Hidden Seams, Page 2

  “You want me to call him?” I offer, a speck of McMuffin flying out and hitting the steering wheel. I watch his finger move along the AK’s slide and I press the phone icon on my steering wheel, the voice assistance tone sounding. “Call Tony B,” I call out. He steps closer and holds up a hand to his friends, telling them to wait.

  “Ave. What’s up?” Tony’s voice comes through the speakers and I turn up the volume so that my new best friend can hear him.

  “Your boys are trying to buy my car.”

  “They aren’t my boys.”

  “Mmmhmmm.” I trace my fingers over the stitching on the steering wheel. “Call them off.”

  “Let me talk to them.”

  I reach for my phone and turn off the Bluetooth, rolling the window further down and passing the cell through it.

  The guy takes it with a snarl. “Hello?”

  His eyes dart to me and he jerks his head at his goons. There is a lot of scowling, words exchanged, and whatever Tony says causes him to hand the phone back, the gun dropping out of sight. “Go on.”

  “What’s your name?” I lean forward and give him my best smile, the one that used to earn me black eyes from prep school bullies.

  He ignores the question, and I’m willing to bet he was the sort that used to deliver those black eyes.

  “I’m Avery.” I hold the phone to my ear, moving the mouthpiece away from my mouth. “I come through here a lot. So, we good?”

  He gives an irritated nod and waves me forward as if he’s a cop directing traffic and not a carjacker anxious for his next victim. I glance in the rearview mirror and take my foot off the brake.

  Tony clears his throat. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just business. You understand?”

  I don’t understand, the profit margin on boosting cars not worth the trouble and risk. But I’m not about to question one of my best clients. He pays his bills on time and keeps his mouth shut. If he wants to run his business like a thug, whatever. “I understand.” Reaching up, I flip down my visor and touch my fingers to the most valuable piece of this car, reassuring myself of its presence. It’s a photo, one taken three decades ago, a worn crease running down the middle and almost cutting my mom in half.

  In the photo, she’s seventeen and at a LiveAid concert. The weekend it was taken, she’d danced to Bono, fucked some hippie, then scampered back home, unaware of the tiny fetus growing in her tummy. Six months later, her parents shipped her off to a discrete facility in West Virginia, and—three months later—signed off on her adoption papers while she was still doped up from my birth. I was a cute baby. It didn’t take long before I was bundled up, driven north, and handed off to an attorney and his pretty little wife.

  Kirk and Bridget McKenna had wanted to round out their perfect life and had envisioned a dutiful daughter fitting nicely into it. I’d been the right race, the right gender, the right age. Everything else about me had been wrong. Had they known what they were getting, they would have probably sent me back, a neatly written note pinned to the front of my bib. No, thank you. Please find us someone else. Instead, they kept me. Showered me with love and pink dresses and private tutors. When I ran away at twelve, they found me and brought me back. At thirteen, I found better places to hide but got caught by an Iranian stealing candy bars and snacks from a 7-11. He pulled a shotgun from under the counter and I tried to run. He chambered a round and I stopped. The cops gave me back to the McKennas and they sent me off to a private school, the sort with nuns and plaid, the place where rich girls snort coke and bitch about politics and speak Latin like it is their second tongue. When I ran away from there, I didn’t hear from the McKennas. I hitchhiked across two states and when I finally turned my phone on, my voicemail was empty and my phone never rang. My credit cards worked for a month, then stopped. I used my debit card, watched the balance dwindle and then empty, with no replenishments made. I started to check my phone weekly, then monthly. Finally, in one drunk moment on the edge of the Ambassador Bridge, I dumped all of it—my prep school license, my credit cards, my phone—over the side. Goodbye, old life. Goodbye, Kirk and Bridget.

  I look from my young mother to the man beside her, examining his face, memorizing it for the hundredth time.

  The light changes and I close the visor. Pressing on the gas, the powerful engine jumps to life. I flip on the radio and skip past a news story about fashion mogul Vince Horace, stopping on some music with a beat.

