by Kayt Miller
“I’m so sorry about her. Sophie has no business dealing with the men, er tuxedos,” she whispers like we’re friends, “We’ve had complaints…”
I highly doubt that, but I remain silent.
“Now. Where were we?” She moves over to the order form that Sophie was using before, “Your name?”
“Henry,” I say with pride. Sophie made me feel like it was a great name. No reason not to use it.
I hear the blonde, Ari, snort out a laugh. “Henry? Really? You do not look like a Henry. That’s such an old man’s name.”
As it happens, it was my grandfather’s name. I scoff at her comment. “It means Ruler of the House,” I say defensively.
“You’re too gorgeous to have that name. You should be Dirk or Mitch, not Henry,” she giggles.
“I’ll be sure to tell my mother she fucked up,” I sigh. “Can we move this along, I need to get back to work?”
“Let me get you measured.” She grabs the measuring tape that Sophie left on the table and wraps her arms around me. Ugh. “You know,” she coos, “I think I measured the other groomsmen in from this wedding. Any relation to you?”
“Not sure.” Yeah, I know who they are. They’re my brothers. Like she didn’t know that. We all look exactly like my dad, so the resemblance is frighteningly similar. I’m the oldest, so I’m the best looking. I’d laugh at my little joke but then she’d want to know what was so funny.
“You don’t know the other groomsmen? That's weird.”
“My brothers,” I mumble. I have a big family––three brothers and two sisters make up the bunch. I love them all even though they can be a pain in the ass. But, a family is like that sometimes.
My focus returns to the task-at-hand when Blondie wraps herself around me, she lingers too long. It’s obviously intentional. Her hair doesn’t smell like Jasmine. It reeks of cigarettes. When she goes down onto her knees to measure my inseam, I get the urge to flee. Instead, my thoughts return to Sophie. I could picture her on her knees in front of me. But, with her height, I’d probably have to sit in a chair for her. Damn. Thinking about Sophie’s lips on me is making me hard again. I hope bitch-face here can’t tell.
I lower my eyes at her as she looks up at me. “About done down there? I need to get back to the precinct.”
“Precinct? Ooh, you're a cop? That’s so hot.”
“Sure. The murder investigation I’m working on is pretty sexy. Ever seen a guy garroted? Blood everywhere.” That should shut her up.
“Eww, that’s disgusting.”
“Yeah, it was. Now, let’s get a move on.”
She gets a move on, and I’m finally measured and out the door. Forty-five minutes of my life I’ll never get back. Well, except for the fifteen I spent with Sophie. I’d sure like to have those back.
Chapter 2:Sophie
“How many times do we have to tell you, Miss Piggy, to stay away from the tux area?”
I turn my head and look up from unpacking boxes filled with new stock and see Ari staring down at me, hands on non-existent hips. “No one was there to help him,” I say defensively. I know they don’t want me over there but what else was I supposed to do?
“I was in the back doing inventory.” That means Ari was doing her usual disappearing act. She does no actual work around this place, none.
I stand up in front of her, the top of my head only reaching her chin. God, I’m so sick of these people I work with treating me like dirt. But, I need this job. “I didn’t see you when I went back to grab the tuxedo order file for that wedding. I wasn’t just going to leave him standing around––waiting.”
“You could have texted me.”
Why would I need to text her if she were doing inventory in the back? Because she wasn’t in the back doing inventory, she was probably across the street at the Coffee Bean taking another break. She spends half her day there. “I don’t know what the big deal is; I know what I’m doing over there.” I mean I’m the one who trained Ari, Brit, and Ashley how to do the tuxedo side of the shop. How soon they forget.
Ari sighs like she’s getting prepared to teach a child something important––teachable moment here it comes. “You know you aren’t supposed to be over there. The men that come in don’t want someone like you…” she says using her finger to point at my body, “… touching them. We don’t want to lose customers because we let you wait on them.” She’s not finished yet. “Isn’t it enough that Brooke lets you work with the brides? You’re lucky she doesn’t have you steaming and pressing in the back all the time.”
