by Stacy Gail
“Sisyphus probably has better luck with his rock-rolling activities than we would have talking to that guy again. Besides,” Essie added, glancing at her watch before pushing her door open, “technically speaking, Thor is doing what we asked. The sun’s still up, so that means he can practice his black heart out.”
“The sun stays up forever in summer. It’s after six. In another couple of hours I’ll be putting the kids to bed.”
“If Thor’s still hammering by then, we should make him put the kids to bed.”
“I wouldn’t allow that inconsiderate butt stain anywhere near my kids.” Carla’s upper lip curled back in a disdainful sneer as she turned a glare up to the ceiling. If it had been a tangible thing, it would have been a dead-on kill shot. “Considering how he treats his cat, can you imagine how he’d treat a one-year-old baby?”
“Uh-oh, his cat.” Essie threw the front door open and looked across the miniscule studio apartment to the window. Beyond the glass, a sad orange face stared back at her. “Aw, poor little guy. I’d better let him in.”
“He’s not your cat, Essie.” Carla closed her apartment door behind her to follow Essie into the studio apartment, turning on lights as the setting sun sent out its farewell rays in the west. “You keep letting him in and feeding him, he’s going to think he’s yours.”
“I just feel so bad for the poor thing. If I can’t stand the racket that jerk makes, can you imagine what it must be like for an animal with sensitive hearing? No wonder he looks so stressed. Come on in, Mooch,” she cooed as she opened the window to the rickety fire escape. Like liquid orange, the painfully thin cat slunk through the open window and zipped under the pull-out bed. No doubt it was his version of putting his head under a pillow.
Behind her, her friend shook her head. “Mooch? Did you actually give that scraggly thing a name?”
“Not really. That’s just what he is.” Essie shut the window—lessening the horrible drumming by maybe a fraction—and crossed to the mirrored coat rack by the door. “I didn’t take you away from dinner with Patrick and the kids, did I? That’s what you’re usually up to this time of day.”
“We just finished. Patrick’s attempting to herd the rug rats into the bath while I’m supposed to be doing the dishes. Instead I’ve been monitoring the hallway for you like that creepy gym teacher we had in high school…ugh, what was her name? You know the one I’m talking about. The one with the chin hair.”
Essie tried not to make a face and failed. “Ms. Yeckley.”
“Oh God, how could I forget Yeckley? That woman fit her name in every possible way. She would patrol the halls just waiting to pounce on anyone to shake them down for hall passes, and if they didn’t have that, cold hard cash.”
“Luckily I never ran into her when I went to school here.” It had been late summer when Essie had left Chicago between her sophomore and junior years. It had been four months after that when she’d finally been well enough to pick up a school book of any kind, relearning how to make her eyes focus so that she could understand words on a page. “Why were you hall-lurking like Ms. Yeckley?”
“Gee, let’s think. You blew out of here midday to find out who the other finalists are, and what you have to do to land a gig at the most famous tattoo studio in the entire world. So naturally I was hall-lurking in the hope that I’d run into a Girl Scout selling cookies.”
Essie grinned. That was Carla in a nutshell. She might not have a clue how to give a straight answer, but she sure as hell could generate a laugh. “Please tell me you picked up some Thin Mints. Ooh, and Samoas. I love those things.”
“I will if you tell me what happened in a minute or less, because I could swear I just heard Patrick cry for help. Normally I’d laugh at that, but since the children are involved, I’m thinking I should probably worry.”
Oy. “Long story short, my two competitors are like every other designer I’ve met in the business—artsy-fartsy weirdos who’re totally incapable of being normal. One’s a woman who talks in the third person and flaps her hands around with every word she speaks. The other one’s a guy who seems to be the physical embodiment of hatred.”
“Sounds like my in-laws.”
