Lawsuit and Leather Read online

  “No.” He winced, ruthlessly committed to dragging me down. “Your look is dated, I’m not sure what era this is even from.” He closed it shut, not sliding it towards my direction, but rather all the way towards the other end of the table.

  “Dated?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “And you wouldn’t, that's why you’re here and not with your clients. Like you said, Miss Harrison, you have lots to learn.”

  “Oh, ok…” I drew out my voice, buying the time I needed as to not whimper. “Well if you don’t like my designs, then at least let me style for you again.” I conceded. I didn’t want to style, but if it took me starting from the bottom up again, I would.

  “Oh,” he laughed, “I’m not hiring you, Gemma. Not for anything.” He answered, the quick clip of his words matched each sharp compression of the shears in his hand. “You’re crazy if you think that.”

  My body boiled, not from the tone of Gerard’s voice, but rather, the inescapable sensation of being watched. It pricked at my neck, teasing like a hot dagger, the sense of lingering eyes. Quickly I peeked up, recognizing the figure close by as the man in the Dodgers cap. He stood near a rack of clothes, his shoulders held in a tight leather jacket. His stare sat guarded, shielded with dark shades, but directed at me. I grimaced, feeling the cringe of embarrassment, knowing he witnessed the entire failed interview. I was sweaty, on the brink of tears, and completely disheveled from the run.

  “But I thought you wanted to hire me?” I questioned, returning my attention to Gerard. “I guess… I’m just confused.”

  “You certainly are.” He scoffed. “I wouldn’t hire you to fetch my coffee, Gemma. The fact you showed my clients your own designs while working for me was completely disrespectful. How could I forgive that? I couldn’t. So instead, I taught you a lesson.”

  “Gerard, that was a complete accident.” I reminded him, recalling the moment one of his A-list clients caught me sketching and begged for the look to be made. “It happened once, and I even gave you all the credit.”

  “I’m not listening,” he plugged his ears. “I had to remind you that you were never truly anything special.” His smile curled into an ugly smirk, “Besides, you were late today, just like before. Back when you were here, it was always something new, running off to help your poor mommy in some crummy Brooklyn apartment,” he seemed disgusted. “I don’t need that garbage around my shop, or your second hand looks.”

  My mouth dropped; his words stung in the most viscous of ways. To even bring up Claire, to drag her into this. Why would he, or more importantly, how could he? That was over four years ago, and it was hell. Claire was on the wrong medication, and I had to be there to put her back together. Gerard had no idea the extent of my leave, but he knew enough to allow me to go. And now, he asked me to an interview, and for what? To watch me struggle, after stealing my clients and ruining my business? A big, fat fuck you teetered on my tongue.

  “Any questions?” He blinked rapidly. The urge to leap over the counter and wring his neck was overwhelming, to say the least. I hated him, but most of all, I hated how he made me feel, like I was a little girl again with no control.

  “Just one.” A thick, steady voice hummed in the air, diverting my attention to the end of the counter. It was the man from before, standing unfazed, flipping through the pages of my designs. “Does this come in black?” He asked, the hint of dark tattoos peeked from his cuff, his hand imprinted with a black rose. He pointed towards a Polaroid, a Calvin Klein suit I styled for an event: navy jacket, burgundy tie.

  “Yes…” I muttered, still reeling from the effects of Gerard’s attack.

  “And you can curate this? If I need it?” His voice deepened, steeped in an accent like Latin silk.

  “Well... of course.” I fidgeted, looking back at Gerard who was not amused.

  “I’m sorry, sir, we’re in the middle of something right now.” Gerard chimed in, almost apologetic. The man looked up at me, only me, staring in silence as if Gerard didn’t exist. He closed the book, lifting it with one hand, who’s weight required two of my own.

  “I’m here for a stylist, and I’m short on time.” He announced. His black boots clicked with a heavy thud, perfectly matched with knee slit denim jeans, as he approached.

  “Well, I can style you sir, that’s no…” Gerard's words stopped, blocked by the motion of the man, who said nothing at all, but instead, raised a single finger to his lips. The implied shush startled me, as Gerard’s face turned from orange to red.

