Lawsuit and Leather Page 3

  “I won’t argue with that.” Parker exchanged, knowing full well his mother and I were close. I plucked out a handwritten card from the crystalline blue vase.

  Gemma dear,

  * * *

  Thrilled to see the adventures to come, and know in your heart greatness will follow wherever you go. Have Parker mind his manners, or else send him to me.

  * * *

  Love, Mama Meg

  My cheeks were in pain, caught in an unbreakable smile. I owed her more than she could ever know, and in reality, if it weren’t for her real estate endeavors, I would have never met Parker. Back in the early 2000s, when rates were low and the market was hot, Meg Jones invested in blocks of real estate in the heart of Brooklyn. It was no secret the Joneses had enormous wealth, but Mama Meg’s humble beginnings were never fallen short on Parker. She made her family relocate from Manhattan for the entire length of the project, investing millions into the renovation of older brick apartments and impoverished communities. For over a decade, Mama Meg forced Parker to live a normal life, to be a child in the public school system, just as she had growing up. This of course was in exception to the lavish Hampton vacations they took each summer. I peered down at a postscript below her signature:

  P.s.

  Sent a vintage Fendi skirt with Parker, found it at the thrift store for $14.00. What a thief I am.

  Her eye for fashion was equally matched with her need to stay frugal, maintaining that wealth was no excuse to spend unnecessary money. She was a thrifter, and a style icon in many ways, stealing designer looks for fractions of the price. When I first met her, I loved everything about her, and it began with the welcoming hues of her styled looks. Sophisticated browns, grey tweeds, and white tops tucked into skirts. Her eyes were always framed in dark chic glasses, highlighting the glow of their welcoming green tone. Before she could ever say a word, her fashion said it all. I knew it the moment I saw her, she was a kind, sophisticated, and elegant woman. I wanted that power too, to communicate like her, to express how I felt through design. I loved her, and then from that love, came fashion.

  “Dibs on the candy.” Parker fished out a bag of peach gummy rings from the care package, splitting it open.

  “Of course she remembers these.” I sat the flowers down by the side table, reaching in for a ring, “Anytime I eat these it reminds me of vacation, of lying out by the pool with your family.” I took a bite, remembering how we would eat these until we were sick as children.

  “We always pretended they were some type of treasure.” Parker continued, reenacting a tradition we began as children. He reached out for my hand, gripping my wrist, propping it on display as he slipped one onto my finger. The sugary crystals tickled along my skin, a momentary sensation until Parker reached down and removed it with a bite. I laughed, chewing the original gummy I still had in my mouth.

  “I’m calling Mama Meg today, catching her up on the move.” I said nonchalantly, avoiding the wave of heat I felt from Parker’s lips near my fingers. He stifled his expression, combing his golden hair back, almost sighing.

  “Speaking of moms…” He motioned back to a box, avoiding the question I knew he didn’t want to ask, but felt compelled to do so, “Have you told Claire about moving in?”

  Claire. My mother. If it weren’t apparent enough in the awkwardness of the question alone, I didn’t enjoy talking about her or the memories she brought.

  “I checked on her.” I stated quickly, “She’s doing ok, still taking her medicine as instructed. But honestly, the less she knows, the better.” Not once did I glance up at Parker but assumed my position back on the floor with a box. I wanted to brush this away, and though he was always there to support me, I didn’t want him exposed to too much of my reality.

  If my past were one of these boxes, I’d choose to keep it sealed, to tuck it away in the closet, as to not spoil the charming decor of Parker’s home. Within that box would be shame, exhaustion, but most of all, fear of being vulnerable. That side was ugly, and out here with Parker, it was pretty. “I have so many boxes, and they’re totally in your way.” I laughed, dispelling the tension I felt over my mother.

  “They’re not a problem, Gem. If anything, they’re exciting. I’m happy to have someone around. Especially you.” Parker lifted two large boxes on his own, placing them in a corner with little effort. I couldn’t help but appreciate what I saw, his ass sculpted from years of athletics, placed perfectly in fitted grey slacks. He was incredibly sexy, and though he was both generous and helpful, I needed to remind myself, the longer I stayed the harder it’d be to leave.

