Pretty Boy Problems

by Michele Grant

  Yazlyn was my best friend and managing director; she was overseeing the office in New York while I was launching Dallas. We met on a beach shoot back in my swimsuit model days. She pranced out to the set stark-naked, all six feet of gleaming ebony skin and another full six inches of majestic curly Afro, and announced, “I want the suit that she has on, or I’m going home.”

  Just as I was about to jump up to break off a piece of my mind, she winked at me. The photographer/director was a known grab-ass, and she wanted to make him suffer a little. Nothing like a fit of divatude to throw a shoot off schedule. And everyone in the business knew that time was money. We were close in age, and she was also from the South. We bonded immediately. When I launched my first line of clothing, she agreed to do all the initial shots free of charge. When she retired, I thanked her by giving her a place in the company.

  But by nature, Yazlyn was not a morning person, and even on the East Coast, it was early. “So, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Arizona.” Arizona Marks was a former classmate of mine from FIT. We’d been friends and collaborators. She and I were both in the running for “One to Watch,” but when I won the prestigious design award and she didn’t, things turned ugly. I would call us rivals, but really, she made it her life mission to copy my work (poorly) and pass it off as her own.

  I sucked my teeth. “What is it this time?”

  “I just got a sneak peek at her fall line.”

  “And?”

  “It looks eerily familiar.”

  I resisted the urge to stomp my foot. “Scan it and send it. I’ll be in the office in an hour. Wow, that girl can hold a grudge, can’t she?”

  “Like no other. How’s it going there?”

  Beau slid a fluffy omelet alongside some fruit on a plate and dropped it in front of me. “Bon appétit.”

  I smirked into the phone. “Better than I would’ve imagined. I hired a creative director.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “His name is Beauregard Montgomery.”

  She drew in a breath and let out a whistle. “Sweet Jesus, are you talking about the former model Beauregard Montgomery?”

  I frowned. “Yes, why?”

  “He’s the hotness. Just hot sex on a platter. Oooh wee, the stories on him! Is he still fine?”

  I flicked a glance in his direction. “He looks all right.”

  “Oh. We must not be talking about the same man. Oozes the sexy, killer body, smile that says ‘you know you want some of this’—that guy.”

  I bit back a sigh. “Same guy.”

  “Ummm,” she moaned. “He was looking right the last time I saw him. You gonna get on that?”

  Something about her tone gave me pause. “You haven’t slept with him, have you?”

  “Define sleep.” Her tone was silky.

  “Yazlyn!”

  “Ha, no—I never slept with him or entered into sexual congress with him. I did work with him once. Nice guy. He was engaged at the time. But, by God, I would do him on a bed of quesadillas at high noon in the middle of Times Square, given half a chance.”

  I blinked twice and looked down at the phone before putting it back to my ear. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Oh, sweetie, are you still living in Abstinence Land? Chillin’ on Celibate Lane?”

  “I’m hanging up now before you start talking about Dickless Drive.” I hung up and looked up to find both sets of Montgomery eyes pinned on me. His whiskey-colored and full of humor, hers more golden and full of curiosity.

  “Dickless Drive?” he asked, one brow raised.

  “Who did Beau sleep with?” Katrina inquired.

  “No one.” I dug into my omelet. It was delicious. Where did he find fresh crab?

  “Well, we all know that’s not true.” Katrina said in a dry tone.

  “Watch it, Sis.” Beau took a sip of coffee.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I meant . . . Lord. You know Yazlyn. I told her I hired Beau, and she knows him.”

  Beau nodded. “Yazlyn, yeah—ebony goddess with an Arkansas twang. We did a shoot for a winery. She said I slept with her?”

  “No. She said she would sleep with you on a hot bed of quesadillas in the middle of the day in Times Square.”

  Katrina choked on her omelet. “Bad visual. Bad visual!”

  Beau smiled. “Que caliente! Mexican. That’s new. With or without guacamole, do you imagine?”

  “Can we change the subject?” I pleaded, trying not to laugh.

  “Salsa?” he asked.

  “Stop. It.” Katrina put her hand up.

