Table of Contents
The Designer
Copyright
Dedication
The Designer
GET A FREE BOOK!
A Note About Reading Order
Chapter One - Hampton
Chapter Two - Stacy
Chapter Three - Hampton
Chapter Four - Hampton
Chapter Five - Stacy
Chapter Six - Stacy
Chapter Seven - Hampton
Chapter Eight - Stacy
Chapter Nine - Stacy
Chapter Ten - Hampton
Chapter Eleven - Stacy
Chapter Twelve - Stacy
Chapter Thirteen - Stacy
Chapter Fourteen - Stacy
Chapter Fifteen - Hampton
Chapter Sixteen - Stacy
Chapter Seventeen - Hampton
Chapter Eighteen - Hampton
Chapter Nineteen - Hampton
Chapter Twenty - Stacy
Chapter Twenty-One - Hampton
Chapter Twenty-Two - Hampton
Chapter Twenty-Three - Stacy
Chapter Twenty-Four - Hampton
Chapter Twenty-Five - Hampton
Chapter Twenty-Six - Stacy
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Hampton
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Stacy
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Hampton
Want to know what happens next?
Sneak Peek: The Restaurateur
Chapter One - Mateo
Shit You Should Know
Trillionaire Boys’ Club: The Designer
Aubrey Parker
Copyright © 2017 by Aubrey Parker. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
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THANK YOU FOR READING!
Aubrey Parker
A NOTE ABOUT READING ORDER
All of the books in the Trillionaire Boys’ Club series are meant to be read as standalone novels. That’s why I haven’t numbered the books: the number really doesn’t matter much for most readers, and I don’t want to imply that it does.
In each book, you’ll read the story of one of the Club’s members and the woman he comes to love. The romance is self-contained and does not require knowledge of earlier books.
However, some readers will want to read the books in the order I wrote them because behind each book’s love story, there is a slowly-building master plot. You don’t have to worry about this “big arc” to appreciate or enjoy any individual book at all, but you may want to see that slow build as it originally unfolded. If that’s the case, you’ll want to start with The Connector — the story of the Club’s founder, Nathan Turner.
The suggested reading order for all of my books — including the Trillionaire Boys’ Club series — is on my website here.
So yes, you may choose to read that way if you’re particular about order … but I promise: this book stands alone just fine, so you absolutely don’t need to.
Happy reading!
- Aubrey Parker
CHAPTER ONE
HAMPTON
“THAT SHIRT YOU’RE WEARING RIGHT now. Where was it made?”
Gloria turns and sort of hisses, “It’s not the same thing when you’re talking bespoke, Sal. You can’t offshore bespoke clothing, even if you want to.”
“This isn’t about my shirt,” I say.
“I want to know,” Sal persists. “Where was it made?”
“Beau Chic on 5th Street.”
“Not the tailor. I meant, where was the cloth loomed?”
“Egypt,” says a guy in glasses. I don’t even know who he is. Gloria brought him along. He’s an accountant or something, meant to challenge my battery of bookkeepers. Everyone in this room except the bean counters has a stake in Expendable Chic. I don’t blame them for wanting to sway my decisions, and I’m not offended that they seem to think my accountants are doing voodoo with the numbers to make my point. But I’m not cooking the books. This is still my company, and my board of directors is informal. We bounce ideas around, but ultimately what I say goes.
Gloria turns her irritation on the maybe-accountant. She says nothing, and he shuts up anyway.
“Egyptian cotton,” Sal says. “But it was loomed in …”
Guesses chime through the room as if we’re all playing Jeopardy.
“India.”
“The Philippines.”
“Vietnam!”
“Can you all stop discussing my shirt?”
Gloria fixes her eyes on me. “I think Sal’s point is that you’re not exactly walking your talk, Hampton. If you don’t wear American-made clothing, then why should this company produce it?”
I’m about to start ticking off points like I’ve done with two separate topics in this room already.
First of all, I’m not Expendable Chic’s target market — 21-year-old party girls who want new, cheap, disposable fashions every night before they go out on the town are. I don’t wear our clothes any more than the Walton family buys their home furnishings at Wal-Mart. Second, half my wardrobe is tailored here in town and the other half in Florence, but it’d be ridiculous to apply “made in America” to the first half or “made inexpensively overseas to save a buck” to the second. And third, fuck you all; this isn’t about what Expendable Chic “should do” in the least. And that’s what you all seem too dense to understand.
I’ve suggested a move based on momentum and vibe, not dollars and cents. They aren’t visionary enough to see it my way.
Mateo says, “Lower your hand, Hampton.”
Dammit. I forgot he was here. He’s like a ninja. While Gloria and Sal are loud, Mateo gets almost Zen at these meetings, until he vanishes into the background. He’s one of my advisors under protest, here only because once upon a time I begged. He hates when I count points off on his very pricey dime. He knows that it’s my way of saying I’ve stopped hearing objections because I can list five different ways everyone except me is stupid.