  “I’m not sure if you're what I was looking for, but you may be what I need.” He said, curiously eyeing me as he set the book by my side. I reached for it, but he stopped me. He placed his hand on top of the cover. His skin glowed like bronzed honey. “Like I said, I’m short on time, and I’m ready to make a decision.”

  “She doesn't even work here,” Gerard interrupted, “and you need to leave. In fact, both of you leave, or I’ll call the cops.” His absurd threat warranted a smirk from the man, who slowly reached up to remove his shades.

  “The cops? Now this is a party.” He chewed his gum ever so slightly, revealing who he was beneath. Gerard gasped, the noise of his breath more startling than my own realization.

  Those eyes.

  I knew them.

  They were the same from the man in the billboard, dark and familiar, those that judged me as I ran across the street. He was here, more apparent than ever, his knitted brow impossibly calm.

  “Alex Rivers…” The tremble in Gerard's voice shook between my ears, but all I heard was the rush of my own blood. I stared, hopelessly lost in the unbreakable gaze of the man who challenged me with an undefined intention.

  “Alex Rivers?” I asked out loud. It was a name I knew, but almost forgot, whose face covered more than just a billboard. Yes, I knew his name, I knew his clout. He carried it like a heavy stick, an aura concealed clearly from the public, disguised in the simplest of ways.

  “I need you to be quiet now.” Alex instructed Gerard, as he calmly gazed down at the silver ring on his thumb, toying with its rotation. “I have what I came for.”

  Have what I came for? Did he mean me? I stared at a panicked Gerard, whose own fear felt somehow contagious. What was I supposed to do? Alex lifted my binders from the counter, placing them into my tote.

  “You don't need to do that,” I laughed nervously, but Alex continued.

  “I know.” He wrapped the handle of the tote along his tight grip. “You can thank me outside.” He walked off, carrying my life’s work in his hands, leaving me to stare as he reached the door. Gerard shouted, but I ran, chasing to keep up with Alex’s loud clicking boots.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, reaching for my tote as he stopped by the curb. I pulled it from his hands, gently coaxing his release. The weight seemed heavier than I remembered, fooled by how easy he held it.

  “What’s your name?” He asked, as I set the bag down on the floor, kneeling to ensure its contents were secure. As I stared up, I was met with a firm expression, the creases along his eyes left me in doubt about the tone of his question. Was he angry or eager to know?

  “Gemma.” I mumbled, allowing the weight of his presence to settle in. This was a celebrity, one evoking fear from Gerard, but I felt nothing. I didn’t know his work or anything he’d done, except appear in ads. This celebrity aspect didn’t have an effect on me, but the command of his voice did.

  “Gemma…” He repeated my name with such slick conviction, almost as if he wanted to test the way it rolled off his tongue.

  Even in heels, my nose barely reached his chest. I tilted my head, just as I had when I saw him in the billboard. I couldn’t resist the urge to divert my eyes from his, his stare was as powerful as it was fiercely dark. His broad shoulders and fitted jacket, opened to a pristine white V-neck. Its contrast fit snuggly against his olive skin, teasing a coarse tuft of pebbled chest hair. I felt small in his shadow and how his eyes stared from above.

&nbsp
; “What?” I asked, brushing my hair behind my ear. “Why are you staring at me like that?” He cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as his tongue clicked the gum in his mouth.

  “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  Uncomfortable? I wasn't sure how it made me feel. Nervous, warm, almost as if I had slipped into a hot bath. Though his face was stern, his presence was anything but. Assertive, yes, but how did it make me feel? I wanted to say safe, though admitting it felt absurd.

  “It doesn't.” I answered.

  “And where you from, Gemma?”

  “Midtown.”

  “No.” He hushed.

  “No?” I asked, puzzled by his refute. “I live in Midtown… currently.”

  “You’re not from Midtown though, are you?” His eyes finally looked away, slowly scanning the entirety of my body, shamelessly lingering at my lips. The brief pauses between his questions made me feel as though I was being studied. I returned the courtesy, taking a longer glance at the black rose tattoo on his hand. “Tell me, where are you really from?” His eyes motioned towards my purse, as he removed the gum from his mouth. I froze as his hand dropped near my waist, digging into the yellow bag of Marcello’s Galletas. He pulled out a cookie, slipping it between his soft cupid lips. The way he stared between the bag and me, it almost felt like he knew something more. He sensed it, subtly hinting at my quiet truth with the crunch of a sweet vanilla crisp.

