The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

  “Hampton? Why are you still in town?”

  “I told you. I had other business.”

  “For this long?”

  “I was making a purchase. It took some time.”

  “Just shopping in the rain, huh?” I try to smile. It feels wooden.

  The shadows are still too deep. A knife’s edge of black, thrown by my light against his nose, seems to bisect his face. There’s no sound, save my breath and the tapping rain.

  “I was ready to leave when I saw this.” He opens the rag in his hand. Inside is something else — something about the size of a laptop computer. I wait with a feeling of curious foreboding to see what it is. But it’s apparently not the laptop-thing he’s referring to, because he sets that aside, near my check. It’s the rag he wants to show me.

  But it’s not a rag. It’s a T-shirt. A faded orange T-shirt, with whatever was on the front long ago worn away.

  I come closer. After the first step, it’s easier.

  I reach him. I touch the fabric. It’s got a few raindrops on it, but he’s managed to keep it mostly dry.

  “A shirt?”

  “A lucky shirt,” Hampton says.

  I take it from him — slowly, carefully, like handling an infant. I turn the shirt around, running my fingers across the smooth, heavy weave, noting how intact it seems for something apparently old, feeling there must be more here that I’m missing. Hampton watches me the entire time. His expression suggests that he trusts me and that he wouldn’t let anyone touch this priceless object if he didn’t.

  “It’s not exactly your usual look,” I say.

  “I sleep in it. Every night that it’s clean.”

  “You’re showing me your pajamas? Why?”

  It’s like he doesn’t hear me. “It used to be just a normal shirt, part of my regular rotation. Then for a while, I got into a routine where I’d work two hours each morning on all the crazy ideas in my head, cutting it out from my jobs, from college, from whatever. I somehow got into the habit of wearing that shirt while I worked, more and more. It’s weird. I can look back and say that all I have today was built while wearing that shirt.”

  I hand the shirt back. It’s as if it’s become heavier, or wants its owner. I extend it reverently, and he takes it in kind.

  “I always travel with it,” Hampton explains. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel like it always brings me luck. When I have a big deal coming, I’ll hold it for a while, as if it gives some of its luck to take with me.” He looks briefly down, then back up, now not quite meeting my eyes. “I’ve never told anyone this,” he adds. “I know it’s crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy.”

  “After my other business was done today when I was on the plane and getting ready to leave, I realized I still had your sketches. So I opened my bag to put them inside, and this lucky shirt was right there on the top. Just looking at me.”

  “That part is a little crazy.”

  Hampton looks up with a wan, tired smile. “Maybe it’s because I’ve had a long day, or maybe it’s because I’m not used to someone pushing me as hard as you did this afternoon—”

  “About that …”

  “—but when I saw the shirt, something hit me like a brick to the head. I got to thinking how much power I’ve given to this thing. How much this one, stupid shirt means to me. And it’s a garment. An article of clothing.”

  “Mr. Brooks …”

  “Hampton. I can’t stomach you calling me Mr. Brooks.”

  It’s a curious thing to say. I’d swear he emphasized you.

  He reaches for the laptop. I realize it’s a case of some kind — something rigid, tough, and possibly even waterproof. He unsnaps it at one end. My sketches are inside, wrinkled, but carefully pressed flat.

  “It’s right, what you said,” he tells me.

  “What’s right?”

  “I never wanted to make clothes that were cheap. I wanted them to be affordable. But you make decisions based on what seems to work. The company’s name wasn’t originally ‘Expendable.’ Funny enough — and I only realize the irony now — the first name was Enduring Chic. But the sound was wrong. It didn’t resonate with the market. For a thousand reasons, that was the wrong thing to call the company. But what you said today about the company’s values …” He touches the sketches. “Well, I got to looking at these. Just sat there on the plane — my lucky shirt in my lap, poring over wrinkled papers. My pilot kept asking if I was ready to leave and I’d say not yet. After the second time he asked, the pilot sent the flight attendant to ask in a different way, like I might not realize it was the same request. They probably wondered what was wrong with me. Still might. I got out of the plane and said I didn’t need a car to take me where I was going. I’m looking to buy here, you know. It only made sense, I figured, to check my possible investment one more time.”