Mateo doesn’t say more.
“Look,” I say, meeting everyone’s eyes but Mateo’s, “Expendable Chic’s growth curve is ridiculous. In case any of you didn’t get the memo, we’re opening a new store somewhere in the world every three days. And—”
“All the more reason not to rock the boat. Because Chic is doing so well.”
“Right,” says the idiot who suggested my shirt was made in Egypt just because it’s Egyptian cotton. “If ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
I consider responding. Instead I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, hopefully conveying the depth of his diminished understanding.
“Let’s try this again,” I say, straightening.
“Let’s not,” Gloria says, gathering her things. “Why continue to pretend you’re asking for our consensus? You’ll do what you want regardless of what we say, Hampton. You always do.”
I can’t believe she’s forcing me to steal my victory.
“
Don’t tell me that none of you see my point,” I say, barely keeping my eyes from rolling.
“Your pitch to voluntarily decrease profit margins, you mean?”
“There’s more to considering an American factory than profit margins, Gloria.”
“Your pitch to buy hearts and minds, then?”
I take a second longer than usual to respond. Gloria’s words remind me of Nicole, a girlfriend from college. Way before my first real company, Nicole used to accuse me of trying to buy her. I’d pour hours into managing my portfolio, and that meant less time for her. She wanted attention, but I had more money than time. Our dates were scarce but always lavish. Ironically, my argument was similar: quality, not quantity. Of course, Nicole saw right through my bullshit. In retrospect, it’s clear that I wasn’t going for quality. I was buying her off.
I open my tablet, set it on its stand, and play a familiar video.
“We’ve seen this before,” says Nicholas, the man on Sal’s right.
The video plays anyway. It’s a crowdfunding pitch, three minutes long, for jeans that cost $200 each. The campaign ended months ago, and the total pledged is 27 times the amount required for funding. It’s everyday folks who bought those expensive jeans, not fashionistas insisting on the best. They didn’t even buy because they wanted the jeans. On a deep-down level, they bought for an ideal, in support of a promise.
I stop the video. “Built to last. Made in America, by real folks like you and me, guaranteed to last a decade without a rip. Don’t you see? It’s not about the jeans. It’s about pride. It’s about looking back to a day when the world was better.”
“Hampton, for fuck’s sake.” Sal’s face is half frustrated and half sympathetic, as if he believes I’m hopelessly feeble and has no chance of making me understand. “Expendable Chic is the opposite of that. And not accidentally. It’s EC’s point of pride. We make clothes that are by their very definition — by the fucking name of the company — expendable. Disposable. How the hell can we adopt a ‘built to last’ campaign? That would be turning against everything this company stands for. It’d alienate all the people who shop at our stores because they know what to expect. We don’t make clothes that you marry. We only make clothes that you date.”
“Clothes you fuck once and never call again,” Nicholas clarifies.
I have new points to tick off, but Mateo answers for me.
“I think Hampton is saying that while Expendable Chic is spreading like wildfire, it has a shitty public image. This company sells a lot of merchandise, but it’s so mass-market that everyone hates it, too. It’s an example of Western arrogance and excess; the clothes fill landfills so teenagers can look fashionable while the third world walks all day for water.”
“The same is true of McDonald’s,” Gloria says.
“McDonald’s doesn’t choke landfills with its stuff.”
“Wal-Mart, then.”
“It’s not about quality. I’ve known Hampton a long time. We’ve always had a little informal mastermind going on.” Mateo points at me. “And this guy right here? I can promise he doesn’t give a shit about making better clothes. Nor does he care about made in the USA or fair trade or anything like that. When Hampton suggests opening the next Expendable Chic factory in the US, he’s not trying to make this company eco-loving or built on an ancient ethic. He just wants to make it look that way.”
I feel I should respond because Mateo has just said some pretty unflattering things about my company and me. But I don’t because at least he understands and the others are listening to him. And it’s true. Our factories are in places that let us pay pennies. The clothes are good enough for the buyers. If not for how the public sees us, I’d be happy to leave things as they are. But a bad image on social media can kill you these days, and Expendable Chic is taking its share of accusations.
“The only problem—” Mateo continues, turning to meet my eye. “—is that the money doesn’t work. At all. Your clothes are too cheap to make much per unit, so you have to sell a ton. If you open your next factory in America, your margins are dust. A smart move in theory, but it won’t work in reality.”
“We should at least look into it,” I insist.
“I’ve looked.”
“Not everywhere.”
“It doesn’t work, Hampton. You make billions, but your finances aren’t even close to being able to support an American plant.”