  “Brooklyn.” I corrected, mortified at his discovery of my poor bodega cookies. He licked his thumb.

  “Where in Brooklyn?”

  “Bushwick.”

  “Is that where you take care of your mother?”

  I scrunched my face, a part of me immediately annoyed by his prying questions and how Gerard made that comment so loudly. I shook my head, reluctant to answer any further.

  “I don’t take care of her,” I said swiftly. “And that’s none of your business.” I cleared my throat, reminded of Gerard’s words and all the trouble living with Claire caused. Reaching up, I stroked my neck, already suffocated from the scent of imaginary cigarettes. Alex’s eyes shifted, fixated on my hand.

  “Hmmm…” he hummed.

  “Hmm, what?”

  “Now you’re uncomfortable.”

  “No, I’m not.” I pulled my hands back to my side. He grinned, and for the first time, it seemed like a genuine reaction to my stubborn dispute. The way his eyes creased, kissed by the sun, smooth, yet rugged, had the appearance of age but none of its timely wear. If I had to guess, he was much older than me, perhaps ten years the difference of Parker and me.

  “If you say so…” he said unconvinced, “you’re here for an interview, and that’s what I’m giving you.” He stared passed me, observing for any oncoming traffic, or possibly the sign of people. “Why were you late?”

  “Half the Upper East Side is blocked,” I sighed, “another movie, another headache.”

  He laughed, and the sound of his deep rasp tightened my chest. “Apologies are in order,” he replied, “and be glad. I don't do that often.”

  His laugh irked me, realizing the gravity of his confession, “Wait, you mean… it’s your movie?”

  “Most of them are…”

  “Well, you're the reason I was late, the reason I took my heels off and ran through the dirty streets of New York.” My lip twitched in disgust, feeling the grime between my toes. “And why aren’t you there? Entire streets are blocked, and yet you’re here at a small boutique?”

  “They shoot when I’m ready.” He replied calmly. “And I’ll be ready, once this is taken care of first.”

  “Well, you being late caused me to be late.” I shrugged, “It’s unprofessional.”

  “Maybe… but it’s my choice, and I have so few already, except for one, of course,” he paused, “the one I’m making right now.”

  I stepped backward, reaching my hand behind me to steady myself against a parking meter. I felt as though I could fall at any moment, clutching my oversized tote between my knees. He moved in closer, studying me once more. “And what would that be?” I asked.

  “You.” He stated, so matter of fact.

  I laughed. “What about me?”

  “I have some upcoming events that require a stylist. I came here by word of mouth, and here you were. So now you’re my stylist.” I laughed again. He couldn’t be serious, not like this, but I could tell in the way his eyes narrowed, he wasn’t joking at all.

  “Do you do this often?” I asked, completely suspicious of his words. He was too smooth, too confident, completely unhesitant.

  “Do what exactly?”

  “Ask girls to be your stylist?” I shrugged, “Don’t you already have a team of people? This just seems odd. Like some pick up line.” I cleared my throat, asserting my position. But why would he be hitting on me? I looked like I just escaped a fire and ran a marathon.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He scoffed, leaning closer, the faint rise of cherry scent lifted from his skin and into my nose. “If I wanted to pick you up, I’d merely lift you in my arms and take you.” The way his voice rolled, appeared both foreign and alluring. I felt as if I could buckle, my body both stiff and loose. “This is a serious job,” he added, “with serious expectations. I don’t do charity. I see what I want, and I take it.” His eyes peered down at the bag of unused business cards I held the day before. He plucked them from my purse, “This is you?” He asked, nodding at the bag.

  “That’s me,” was all I could say, as Alex bit into the plastic, the white fang of his tooth pulled a seam to access a card. He held it up, reading my name aloud with a smirk.

  “Gemma. Rose. Harrison.” He growled, his eyes met mine once more, “Piedra preciosa.” The unfamiliar words buzzed like a drug in my veins, his voice far too intoxicating for me to make sense of.