Brooke is Brooke Bellamy, owner of Bridal Belles & Tux Shoppe. Brooke knows I’m the best sales consultant she has. She’d never relegate me to the back room although I already do all of the steaming of the gowns and bridesmaids dresses too. If it weren’t for my consistent sales, she’d be forced to rely on Arianna, Ashley, and Brittany and those three spend more time gossiping about the brides or at the Coffee Bean than selling bridesmaid dresses and renting tuxedos. I don’t think any of them have ever opened a packing box here. Why does Brooke put up with them?
Before I say something I’ll regret, I pick up the box I was working on and start my way to the stockroom.
“Hey,” snaps Ari, “I wasn’t done talking to you!”
I ignore her and continue walking. I'm thirty and have been here over three years. Ari has been here six months, and she’s not quite twenty-two. Why she feels she can talk to me like that, or why I let her, I can’t say. I know I should defend myself, but it’s pointless. Brooke talks to me the same way, so the other employees follow her lead.
Besides, I’m not as hideous as they make me out to be. Sure, I’m a little overweight, especially when compared to Ari, Brit, Ashley, and even Brooke here at the bridal shop. I don’t really make any effort with my appearance either. That costs money, so I never get my hair professionally cut or styled, and the only makeup I wear is lip-gloss. I haven’t bought myself new clothes for several years, and when I do, I hit the thrift stores or the Old Navy clearance racks. I know I look a little like my mom. My dad used to tell me how beautiful my mom was and that I was going to grow up to be just like her. Dads are supposed to tell you things like that. It’s the law. I giggle to myself.
Even though the other women at this shop are the vilest creatures I’ve ever known, I’ve got to remember why I’m here… I need this job. I need this job. I need to stay here until I can get the major home repairs done on my Grandmother’s old Victorian, then I can quit. My estimate is eight months, one-year tops. This job isn’t so bad, right? Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Sophie. Think of grandma Sophia’s house.
I know when Gran left the house to me in her will, she wouldn’t have wanted me burdened with huge bills like the astronomical taxes. But it’s been in my family since my grandfather built it in 1936. I want to try to hang on to it if I can. Sure, the taxes alone are killing me at almost $7800.00 per year, but that’s not uncommon for Chicago. One good thing is my tenant, Willy Gibbons, helps cover that portion of my expenses. He’s been renting our garage turned carriage house for ten years, and that income helps immensely.
The surprising part of home ownership has been the cost of the repairs. The electrical work nearly broke me, but it was a fire hazard. The roof is next. The old Victorian has a fairly complex roofline so it's going to cost me twenty grand. The contractor was a friend of my father’s, so I trust him. He’s even given me his family discount. It has to be done because water is slowly making its way into the attic. Any water damage will cost me more money further down the road.
All of these thoughts make me sigh, loudly. I’ve forgotten about Ari altogether but once out of my fog I hear her screeching voice.
“Are you sighing at me you fat bitch?”
Wow, that’s nice. “No, I was sighing thinking about all of the work I need to get done before my next bridal appointment. Don’t you have something you need to be doing?” I know I should take offense to the name-calling, but I just can�
��t go there. If I let it bother me, I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed each morning.
“It’s none of your business what I need to do around here,” she squeaks. “I think I’ll call Brooke and tell her about your attitude problem today and your little attempt to grope one of the male customers!”
“Go ahead.” I don’t care. I really don’t.
Ari stomps away toward the tux area. It’s not long until I hear her on her phone. Yep, she called Brooke. God, I hate this place. If it weren’t for the brides, it would be unbearable. But, I love my brides. They come into the store searching for their dream dress, and I make it my mission to give them what they want––to help make their wedding day perfect.
Heck, I don’t even mind the Bridezillas. I tell myself those brides are just misunderstood. I snort at that notion because, in reality, they’re just as they seem––bitches. But bitches need dresses too, and those brides tend to have the biggest budgets. Since I need the commission, I can put up with a lot for a sale.