  “You want to move to Williamsville?” But that’s a dumb question to ask of a billionaire. “I mean, buy a place here?”

  “Yes.”

  I can only imagine what kind of home he’d be able to afford.

  “A huge place, I’m sure.”

  “Huge, yes.”

  The rain falls outside.

  Head down, Hampton keeps speaking. “But I just looked at the shops. When it started to rain, I bought an umbrella. And a case for the sketches.” He looks up. “They’re very good.”

  This isn’t quite professional flattery. I can’t pin down the change.

  “I knew you were right,” he continues. “What I couldn’t figure out was, if you were right — about the brand, the values, and this new clothing line you’re proposing — then why did it piss me off so much? But after I saw my lucky shirt, I knew. It’s because I do appreciate things that are well made. Things that endure, and leave their mark. This shirt is over ten years old. I got it in high school. Not a stitch out of place.” He shakes the thing, gently. “Someone did me that favor. Someone put enough craftsmanship into this shirt for me to keep it all this time. And yet I’ve never even tried to do the same.”

  “The line I have in mind, in those sketches, is—”

  “Full of care, I’m sure,” he finishes for me. “Can I be honest?”

  “Sure.”

  “I didn’t like you from the start, Stacy Grace.”

  That’s not what I was expecting. I don’t know how to respond. His quiet story lulled me off-guard, and I can’t retrieve my anger fast enough to retaliate.

  “I’ve found you to be righteous, self-important, and condescending. I don’t like the way you look at what I wear, how I live, and the way I conduct business with your nose in the air. I don’t like the fact that you think you’re better than me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You do,” he corrects. But then he reaches out, puts his hand on mine. Quieter, he says, “The reason I got so pissed off was that after I left you this afternoon, I started seeing myself through your eyes. Your sketches couldn’t help but judge my existing lines because they were better in such specific ways. The sketches said, ‘Hey, asshole, look how much less you could be screwing your customers if you just cared enough to change a few small things here and there.’”

  I can’t fight back. I’m dizzy. He’s either accusing himself or me, but his tone is a lullaby. His hand on mine is distracting. I can’t tell what to think. To feel.

  “I just wanted to show you what I could do,” I say, weakly.

  We’ve somehow moved closer. Too close. Our bodies are almost touching. Our faces are inches apart. I can smell his skin. Feel his heat.

  “I think you can make us better,” Hampton says, “as long as I’m willing to accept that we’re not perfect already.”

  Another inch. His exhale brushes my lips. My neck prickles, my eyes want to close. My head tips sideways, opposite his. I remember that moment in the peach grove, waking to Hampton above me.

  Am I supposed to kiss you?

  “It seemed like you fired me,” is all I can think to say.r />
  Hampton’s hand moves up, so I can see it in my peripheral vision as our eyes stay locked. The hand pauses, as if unsure. Then his fingers brush through my hair. When I don’t stop it, the hand grows bolder.

  The palm cups my cheek. Slides down my neck, to the shoulder, to the hollow. “I didn’t mean to fire you.”

  “So …” It’s hard to talk with his hand on me, moving down my arm, giving me gooseflesh. It’s hard to form words as my breath deepens, as I lean into him, as he leans into me. “… are you saying you want me back?”

  “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

  All of me is tingling. I can barely feel my feet, unstable on the ground. “What are you saying?” I ask, knowing how I must sound.

  “That I want you,” he answers.

  His other hand, on the other side of my face. His gaze. His heat. My body, beginning to burn.

  He doesn’t say the final word.