  “Well, I don’t want to be in your hair too long, you're already going out of your way with helping me unpack. Just don’t go snooping around my other boxes, got it.” I teased.

  “You can stay in my hair and my house. Honestly, it's yours too. You’ve had a key since I got it, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but that was for emergencies,” I corrected. “This is different, I’m in your space. My interview is tomorrow, and I’m hoping it’ll go well.” I mumbled, realizing the dreaded words that just slipped from my mouth.

  “With Gerard?” Parker asked, his voice dropping an octave. This was the shift in his mindset, from perfect friend to vicious lawyer. “I don’t like what he did, and I especially don’t like that he’s stringing you along for this interview.”

  “I know…” I sighed. Parker wasn’t wrong. My business was so small, shopping for clients and styling them for events. It wasn’t even worth Gerard’s attention, yet he seemed so relentless with his pursuit, propositioning my clients with lower prices. After all, his name was bigger than mine, how could they refuse?

  “You really want to go back to him and beg for your job? Gemma, you have time now… you want to be a designer, I know you can do it. You’re not a stylist, you're a creator, so stay here and chase your dream.”

  “It’s not that simple.” I replied, reminding myself staying longer meant growing more attached to the idea of being closer to Parker. Couldn’t he see that? It made me wish I was still in contact with Dana, who left before graduating to study fashion in Paris. We lost touch, and it had only been Parker and me for years. But despite my urge to leave, his offer was tempting. And he was right, styling was not what I wanted to do, and though my business consisted of that, it was only a means for income, nothing more.

  Starting a business was supposed to give me more time to design, to live on my own and make my own hours. But I couldn’t even do that, not with Gerard looming in the shadows. More than three years out on my own, and he stifled every opportunity that came my way. I felt like I was on some blacklist, and getting in his good graces felt both pathetic and necessary, especially if I wanted to leave Parker’s sooner.

  “Why isn’t it simple?” His tone pressed.

  “Because… I’m a guest. I need to be able to have my own space and be an adult. Besides, what if you have someone over, a girl perhaps?” I asked.

  “So?”

  “So? Doesn’t that look weird? I want you to have the freedom to do whatever, to have a love life uninterrupted. You don’t need to be a single man with your loser friend living in your luxury apartment.”

  “Stop,” he commanded softly. “One, you're not a loser. You’re Gemma Rose Harrison, future fashion icon. Two, my love life is…” He contemplated almost shrugging, “It’s nothing. I’m happy right now, and even more happy to have you here. Just promise me if you don't want the job, you won’t take it.” Parker arched his brows into a sweet frame around his eyes. He cared, and that made me happy, but still I was determined to do what was best for me, and my walls.

  “I promise…” I conceded, but not before cutting in quickly, “as long as you promise not to let my presence stop you from living your life. If I sense that, I'll leave…” I tried to be stern, but the confident wink he shot made me melt.

  “I promise.” He shook his head, staring down at his watch, “Shit!” He groaned, reaching over the couch for h
is suit jacket. “I gotta get going, I’m meeting with a client for a big case.” He slung his arms through the jacket, adjusting the cuffs by his wrists.

  “A big case?” I asked, adjusting the pocket square of his jacket.

  “Maybe the biggest one yet.” Two years after graduating from Columbia with his Juris Doctorate, Parker was already one of the most well-known lawyers in Manhattan, having landed a position with the city’s most prestigious firm. When people saw Parker, they saw his father, New York’s retired Chief of Justice, Albert Jones, who was equally tremendous and unequivocally dominant in court. Parker stopped before turning away, his eyes scanned over the flowers his mom sent. “You know you can always talk to me, Gem.” He nodded, “About anything. Claire included.”