The rest of the day, Ari stays on her side of the store, and I stay on mine. I sell two beautiful gowns earning myself hefty commissions. Yay! I’ve almost got the roofing money. At closing time, I notice that Ari has snuck out early, which leaves me in charge of doing all of the closing duties. Truthfully, I’d rather do it by myself than spend any more time with her.
I double-check to be sure the front of the store is locked up. Then, I clock out and grab my things from my locker and head out the back making sure I enter the code into the keypad to secure the store. I shiver thinking about Brooke Bellamy. She would kill me if I ever forgot to turn on the alarm.
On the ride home on the “L” Chicago’s above ground or elevated transit system, I begin to think about my day. I sigh thinking about that man. Jeez, he was tall and muscular and absolutely gorgeous. He smelled manly like musk and wood. I wonder if that was after-shave or if that was just him? His scent only added to his overall appeal. Damn it. I need to stop thinking about him. It’s only going to make me depressed.
I decide to stop fantasizing about a man that is completely out of my league and give my best friend, Tracy, a call. She lives in Iowa City, Iowa with her husband and two sons. We went to high school together, and we were roommates in college. She’s the best friend I could ever ask for––she’s always there when I need her, and she’s tenacious when speaking out against wrongdoing.
I wait as her phone rings. She should be home by now; it’s almost eight o’clock. When she picks up, I hear her say, “Well, it’s about time, bitch. You haven’t called me for two months!”
“The phone rings both ways, Trace,” I say laughing. She always gives me a hard time about keeping in touch. She has the excuse of her little family. I only have work and my house. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to work as many hours as possible to get this house in shape.”
“I wish I could be there to help you out, hon.”
“Me too. Not to work. I’d just love to see you.”
“Right back at you. So, what’s up?”
Tracy has a sixth sense about me. She knows I don’t call unless I have a story to share or I need to vent about the women at work. “Nothing. Same old.”
“So... How was your day dear?” Tracy asks sarcastically.
“Well, now that you mention it…”
“Yeah? What?”
“I helped a man order his tuxedo today. He was hot as sin.”
“Wait. Was the tux for his own wedding?”
“Nope. His brother’s.”
“And… what happened? Tell me everything.” I can tell she’s excited.
I told her how Henry came in and acted all sexy and macho. I also told her about Arianna and her reaction to my helping Henry. I left out the part where she called me names. If Tracy knew what those women said to me on a daily basis, she’d drive over here and beat them senseless. She’s kind of a badass that way.
She wasn’t getting the information that she wanted because she asked impatiently, “What does he look like? Geesh, woman… I need deets!”
“Alright. His name was Henry, as I said.”
“Henry? What does that mean?”
Tracy knows I have a thing about proper names and their meanings. My background in linguistics, specifically onomastics (the study of the origin and history of proper names) and literature make me a nerd about that sort of thing. Call it a hobby now since my college career ended four years ago when my father died from a sudden heart attack. That meant no more money for school and I instantly became the primary caregiver for my grandmother on the same day.
Honestly, it was no burden because my grandmother, Sophia Kincaid, was sweet, gentle, and funny as hell. I miss them both every day. I’ll never, for one second, regret giving up my research and dissertation on The Origin and Meaning of Literary Names from Fiction, to help gran. My Ph.D. just wasn’t meant to be.
“It’s Germanic for Ruler of the House. He seemed interested in the meaning of his name too.”
“Cool,” she laughs. “What else?
“Well, he was tall.”
“Everyone is tall to you shorty,” Tracy snorts.
“Funny. He’s probably six three or six four.”
“Wow! He is tall!”
“He has sandy blonde hair that needed a trim. But it was sexy all mussed up. He had a scruff of a beard on his chin and his eyes, Trace, his eyes were so blue they were almost aquamarine.”
“He sounds flipping gorgeous. What else? You said he had muscles? But, how were his teeth?”
Tracy is obsessed with teeth. She always wanted to be a dentist but she met her man, Tommy, in college and the rest was history. She’s a dental hygienist now so… “Straight and white. You’d approve,” I assured her.