Essie laughed and hung up her scarf. Before she could stop herself, her eyes flitted to the scars that ringed her neck. Resolutely she turned away to shoot her friend a wry smile. “Get this. There’s going to be a fashion show a couple months from now, streamed live online, to show off our various collections to the masses. Just the thought of it makes me so nervous I want to puke up things I ate a year ago.”
“A fashion show? Are you serious?” Carla’s usual acerbic tone was momentarily eclipsed with squeal-worthy excitement, even as she opened the apartment door and stuck her head out to listen. Apparently all was well since no bloodcurdling screams could be heard, so she leaned back against the open door’s frame. “That sounds awesome. Do you have any idea what you’re going to make?”
“That’s the problem. I’ve got way too many ideas churning in my head. I’m hoping I’ll be able to focus better on what I need to do after I dive into every fabric store on Roosevelt and maybe even Merch Mart.”
You mean we, babe.” Carla looked so gleeful Essie wouldn’t have been surprised if she started rubbing her hands together. “We’ll strap the kidlets into their strollers and make a day of it. With any luck, they’ll start screaming and the shop owners will give us whatever fabric you want just to get us the hell out the door. Sound like a plan?”
“Sounds great.” She joined her friend in the open doorway, and when the drumming ceased overhead, she leaned back against the doorjamb with a blissful sigh. “Ah. Peace at last.”
As if on cue, the door across the hallway burst open and Carla’s husband Patrick appeared. Usually he was a low-key, latte-loving kind of guy who only got pissed off when people threw away regular trash in the recycling bins. Like Carla, Essie had gone to school with Patrick, though she didn’t remember him that well since her best friend hadn’t hooked up with him by the time Essie had been shipped off to Texas.
The low-key guy Essie had come to know was nowhere in evidence as he struggled to hold onto his wet and naked one year old son, Dillon. “Carla, this isn’t working. Hey, Essie.”
She grinned. “Hiya.”
“Look, you need to help me,” he went on, his reddish-brown hair falling into his eyes as he struggled with Dillon. “She won’t stay in the tub without you there, and every time she gets out, I have to get Dillon out because I can’t leave him alone in—”
“Mommy!” Shiny wet and as naked as the day she was born, two year old Charlotte toddler-ran out into the hall and threw herself at her mother’s legs. “Mommy, baff time!”
“So I see.” With a quick laugh, Carla bent and caught her giggling daughter up into her arms, then sent Essie a wicked smile. “This is just a preview of what tomorrow’s going to look like, girlie. Expect lots and lots of free fabric.”
Essie’s laughter faded as she closed and locked her front door, then stood and listened to the little family laugh and chatter as they retreated as well.
And as they retreated, silence slowly crept in like a living thing to fill the void.
It still amazed her that her best friend since grade school was now married and the mother of two. Essie was the same age as Carla and Patrick. Exactly the same. But her life was worlds apart from theirs.
It always would be.
“It’s okay to come out now, Mooch.” As the sky darkened beyond the window, the silence amplified further, filling the apartment with its heavy emptiness. It was just a one-room studio, with a closet-sized bathroom and a kitchen that took up one wall of the overall living space—space that was cluttered with her sewing machines, adjustable dress-form mannequin and cutting table. Most of her clothes were still in boxes stacked in one corner near the door, and a small flat screen TV—a “welcome home” gift from her parents—stood on top of a card table she optimistically called the dining table.
>
But no matter how cluttered the room was, it was still empty.
Empty of people.
Empty of sound.
Empty of life.
The faintest mew caught her attention as she moved to the kitchen area, and she glanced back to see that Mooch, all eyes and skittish tension, had crept out to watch her. When she bent to open the cabinet beneath the sink to retrieve a paper plate, a can of cat food and a box of dry kibble, he came running.
“You only like me for the food,” she muttered at the skinny animal, who decided to polish her ankles to show her how much he approved of her decision to feed him. Mentally she shook her head over the idiocy of feeding someone else’s pet when she wasn’t currently making a dime. Oh well. At least Mooch gave her someone to talk to.