  It was sweet, but the thought scared me. I wasn't ready, and I wasn't sure if I’d ever be. I knew he would never judge me for what happened, but that wasn’t good enough. How could I share what I wished never came true? I rarely invited Parker to Claire’s when I was a kid, and if he ever showed up, I’d always make him leave. I hated his surprise visits, especially if I caught him talking to Claire. Seeing them together always gave me such anxiety, leaving me uncertain of what was said and what was known. That was my world, not his. I wished it on no one.

  “You better shake, Rattlesnake.” I finally said, not truly acknowledging his words. He nodded, knowing once again I slipped from his persistent charm.

  “Bye, bye, Butterfly.” He winked and waited for a moment, allowing the silence to fill our space before turning away. I followed behind, locking the door as he left.

  Parker’s apartment—despite my mess—was very neat, leaving the guest room as no exception. I stretched my neck, observing the dark navy walls and white crown molding. Very masculine but softened by the thick white rug that covered over the cold wood floors. This was his home, but a part of me was still here, evident by the photos of us all around. Regardless, I returned to my mess, organizing fragments of my life into various piles. Poking out of one of the boxes was a sea foam green sewing machine. It’d been so long since I’d used it, since I even had the time. By its side was a Vogue magazine, featuring a yellow and pink pencil dress from my favorite designer, St. La Vie. I wish it was him I was interviewing with, but that was a dream, and in reality, I was meeting with Gerard Halt, designer turned hitman.

  Still, I pulled out the sewing machine and carried its massive size to the desk in my room. Maybe Parker was right, perhaps I could take time to work on my true passion. But what would that cost, if not the possibility of painful hope? Time was not on my side, and I knew myself too well. I had to get over Parker, and part of that meant getting out as soon as I could.

  Tomorrow would be the most important interview of my life, despite the overwhelming feeling of dread it most certainly caused.

  CHAPTER 2

  The cabbie slammed his hand on the horn mercilessly. I peeked out the window and watched as traffic was re-directed once again. A man with a headset waved us away, blocking our path with the authority of a steel fence. My phone buzzed with an alert, reminding me of the hell to come: Interview with Gerard Halt (professional asshole).

  Having missed breakfast, I resorted to stuffing my face with a bag of cheap yellow cookies. Marcello’s Galletas were my favorite, but I never ate them around Parker. No, they weren’t just cookies, they were a guilty segue from my past. Admitting I liked twenty-five cent bodega cookies was not shameful, however, admitting these cookies were all I had because my mother rarely made dinner was.

  “What’s the hold up?” I shouted, catching bits of crumbs that fell from my lip. I was beyond nervous and chewed like an observant squirrel as I looked out the window.

  The cab driver sighed loudly, “They’re filming another movie again. Streets are closed for the next half mile, so you better get comfortable,” his hoarse tone seemed annoyed, as if he shared the sentiment of my outrage. I watched as he placed the car in park and pulled out a half-finished crossword puzzle.

  Get comfortable?

  I gazed down at my oversized tote, filled with swatches and designs. My entire short-lived career was crammed into its confines, stitched with the letters VIP.

  As if.

  I knew I couldn’t be late to meet Gerard, I refused to give him another reason to hate me. I thought of everything at stake, my future home, the job I barely wanted, and getting out of Parker’s house. Where would me and my big box of miscellaneous items go if this didn’t work out? I panicked, digging into my purse past the cookies for a wad of cash.

  “I can’t be the homeless, vibrator, pizza cutter lady!” I shouted, visualizing my future kicked to the curb. “Stop here!” I threw a slew of singles at the cabbie as he craned his neck, startled in the rearview mirror.

  “Lady, I am stopped!” He cursed, but I was too distracted, attempting to leave with my seatbelt still on.

  “Thank you, I love you!” I replied, confusing both him and myself, feeling completely rushed and out of my mind. I was at least twelve blocks away from Gerard’s, a distance already sizable without the added chaos of a New York morning. Quickly, I checked my watch in horror. I had to do it, and as much as it pained me, I removed my Louboutins and placed my bare feet onto the rough, almost grimy concrete by the curb.

  “I love you too, sweetie!” The cabbie rolled his window down just for me, but I was already gone.

