded so old, so cynical that the air just rushed from Nicole. She whispered, “Colette.�
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“What? I’m going on his yacht. I’d date him if he was thirty-five.”
“His father’s yacht,” Nicole corrected, her stomach churning, and Colette rolled her eyes.
“Okay, his father’s yacht. Same thing.”
“It’s not. It’s really, really not.”
“OMG. I do not want to hear this again. I know what you think of me, okay Nicole? I’m lazy and I’m vain.”
“I don’t think that.”
“But I’ve got plans. My own plans. I’m not going to be Nikita. And I’m not going to be Nicole. Careful Nicole.”
She whirled around and into her bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
Nicole jumped, then blew out a long breath. She watched the door for a long minute and when she decided her sister wasn’t ever coming back out again, looked around the room.
It used to be hers. A very long time ago.
She pushed open the closet door, slowly. Telling herself that she was only looking. Only wanted to see if there was anything in her sister’s closet that wasn’t short or tight.
She fingered a long skirt, pulling it out to hold it up to the light, and murmured, “Or see-through.”
She put it back, and looked at the clothes hanging where her bed had been.
This closet had been her home.
It was big enough that she could have fit a real bed in here, but everyone liked to pretend she didn’t sleep in the closet. All curled up on a nest of blankets.
Safe, with two locked doors between her and everyone else.
She closed the door from inside, crouching to examine the screw holes that had never been patched over. And she laughed softly, thinking that little lock she’d painstakingly screwed into the door and frame couldn’t have kept out anyone who really wanted in.
But it had made her feel safe.
Until her sister got old enough to undo it. Old enough to not be placated with dolls and board games. Old enough to not want to be hiding in the closet when there was music blaring and bodies thumping and voices screaming with laughter.
Old enough to have to make Nicole choose over and over again between hiding in her closet or going after her little sister. Out there.
Nicole sighed, pushing herself back up and opening the door.
Colette shrieked and a zipped baggie went flying out of her hand.
Nicole looked down at the baggie and Colette fell against the wall, holding her hands to her chest.