  We lean in, and our lips meet instead.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  STACY

  THE KISS IS SOFT, ALMOST hesitant. Like he’s not sure. But it’s not a lack of confidence I feel coming from Hampton. It’s respect. Wanting to see if the bitch he’s apparently come around on — a bitch that, to be fair, hasn’t liked him much, either — wants this to happen too.

  Wants what to happen?

  The answer makes me shiver. It’s been a while. I’m a small town girl, I’m single, and I don’t believe in hookups. Even thinking of what’s about to happen, if I let it, makes me want to blush.

  This isn’t me. At all.

  I barely know this man, and we’re nothing alike. I spent weeks hating him and all he stood for. I never sleep with anyone casually. To consider doing it with Hampton Brooks—

  Our lips part.

  “I can’t. I shouldn’t.”

  “Then we’ll stop.”

  Stop what?

  My mind plays over the what-ifs as its own naughty little game.

  What if he licks your pussy, Stacy? What if you come with his face between your legs?

  He leans in again but stops short. I meet him in the middle.

  “I can’t do this, Hampton.”

  I pull him in again. The next kiss is wetter. Deeper. Heat spreads through my body. An insistent tickle between my legs. I’m getting wet. But I can’t lose myself. That’s not who I am.

  I step away. “We’re confused.”

  “I’m not confused,” he says.

  I see the swelling in his trousers. I think of what lies beneath. I want to hold it in my hand, hot like a throbbing heart.

  “You don’t even like me.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “And I don’t like you, either.”

  There’s a hard moment. Hampton seems to swallow, to summon some interior force of will. Then he nods and says, “I’ll go.”

  “Wait.”

  He stops. I reach for the case on the table.

  “You need the sketches.” I hold them out. My chest won’t stop rising and falling, gulping air more than simply breathing it. I can hear my pulse. I can feel it in the tips of my fingers.

  Hampton reaches for the case. He comes toward me. I come toward him. He takes the sketches for a half-second, but neither of us stops moving. We collide with the case pinned between us. Hampton tosses it to the floor.

  His hands are on my face, mashing his lips into mine. My hands are behind his back, pulling us together.

  “If you want to stop, tell me now,” Hampton says, breathless.

  “Stop.” I reach up. I jam my fingers into his tie knot, struggling to untie it.

  “I mean it,” he says.

  “I mean it, too. Stop it.”

  The tie is aside. I’m unbuttoning his shirt, feeling his smooth, firm chest. My hands slide inside, beneath the fine fabric. His sides are full of washboard ridges.

  His mouth moves to my neck. Kisses it. Sucks it; nibbles it. He makes his way down to my collarbone. My head falls back like nothing’s supporting it; it’s as if I’ve lost all my bones. A sigh escapes me. He attacks my newly exposed length, kissing back up my neck to my lips.

  “Don’t you dare open my blouse,” I tell him.

  He opens my blouse.

  “And don’t even think about taking off my bra.”

  He unfastens my bra. The air feels cool. My flesh prickles. My bare nipples stand erect, flinching as his hands run across them.

  One of us pushes. I don’t know which. We pivot and stumble until we’re back against the wall, knocking a full rack of bobbins to the floor. It’s more ornamental than useful — the stuff I use is in the back room — but the thing is big, and the clatter is large.

  And my family lives in the apartments upstairs.

  “I’m sorry,” Hampton says, awkward.

  “If you’re sorry, clean it up.”

  He stoops, but rather than going for the mess, he yanks down my pants. I’m standing in my shop, not far from the window, with my folks on the top floor, against the wall with my panties showing. They’re nothing fancy. Nothing like Hampton’s supermodel dates must surely wear. But when he begins to run his fingers over the cotton there, I stop caring about the mess, the window, the fear of getting caught. I stop thinking about tomorrow. There is only now.

  He rubs harder with two fingers, pressing my panties into my cleft.

  “Hampton, we have to—”

  But the coming orgasm stops me. I have five full seconds to feel it happening, knowing exactly where this is headed. I don’t like the idea of showing him my loss of control. I don’t want to lose my shit right here, right now, in plain sight of anyone who might be passing. I don’t even think we locked the door.