  But by that time, I couldn’t hold it in. I snickered. “You know, salsa might sting and avocado is hell to get out of clothing. Sour cream would be better, don’t you think?”

  Katrina snatched up her plate and coffee mug. “That’s it! I rebuke this entire conversation. You two pervs carry on. I’ll come by the office after I’ve had some sleep and can get the thought of Beau’s naked ass covered in avocado out of my head. I hate y’all!” She ran down the hallway and slammed her bedroom door shut. “Hate.You. Both!”

  Beau and I chuckled in between bites of food.

  “Are you going to explain Dickless Drive?” he asked.

  “No indeed, sir. I am not.” I shook my head. Share with virile Brother Beau that I was abstaining? A man with whom women (like Yazlyn) who hadn’t laid eyes on him in ten years still longed to get freaky with on a stack of appetizers? No. Wasn’t. Going. To. Happen.

  He nodded. “All right. Then, tell me the breakdown of the company and what I’m walking into this morning.”

  Now that I could do.

  “We’re a more casual design house. I prefer to bring in smart people and let them multitask. Yazlyn is my second-in-command and acts as managing director. She’ll take point driving the oversight of the women’s line as I get this men’s line underway. The women’s line is broken into couture, ready-to-wear, swimwear, and intimates. Even though I’m the head designer, I can’t do it all. So I have assistant designers as well as fashion and design specialists. We have a visual director who handles the showroom in New York and will split time in Dallas. We have finance, logistics, graphic designers, brand managers. We have garment construction specialists and a media/interactive director. On the sales side, we have account executives. We had a talent manager who recently resigned, but with you and Katrina on board, I’ll probably shift those responsibilities to get your input.”

  “So how many people are we talking about in all?”

  “Around fifty. I don’t want to grow too far too fast. Right now we have the revenue on the orders from the women’s line to support the expansion into men’s.”

  “Do you want to go bigger eventually? Accessories, shoes, handbags, household items?”

  This was the thing about Beau that snuck up on you. Just when you thought he was all rock-hard abs, killer ass, and quesadilla sex, he dropped something insightful on you. “Great question. I’d like to inch that way but I’m not in any hurry. The most important thing is to provide a unique quality product that people think they can’t get anywhere else. With your help, I’m hoping that’s what the menswear line will be.”

  He nodded. “Let’s go get ’em.”

  8

  Family Dinner

  Beau—Sunday, May 1, 4:28 PM

  With Katrina on one side and Belle on the other, it didn’t look like I was going to get out of this one. It had been a while since I’d been to Madere and Pops’s house for Sunday dinner. Not so coincidentally, it had been just as long since I had seen or spoken to Roman or Jewel.

  To say I wasn’t looking forward to it? A massive understatement. The past few weeks I had valid excuses for staying away. The first Sunday after I started working at BellaRich, I helped Belle move into her new condo and finish setting up the new offices. Belle’s office was an open warehouse loft concept near Mockingbird Lane. It covered two floors with the top story dedicated to design and merc
handising. The bottom floor was all sales and display. The next five weekends, we had worked straight through. We wanted to host a designer’s showcase party for Dallas Fashion Week, and the deadline to have the designs perfected, sewn, and ready for orders was looming faster than any of us expected.

  Working with Belle, Kat, and the team was exhilarating, exhausting, and fulfilling all at the same time. I was in my element: creative, collaborating, and contributing. Belle, as CEO and designer, had the talent to turn ideas into garments. Kat was a big-picture idea person, technically called a design director. She would say, “We need Casual Friday wear and weekend wear and resort wear for men. And we need to call it all something specific, so men know. Men want to be told ‘wear this for this’ and be done with it.”

  Then Belle would sit down and sketch out four items. Then they would pass it to me, and I’d say, “What about a drawstring waist, a fabric that doesn’t need ironing or can be wash and wear and not too matchy matchy with the shirt.” Plus, I wanted the entire line of clothing to have a similar feel. I went through and made sure everything looked like a coordinating set of styled garments. They all played off each other; that’s what pulled together a collection. I don’t know if that’s what creative directors did at other fashion houses, but it was what I was doing now. I loved it.