“Okay, cat. Chow time.” Setting the plate down, she filled a shallow bowl with water even as her neighbor’s pet dived into the offering like he’d never seen food before. She left him to it, snagged up the sketchbook she’d dropped on her way to save Mooch, and plopped down on the squeaky fold-out bed. But as she scanned the notations she’d made on materials she wanted to use, she couldn’t get her mind to focus.
You must be a special kind of stupid.
They’re still more interesting than you.
No one gives two shits about a wallflower like you.
A low sigh deflated her as Ezekiel Steele filled her head. That dick, she thought, but without any heat. It hurt like hell, knowing what that man saw when he looked at her, but his brutal assessment wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t interesting. At all.
That was a good thing, she reminded herself fiercely. She went out of her way to bury herself inside her protective cocoon. That was the only way she knew how to keep herself safe. Making the most of her appearance, being open and smiling or chatting freely with people…that was what she used to do. Some might call that ordinary, day-to-day living, but she saw it as a surefire way to make someone notice her existence.
The wrong kind of someone.
Life was better when she was invisible. Safer.
But…
If she was invisible, how was she supposed to attract the right kind of someone?
Good luck with that, she snorted, settling a pillow behind her. It had taken years of therapy to get her to interact with the world as much as she did, after her sense of security had been obliterated. But as far as she’d come, she still hadn’t been able to shake the fear of gaining unwanted attention. That was why Ezekiel Steele’s assertion that she was an attention whore was beyond laughable. It took courage to not be invisible, and that was a kind of courage she didn’t have.
So, no. She wasn’t an attention whore. She was something much worse.
She was a coward.
Yet there she was, in the center of a fashion contest that was getting tens of thousands of hits online on a daily basis and heaven only knew how much more attention in mainstream media.
She had to be out of her damn mind.
No wonder Ezekiel Steele took one look at her and decided she was a twitchy wallflower desperate for some attention, she thought, angrily flipping through her sketchbook. How pathetic she must seem to him, a gorgeous hottie who probably had women hanging all over him. He was much taller than her height of 5’6”, with the build of a football player who didn’t require shoulder pads. His clean-shaven jaw was square and begging for a woman’s hand to cup it, and she’d be lying if she hadn’t felt her palm itch to do just that. When his mouth wasn’t twisted in derision, she loved the way it curled up a fraction at the corners even when it was at rest. And his scars were fascinating as hell, though part of her hurt for the pain he must have endured when he’d earned them.
More than anyone, she understood that kind of pain.
But it was his eyes she found the most mesmerizing. They were as light as mirrors, yet they reflected nothing of what was going on behind them. Then she backtracked with a derisive snort. That wasn’t exactly true. Those eyes had definitely reflected that he hadn’t liked what he saw when he looked at her.
Too bad she couldn’t say the same.
A “mrrr” sounded as Mooch jumped up onto the edge of the bed, then stood statue-still as he regarded her warily. Lowering her book, she held out a hand. “Hey there, buddy. You want some company? I’m cool with that.”
At the sound of her voice, the thin orange cat slunk over, sniffed her fingers, then moved onto her open book to make himself comfortable. She sighed, resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to get any work done tonight, and gently stroked Mooch’s head. Immediately, the stressed-out ball of orange fur relaxed enough to do his best impression of a diesel engine.
She might be an uninteresting, attention-starved wallflower in Ezekiel Steele’s eyes, and she’d never have the wonderful family that Carla and Patrick were busily building, and she’d never meet her other half while staying in her protective cocoon. But at least she could make her neighbor’s cat purr. That was something.
As the empty silence tried to smother her, Essie’s eyes began to burn.
Allergies, she told herself firmly, and closed them up tight as she continued to pet Mooch. Just allergies.
The cat’s purr was almost loud enough to make the silence bearable.