“Thank God. There’s nothing worse than a guy with crooked Chiclets.”
Chiclet’s are her name for abnormally small teeth. “Nope. He has nice teeth that are surrounded by full lips. I’m telling you, Trace, the man was gorgeous. Henry is one of those guys that only think exist in fitness magazines or on the cover of erotic romance novels. Think Hemsworth only better.”
“Oh my God. You’re joking! Chris or Liam?”
“Chris. Definitely Chris Hemsworth when he was Thor. Henry’s built like Thor.”
“You’re making that up. There’s no way a guy like that exists," she giggles. "When will you see him again?” she asks hurriedly.
“Never. He’s that hot. He was only there to get measured for his tux.”
“He’ll be back to pick it up, right?”
“Yeah, but you know I’m not ‘allowed’ over there. I need to forget about Mr. Henry Flynn.”
“Ah, babe. If it’s meant to be,” Tracy says attempting to reassure me.
“I know. I know. If it’s meant to be, it will be.” Tracy is uber optimistic. I need some of that positivity in my life. I’d be happier. “But, I can’t think of any reason I’d ever see him again. I’ll just use him as fodder for my active fantasy life. I needed some new material,” I snort at my own humor.
“Sophia, you are so beautiful. I’m sure your prince will come. You deserve someone who’ll watch out for you and give you amazing orgasms.”
The word orgasm surprised me to the point that I started to have a coughing fit on the “L”. People were looking at me strangely. No doubt they’re annoyed that I’m on the phone while in the train. Sorry folks, I needed to talk to my Trace. “Well, I should hang up. People are staring at me. I need to go. I’ll call you soon. Or… you could call me.”
“I will. I’m sorry I haven’t. I miss you so much, Sophie. I wish you’d sell that house and come to school here at U of Iowa and finish that degree of yours.”
“I miss you too, Trace. I’ll give that some serious thought. Things here aren’t great. I’m a little depressed about everything, to tell you the truth. A change would do me good.” On that, we hung up and vowed to keep in touch. Damn, I miss my best friend so much.
Chapter 3:
Henry
What a long-ass day. After my cluster fuck of a tuxedo fitting, the day went further downhill. Chicago has become a hotbed of homicides this summer, and I’m getting sick and tired of it. Why can’t people just get along? I laugh aloud at that thought. I’d be out of a job if that were the case but it would be worth it.
It’s ten o’clock, and I’m finally on my way home. Twelve hours of typing out reports and hunting down leads make me dead tired. I laugh again. God, I’m so funny tonight. I'm dead tired and just as I think I’m making a clean getaway, my phone rings.
“Flynn,” I say with practiced succinctness.
“Where you at?” It’s my partner, Kent Jones.
“Almost home. What the fuck do you want?” I know I sound irritated, but the guy can be a little intense––and annoying. He’s good at his job, though.
“Get your ass over to Edgewater.”
“Why? I’m almost home.” Now I’m whining.
“Body discovered in a garage apartment. Got a call from the uniform first on the scene. He thinks it’s a professional hit.”
“Fuck!” I shout. “On my way.” I hate professional hits. We can never nail those guys. They’re in the wind before we even get to the scene––impossible to trace because they leave no evidence. Whatever. It’s my job. I gotta try my best.
I whip my car around so I can head northeast. Edgewater is a funky, old neighborhood. In it’s prime at the turn of the century, it was where the wealthy lived. Named Edgewater because it’s situated close to Lake Michigan it’s now kind of dilapidated. I searched there when I was house hunting, but many of the old Victorians needed too much work. While I’ve got the cash for that, the time it would have taken to renovate one of the monstrosities was not something I could afford.
Fifteen minutes of driving like a bat out of hell and I’m at the scene: 1511 West Highland Avenue. I find a spot a block from the house and park on the street. I jump out of my sleek, little black BMW i8 and hit the lock hearing it chirp. I walk briskly up to the address and see a uniformed officer standing in front of the home.