  The process behind the design, creation, and manufacture of clothing was new and intriguing to me. An idea became a sketch. Sketches were tweaked, ripped up, restarted, and argued about, redesigned, and finalized. The graphic designers fed them into a computer program and created the technical sketches. And then we’d debate the hell out of those. We’d call in the garment construction team (just a fancy name for the tailoring experts) and begin debate on cut, fabric, thread count, buttons, zippers, stitching, the works. One time we spent three hours reviewing the proper vent on a man’s three-button blazer. Who knew all of this went into it?

  From there, a spec sheet was created. The spec sheet was what went to the manufacturer so that samples could be created. We had e-mailed forty-two spec sheets to the manufacturer last night. The design part was over except for minor tweaks here and there. Marketing and sales would start next. Today was a celebration. But before we went out and raised a glass, I’d been shanghaied into attending Sunday family dinner.

  Another thing I’d learned these past weeks: Belle was a woman I liked and respected. Only through a deliberate decision had I not made a single move on her. She and I, we had a vibe and energy between us that went beyond the sexual. I liked that. I appreciated the novel of the unexpected and different.

  A quick and dirty hit and quit during lunch break was not what I wanted from her. I wanted more. I didn’t know how much more, but until I figured it out, I was biding my time. She knew it, and I could sense in the way I caught her assessing me and watching when she thought I couldn’t see her that she might be feeling the exact same way. There definitely was something going on behind those beautiful chocolate eyes. There was a palpable static between us, and we both made a conscious effort not to touch.

  That was new for me, looking without touching. Running my eyes along Belle’s fine form, I relaxed a little. “You look nice tonight.” She had on a simple, green wrap dress and wedge heels. But she made them look magnificent.

  “Thanks, bro, that means a lot,” Katrina teased, at ease in jeans and a dressy top.

  “You’re all right, but I was complimenting the boss lady.”

  Belle smiled at me. “I’d be more flattered if you weren’t so obviously stalling going inside.”

  “Dig deep, AB. Back straight, head up, smile on,” Katrina said, slapping me on the ass and ringing the doorbell. I rolled my eyes and put my party face on.

  Belle looked from her to me and back again. “That works? We can just bark orders and Beau follows them?”

  I slanted her a wicked side-eye and a grin. “Depends on the order, chérie.”

  “Don’t even start, Beauregard; we are standing outside your parents’ house.”

  “That never stopped him before, jolie fille.” My father laughed as he suddenly opened the door. A tall man with honey-brown skin and salt-and-pepper hair, Avery Montgomery was an imposing but friendly character. Ignoring me and Kat for the moment, he reached in between us and grabbed up Belle, enveloping her in a warm hug.

  “Don’t crush her, Pops. She signs my paychecks.”

  “Paycheck? You have a paycheck?” Alanna, fondly known as Madere, peeked out from behind her husband. She was a tiny woman, with flawless mahogany skin, sparkling coffee-colored eyes, and doll-like features. Her long, dark brown, wavy hair was shot through with silver strands and pulled back into her customary neat ponytail.

  I stepped across the threshold and kissed her cheek in greeting. “Salut, ma mère.” I picked her up and swung her around before kissing her again. “Miss me?”

  “Rascal,” she said with a huge smile on her face before turning to her husband. “Put the child down, Avery. Katrina, you come in and eat, bébé. Like to disappear when you turn sideways.”

  Kat and I exchanged glances as we stepped toward the kitchen. Madere was in one of her sassy moods this evening—anything could fly out of her mouth. Jewel and Roman were on the sofa in the living room. Jewel’s brother, Ross, was in an easy chair. Various cousins, aunts, and uncles clustered around playing cards, setting out food, or watching a basketball game on the television. Typical Sunday at Pops and Madere’s.

  “Unca Beau, Unca Beau!” My nephew LaChayse came flying out of nowhere and launched himself at me. I caught him and gave him a hug before hauling him up in my arms.

  “What’s up, lil man?” Chase looked and acted like a Montgomery man even at the age of eight. Long-limbed, long lashes, eyes that looked like rum when serious or like copper when not. He had a slightly silly sense of humor and tended to be direct to the point of outspoken. He reminded me of, well, . . . me.