  Hastily, I sprinted. My bag and cookies jostled like stolen goods, while my feet morphed into the hue of black sticky tar. Even after leaving Parker’s early, here I was, screaming down the street, excusing my shoves for a job I already knew I’d hate. And why? Because of another movie set? It felt like every day someone was filming something new, popping up like mold, ruining peoples’ lives, just like mine, just like now. My bag slammed along one of the barricades tracing my path, emitting a loud ting that annoyed me further. I groaned as my foot landed on what felt like gum but was possibly something worse.

  “Why god?” I asked, crossing a busy street, defying a red glowing hand urging me to stop. I didn’t, but rather continued, staring up for an answer, met only with a condescending billboard for expensive cologne. In it, a man—who’s name escaped me, but face seemed familiar—stared down from the clouds as if summoned. A finger from his golden hand traced the stubble on his face, its color refined like strokes of dark ink, but unmatched by the piercing chocolate eyes that followed me along. I scowled, reading the quote hovered above his slicked black hair.

  “It’s me, baby, deal with it.”

  “Deal with it?” I groaned, repeating his words as if it were meant for me and the many detour signs that cursed my morning. I swiped at the sweat on my face, more agitated than before, as I reached the corner of Gerard’s boutique. My watch confirmed everything I knew was already true, I was almost twenty minutes late and impossibly frustrated. I tried to collect myself, dropping my heels to my feet, slipping them on with what felt like a rock between my toes. I puffed a strand of hair from my face, scurrying along to the now propped entrance.

  “After you.” A tall and looming man with a Dodgers cap held the door open, his eyes concealed behind a pair of thick black shades.

  “Yup!” I sighed, half paying attention to his smirk, noticing the hue of minty green gum he casually chewed. I passed him, his scent lingered like cherry and spice, centering me as a gust of cool air blew through the entrance. I straightened my posture, recognizing the familiar orange glow of Gerard’s darkened skin.

  “So she lives.” He announced, exaggerating his expression of shock, up from an array of fabric swatches. The way his eyes magnified behind the thick lenses of his designer frames gave him the appearance of an animated doll.

  “I ran here.” My smile twitched as I approached the large counter where he worked. The letters of his last name hung above his desk, reading more like a command than a welcome. He glanced over my body, placing a half-chewed pencil behind his ear.

  “That explains the sweat,” he added with the
scrunch of his nose, “and despite the nature of our business, being fashionably late is never a good look. But happy to see you nonetheless.” His greeting extended far past a courteous hello. He was happy to see me, back in his presence, out of options, and in his palms. I combed a strand of wet hair behind my ear, attempting to look presentable.

  “Happy to be back,” I lied. “It’s apparent I have lots to learn, and what better way than being with the best.” I flattered him, and my soul buckled under the weight of my words. Gerard huffed with a laugh, pulling out a large pair of shears, clipping along a strip of tweed. He didn’t even look at me anymore, he merely returned to his work as I continued. “I have plenty of new sketches and ideas, things I think you’ll really enjoy.” I pulled out a large book, covered in tags for quick access, “You know I’m serious, and I really want to impress…” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully, “you, that is…” I added, my eyebrows raised. Gerard glanced up, dragging the book into his tiny hands.

  “Pretty bold assumption.” He said flatly, licking his finger before flipping the pages. All I could do was stare, his face studying each new look and sketch. There was no denying it, the expansion of his lids, the unconscious nod of his head. He liked them, that was for sure. He cleared his throat regardless, as if to reboot his intentions for having me over. “No.” He announced, the word itself almost caught in a cough.

  “No?” I questioned, “Well I have more. I’ve been drawing up designs in my spare time and these are the fabrics I’d use.” I pulled out a thick binder, flipping it open. “I could see this for Fall fashion week, or even The Met Gala!” I announced, showing a swopping satin dress, its bottom sprawled like a trumpet with sleeves composed of hand stitched feathers. Sleek, wild, a bit crazy, much like my morning.