Chapter Four
“It took a week to get everyone’s personal information sorted out.” Payne moved around his chrome and glass desk to perch on the edge of it, while Essie, Dizzy Izz and Olivier took their places on the couch and surrounding leather chairs. Unlike their meeting the week before, Scout was nowhere to be found and the redheaded videographer was also MIA.
Too bad Essie couldn’t say the same for Ezekiel Steele.
She struggled to keep her expression from sliding into resting bitch-face. That jerk. His words had gnawed at her all week long. She might an uninteresting wallflower—boring, ordinary, and determined to be invisible. But she was a safe uninteresting wallflower, so he had no right to judge.
Jerk.
The thing was, she could feel Ezekiel Steele standing there judging her, and suddenly being safe didn’t feel all that awesome. Worse yet, he knew everything about her now. It was bad enough that the guy she’d come to think of as a physically ideal man—though his personality sucked—believed she was a pathetic example of femininity. But now he knew all the details of her background. All of them. Even the stuff she’d blocked just to stay sane.
If she’d walked down Michigan Avenue naked, she couldn’t have felt more exposed.
“So,” Payne continued with his sharp smile, “I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. After reviewing your personal backgrounds with my head of security, I don’t see any insurmountable issues. The good news is that you’re all still in the running. The bad news is that you now only have seven weeks to kick some serious fashion ass.”
The sound of Dizzy’s release of pent-up breath dragged Essie out of her murky thoughts. Interesting. Apparently she hadn’t been the only one sweating the snoop-fest.
To her shock, Olivier leaned over to pat her knee. “You were worried about that, weren’t you, Texas? But since you’re still here, I guess it’s obvious they’ll let just about anyone play this game—even you.”
“Shut up.”
The room froze, because the order came from both Payne and, of all people, Ezekiel Steele, who’d loomed up like some kind of nightmare from behind. Olivier’s dour mouth dropped open as he stared at the man who’d come to stand directly behind her chair before it pinched shut, and he shifted around on the couch as if he suddenly had a monster case of hemorrhoids. For her part, Essie suffered the sensation of her face going up in flames while the room’s focus snapped to her.
Great.
So much for being invisible.
“See, that kind of shit right there is what I’ve got a real fucking problem with.” Looking as pissed off as she’d ever seen him, Payne jerked to his full height, his hands curled into fists. “I get that you all have egos—everyone here at House O
f Payne does. I put up with those egos because they’re attached to people who are literally the best in the business. As long as those egos don’t get in the way and my people keep producing quality work, I let it go whenever those egos flare up. But the moment one artist tries playing petty mind games with another artist, they’re out. You know why? Because that shit doesn’t benefit my business. I’ve tried making it clear from the beginning that House Of Payne is all that matters, and I’d hoped I would get some adult understanding. But since that’s obviously too much to expect from you, I now have to lay down the law like you’re a bunch of fucking five-year-olds. So fine, here it is—you don’t talk to each other. You don’t text or email each other. You don’t touch each other. You don’t broadcast shit about each other online in any way, shape or form. You don’t look at each other’s work, and you don’t make one goddamn comment about each other’s work, past or present. If you happen to be in the same room together, pretend you can’t see each other. If I feel there’s evidence of any of you crossing a line, you’re out, because that kind of dissention won’t help me find the best designer, and that’s the only reason you’re here. Does anyone have any questions?”
Essie almost hated to raise her hand, but there was just no way of getting around it. “Um…”
Payne nodded at her so curtly she almost lost her nerve.
“About the models you mentioned during the last meeting for the fashion show… are we going to have a chance to get their measurements any time soon?”
For a moment Payne just stared at her. Then he looked to the other designers. “You see? Professionalism. It’s not hard. All you have to do is give a fuck about what you do. To answer the question,” he went on when Essie’s face got hot all over again, “we’ve decided to keep the focus on House Of Payne by having our tattooists model the clothing. Fay, Rocket and Angel will be the female models, and Twist, Maximo and a new guy who’s coming in will be the male models. It’ll be decided later this week which designer gets which set of models.”