  He frowned at me. “Where have you been? Why don’t you live with Daddy anymore? You left without saying good-bye. I missed you! When can we play?”

  The room fell silent while I contemplated my answer. I decided to go the diplomatic route. “I had to go stay with your Aunt Kat. She didn’t want to be alone. I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye. What if I come by next week and we’ll play?”

  “Sports on the Wii?”

  I agreed. “Sports on the Wii.”

  He thought about it for a minute and then looked over at his aunt. “You really need him, Auntie Kitty?”

  Katrina nodded seriously. “I really do. Don’t know how I lived without him.” To her credit, she said it with a straight face.

  “All right then. You can put me down.” Chase was done with the matter and ready to move on. I set him down, and he ran to his grandfather.

  “Who’s the lovely lady?” Ross asked, getting up from the chair and smiling widely.

  I sent him the universal “don’t even think about going there” look and stepped forward. “This is Belle Richards, designer extraordinaire.”

  Madere clapped her hands in excitement. “Oooo, I have the dress. The Trés Belle wraparound silk in red flowers. J’adore, j’adore!” She came forward and gave Belle a kiss on each cheek.

  Belle smiled back at her. “If you loved it, then I’ll have to send you some of the new line. Bright colors, splashy patterns, slinky tailoring. Very sexy.”

  I blinked. “Merde! Did you just call my mother sexy?” No son wanted to hear about that.

  Pops clapped a hand on my shoulder. “She is, boy; accept it.”

  Roman stood up from the sofa. “Is the food ready yet?”

  Katrina shuddered. “Yes, please change the subject.”

  Madere waved her small hands at all of us. “Pah, what do you know. How you think you got here, no?” She wound her arm through Belle’s. “Is that Georgia I hear in your voice?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Belle answered.

  “Tell me, tite chou, what do you pay my son to do?”

  “Yo
ur son happens to be a genius when it comes to figuring out the extra touch that takes clothes from looking okay to looking spectacular. He’s the creative director for the men’s line of ready-to-wear clothing that Katrina and I have been working on.”

  I looked around to see members of my family nodding their heads and murmuring in agreement.

  “The boy does look good.”

  “Always a snappy dresser, that one.”

  “He’s always had the eye.”

  “That makes so much sense. I always thought he should have stayed in fashion.”

  “Finally somewhere to put all the talent.”

  These were things I never heard my family say about me. I thought they all assumed I was some form of lazy, freeloading gigolo. Maybe for a minute or two there, I kinda was. Hmm. Learn something new every damned day.

  Roman came over to me, laughing. “Leave it to you to find a way to get paid for lagniappe! Only you.” He put his hand out. “No hard feelings?”

  I grasped it and pulled him to me in a quick hug. “Between Montgomerys? Jamais, mon frère.” Never.

  Jewel sauntered forward. “Are you ready to admit that us tossing you out was the best thing to happen to you?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her, still not 100 percent over that “man-ho” line, when Chase dashed over with his hands on his hips. “Mama Bijou, you tossed my unca out like the garbage?”

  The Montgomerys had taken to calling Jewel Bijou, her name in French. Chase had picked up on it over the years. Saving her bacon, I jumped in. “Over. They tossed me over to Kat’s house.”

  “Oh. Okay then. Can we eat now?”

  Madere, with her arm still wrapped through Belle’s, nodded and propelled them both forward. “Allons manger.” It was time to eat. Belle looked over her shoulder at me and smiled. I expelled a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

  9

  I Didn’t Have Time for Complicated

  Belle—9:43 PM the same night

  I should have known the night was taking a turn when, upon entering this jazz lounge, half of the crowd screamed, “Beau!” like he was Norm from Cheers. Less than a minute after we walked in, Katrina yanked a random man off a barstool and disappeared onto the dance floor, head bopping and hips swinging rhythmically from left to right. My next clue should have been the dancing giant who came over to greet us, who had the unlikely name of Big Sexy. Only Beau would have a best friend nicknamed Big Sexy. And it wasn’t as if only one or two people called him this. It was almost (almost) as if his mama had named him Big Sexy. But I had to assume that she hadn’t.