I watch Mateo closely. I could convince him if I wanted to, but what’s the point? He’s always asking me to go climbing; we can discuss it more then. His is the only opinion I care about, and I don’t want to debate in front of these other idiots. I’m already sick of the board’s ignorance, and as Gloria said, I’ll do whatever I want regardless. I didn’t want to win this way, but I will. I already have a building in mind. I’ll get it, and then show them I am right.
Gloria pokes me even as I’m preparing to let it go. “Hampton Brooks,” she laughs, “arguing for quality and values.”
“Knock it off, Gloria. This is business. We already established that my shirt isn’t cheap.”
“Sure, it’s expensive,” she says. “But is it quality?”
I could try to answer, but I’m not exactly Ashton Moran. I don’t know clothes; I just know I look good, and that’s all that matters. People who yammer on about “quality” are pretentious assholes, honestly. I answer Gloria as simply as I can.
“What’s the difference?”
CHAPTER TWO
STACY
“QUALITY IS ALL THAT MATTERS,” I say. “Really. There’s no secret.”
I’m trying to hide a delighted smile behind my hand as I answer April’s question. I shouldn’t be flattered, but I’m human. Still, I feel embarrassed taking the credit she insists on giving me. But I mean it, there is no magic to what I do. No divine inspiration. No blessings from God, enabling my hands to what others can’t. If she insists that my dresses are the best, it’s only because I’ve poured in the time to master the stitches. I don’t do anything fancy. I just do it well, and won’t let anything leave my shop unless it’s the best I can make it.
I needn’t bother hiding my smile. April doesn’t see it. She’s lost in her own world, giving herself a self-guided tour of my little shop, including behind the counter and the back room and all the places she’s not supposed to be. If I don’t watch her, she’ll kick open the door that leads upstairs, to the suite of small apartments I share with my family. April would probably find that adorable: me still living with my family. I have my entrance and pay my own way. I don’t see why people talk about staying close to your loved ones like it’s a bad thing.
“No secret?” April says, still flitting about like a butterfly in strappy heels. She’s less a customer than a fan. She’s acting like she’s high or drunk. Nobody should be this excited to be in a tailor’s shop — or anywhere in Williamsville. “Honey, you talk like it’s simple to make great stuff. You’re dismissing everything you do!”
“Really, Ms. Greene. It is simple. And I’m not just saying that. I just don’t sell anything until it’s as good as I can make it.”
“Will you stop calling me ‘Ms. Greene’? It makes me feel like my mother.”
“Sorry. April.” She might be younger than me. But being polite means calling my customers by their last names, unless they insist otherwise, or I know them well. I don’t know April at all.
Once she got in touch and asked if she could pick up her dress up in person, I went back and looked through her records. Then I saw just how much she’s bought through my FairTraded online store. I don’t know her, but she sure seems to know me. It’s a big deal to drive as far as she drove just to pick up a dress, but April’s reaction was the opposite.
You’re in WILLIAMSVILLE? You’re ONLY 300 MILES AWAY?
Like I was doing her a favor by being a half-day’s drive. It’s weird. I’m not used to getting adulation for doing my job.
She’s moving through the space, hands brushing orders on ha
ngers. All the stuff she shouldn’t touch. Her dress is still on the counter, abandoned until checkout after much girlish jumping and squealing. She’s been absorbing the rest of The Perfect Fit ever since — the parts of my apparent grandeur that she won’t be taking home.
“You don’t have any salespeople?”
“I have a part-time cashier. Just someone to keep the lights on and give me a break.”
“No salespeople?”
“Why would I need salespeople?”
She frowns. I suddenly get it.
“Oh, you misunderstand,” I tell her, smiling. “All these clothes? They aren’t mine. They’re client clothes. Things people brought in to have tailored. You’re not looking at stock. You’re looking at finished orders.”
“Well, where is your stock?”
“I don’t have any. I only make things when orders come in.”
She looks toward the big back room, at the cutting table and bolts of cloth.
“Williamsville isn’t exactly big enough to support a custom clothing store. The Perfect Fit does alterations — fixing hems, taking in shirts or letting them out, things like that.”
She looks like I’ve just told her that there isn’t a Santa Claus. April thought she was in bespoke heaven, but really, she’s just in a stitch shop.
“Where do you sell your stuff, then?”
“On FairTraded.” Then, feeling like I’ve disappointed her, I rush to add, “I told you there was no reason to come pick this up in person! I’m sorry if I led you to believe—”
“No, no, no,” April says, raising a hand to stop me. Something in her manner shifts. “I’m not sorry that I came. But I’m devastated that you haven’t opened your own shop. You’d make a killing, hon. I live in Charlotte, and I fly a lot. Like, all over the world. New York, London, Paris. Sweetie, there’s nobody out there like you.”
The Designer Page 1