  “What did you just say?” I stammered as his eyes looked up at an oncoming crowd. He flashed a quick but stressful grin, slipping his glasses back onto his face.

  “Don’t be shy. Soon everyone will know your name.” He tucked the card into his pocket, leaving me no chance to inquire further as hordes of people took notice of the apparent star, Mr. Alex Rivers.

  CHAPTER 3

  “She’ll need Tabasco.” Parker warned the waitress as she placed our food on the table.

  “And he’ll need more half and half.” I added, ripping two pink packets of sugar for his freshly filled coffee.

  Breakfast at Bennes’ was the culmination of every simple pleasure that a diner could have. If it wasn’t the sizzle of a fried egg, or the chatter of revolving guests, then it was the charm of anointed Christmas lights that hung above our tiny booth. These were the things that caused Parker and me to return like a habit, and I loved it, especially since it was something we shared together.

  “Every time,” Parker laughed with a shake of his head, “why is it that you always forget Tabasco and I forget the creamer?” He stirred the sugar in as his spoon clinked against the ceramic lip of his mug.

  “I don’t know, I think that’s why we make a good team.” I replied, knowing full well the reason. For me, it was a ritual. I’d always forget Tabasco on purpose, anticipating whether Parker would remember or not. He always did, and I in turn ordered the creamer. As silly as it felt, I enjoyed how he cared to remember both me and my taste. I wondered if the same was true for him, though I had the feeling it was purely by accident. “Speaking of tradition…” I said out loud, as the thoughts in my head spilled over into real spoken words.

  “Tradition?” Parker questioned, placing his suit jacket over the top of our booth.

  “Oh, nothing.” I corrected, removing the cap of hot sauce placed on the table, “I’m just wondering what you did wrong.” I teased, dabbing dots of red liquid over my bed of hash browns.

  “Wrong?” Parker asked, pouring the creamer. “Are you the lawyer or me?” He took a sip.

  I glanced over at his plate, my brows knitted in suspicion, “Clearly you did something wrong, why
else would you be punishing yourself? Exhibit A.” My potato filled fork pointed to a square cut of salmon on his plate, its pink hue sat atop a heap of steamed zucchini. “What’s with the change? Or better yet, where is Parker, and what have you done with him? You hate seafood!”

  Parker took a bite, his face turning sour as he tried to answer. “Broadening my horizons.” He sneered. He chewed like he was avoiding his tongue, keeping the salmon on a path from teeth to stomach. I slid a piece of hot bacon onto his plate, giving him a wink.

  “For when you come to your senses.” I watched, making sure he took a bite, relishing in the joy the flavor gave him. “You’ll need your strength for work,” I noticed, of course, his formal attire, and how he filled the lines of his fitted white shirt. “I still can’t believe you’re going in on a Saturday. My god, you’ve been so busy, I haven’t even seen you all week! What time did you get in last night?” I sacrificed another piece of bacon, just to see him smile once more.

  “Late.” He chewed, “You won’t even believe what’s happening. I’ve been busting my ass on this new case, and I’m hellbent on making a statement.” He pushed his zucchini around, unimpressed. “Winning this case means maintaining my reputation. It’s a big fish. I’ll leave it at that.”

  My eyebrow arched, and Parker sighed, knowing my affinity for his job and the gossip it included. “What did they do?” I leaned in, curling a loose whip of hair that fell from my bun.

  “No…” Parker raised his hand, “I’m not a true crime podcast; I have a code of conduct.”

  “Lawyers have a code of conduct?” I joked.

  “Ouch.” He grasped his chest as if struck.

  “Kidding!” I smacked his hand as he reached for another piece of bacon. The dimple on his cheek creased as I pursed my lips.

  “Honestly, I want to just fast forward, to win against this asshole and ruin his day. Consider it my championship fight.” His jaw clicked at the word fight. He reached up, assessing the smoothness of his cheek, his wrist wrapped in a sleek leather watch. He wasn’t stressed, but rather focused, his clean-cut appearance a hallmark to a new mental state. This was the lawyer, the man who already made a name for himself within such little time.