  “Oh God.”

  He stands. T-minus three seconds. But the hand is still there, working. He reaches my lips before my eyes close.

  I crumble.

  Try not to make a sound.

  And fail.

  I’ve never come this hard. It’s not just between my legs. Not just in my erogenous zones. It’s in every piece of me. For almost half a minute, I’m defenseless. So much for pretense. This is what I look like when I’m putty in another person’s hands.

  “More,” Hampton says when it’s over. “Again.”

  “Again what?”

  But it’s obvious. He’s slipped the crotch of my panties aside, and his fingers are playing in my wetness, electric with fluid friction.

  “Hampton, I’ve never been prone to …”

  He’s back on his knees, his tongue on me.

  I’m so wet. I paint his face as I squirm.

  And then it happens. Again. Never prone to multiple orgasms or not, here comes an encore.

  And another.

  I’m a noodle as he moves me to the couch. Even with lust in his eyes, he moves the sketches reverently aside first, lest we threaten to crush them.

  Crush them doing what?

  But I’ve already come three times, bang bang bang. If that part of my still head wants to play demure, I’ve got something to show it.

  My brain is a porno. In my mind, Hampton has already fucked me in every possible position. I’ve had his cum all over my tits, my belly, my face for all I care. He’s fucked me with all sorts of filthy toys, all at once. There is no demure left inside me. My brain is a slut. My imagination is a whore with a thousand holes. Nobody has to know. This theater of perversion is all mine, hidden where no one can see it.

  Hampton pulls off my shoes. My bunched-up pants. My panties. My open blouse stays on, my unhooked bra dangling pointlessly inside it.

  Then he moves to himself. The shirt was open; he pulls it off. He unbuckles his belt in a rush like I might run away. Everything below is off a second later, his hard cock springing free.

  It’s thick and proud, big but not so big that it worries me. I want it all. Its head is blushed pink, straining like it wants to escape from its skin. His erect member twitches, a tiny drop of fluid gleaming at the tip.

  I’m on m
y back. I spread my legs, welcoming Hampton inside.

  My pussy is gushing, both from my juices and Hampton’s spit. It’s hot and thrumming with my pulse. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex. The moment overwhelms me, too long coming.

  He moves between my legs, compressing the shoddy couch. When his tip is inches from my opening, he stops. It seems to take extraordinary effort. His cock twitches a little, his balls hugged close to the underside. As eager as his hard cock looks, I picture it going off without so much as a touch.

  My imagination shows me what that would look like. My skin tells me what that would feel like, his hot come spattered across my belly, up my chest, maybe to my tits, my neck.

  He’s still waiting, cock so close I can feel its radiant heat.

  “Last chance.”

  “You asshole.”

  “I’m just trying to be respectful.”

  I don’t want you respectful right now. I want you to fuck me into tears. I want you to leave me limping. Tomorrow is for regrets. Today is only for this feeling.

  But that’s barely me. Not me at all. There’s a devil on my shoulder and Hampton is right; I may feel stupid tomorrow if we do this.

  Stupider than if he just eats you out then leaves you to go upstairs and jill that shit until you’re chafed?

  It’s an excellent point. I reach for his dick. Grip it. And guide him to my pussy like a ship to the dock.

  I sigh with pleasure as Hampton’s cock slides inside me. He moans, his length gliding in until his balls rest against my ass.

  In. And out. And in.

  Our tempo increases. I’m vaguely aware that we’re probably making too much noise, that we sound like animals in a tussle as Hampton fucks my pussy with his thick dick. Any second now, someone could descend from above. Maybe my little brother. Maybe my little sister.

  But it’s not like I’m going to stop now.

  We move faster and faster until I can barely catch my breath. I think I come again; it’s all lost in euphoria. My pussy grips his cock, and in the same moment he seems to swell inside me, then he thrusts one last time and stays there, mated hard against me.