  Chapter 3

  MARCO

  I’m five floors up, and I can hear the crowd. They chant, a rhythmic cheer that changes every ten minutes or so. At some point, you’d think their throats would grow tired, their lungs give out, their energy ceases. But it doesn’t. It’s been hours since the announcement, and still, they chant. I walk to the window and push the curtains aside, looking down at the street, our block filled with bodies, banners and signs, a rainbow of colors and faces, hands lifting and waving at the sight of me. I stay in place, meeting their upturned faces. What does someone do in a moment like this? Smile? Wave? I know what Vince would have done. He’d have pulled me to him, thrown his arm around my shoulders, and kissed me. Over the last decade, we’d had plenty of moments like this, when our street closed, police controlled the crowd, and the celebration or protest turned into a party as the night grew later. A few years ago, Vince brought a dozen models in through the garage, had their entire bodies sprayed gold and sent them out into the crowd with platters of Cristal. We’ve set off confetti machines from the porches and sprayed the crowd with silly string. Last Pride Week, we’d had Cirque De Soliel acrobats swirling above the crowd, suspended on silk ropes.

  A showman, that’s what Vince had been, that’s what his entire brand had been built on. Colorful yet refined excess. Expensive. Daring. Fun. I know what needs to be done—starting the funeral arrangements—but it’s the last thing I feel up to doing. Turning away from the curtain, I look to the closest individual. “Call Mario. Tell him to have it on Thursday at four.”

  The man’s small frame scurries quickly out of the room. He’d have Mario on the phone within a minute, the event planner prepared. One sad side effect of Vince’s illness—we’ve had a clear countdown to death, with plenty of the time to make the proper arrangements. And Mario had needed the time. This won’t just be a funeral, it will be one of the biggest parties New York has ever seen.

  “Do you need help dressing, sir?”

  I turn at the butler’s question, then glance in the direction of the master suite. “I’d like a shave in thirty minutes. Have them start the shower now.”

  I step forward and stop before the table, a selection of fruit and crepes in neat and perfect rows along gold plated platters. I take a slice of mango and a sip of coffee, closing my eyes at the familiar taste of Vince’s favorite blend. Outside, the chants hit a new crescendo. “What time is it?”

  “Ten oh-five, sir.”

  Ten in the morning. At least a dozen more hours until this day ends. I hold out a hand and Edward places a hot, scented, white towel in my palm. I use the small terrycloth to clean my fingers and pass it back. Moving to the door, I inhale deeply and think of Vince.

  * * *

  Eleven years ago, I met Vince Horace at a Dolce & Gabbana show in Milan. It was at an afterparty, and we practically brushed dicks in a gilded gold men’s room that was doubling as a coke dispensary. He waited until I finished pissing, allowed me to zip up and wash my hands, then introduced himself. His handshake was firm, his eye contact professional, and I relaxed in his presence, despite the entourage that crowded behind him.

  “What would it take to pull you away from Frank?” Frank Foster, the reigning Creative Director at Dolce.

  “Not a great deal.” I smile, and it is a look that I carry well, one that has opened countless doors in this industry where looks mattered more than talent.

  “Let’s have drinks tonight and talk.”

  Drinks that night are at a quiet wine bar, one packed with industry heads. I sip a r
ed wine that costs more than my rent and discuss trends and rumors with a group of women who work in merchandising. I am interrupted by a kid in a red leather shirt and a mohawk.

  “Mr. Horace is requesting you upstairs.”

  Every lipstick-covered mouth snaps shut, eyes widen, and I excuse myself and follow the pink-tipped hair up a flight of stairs and to a private balcony where Vince Horace sits.

  It is like meeting a God. He is a maverick at a time when our industry is becoming stale and pushes the envelope continuously with his designs. He is controversial, not just in those designs, but also in his personal life. He’s promiscuous in an unapologetic way, wildly gay in a manner that has advocate groups rallying and fanboys flocking. He has become an entire culture, one with a million members, their hopes, dreams, and expectations, all resting on one thin, dignified man. A man who sits, calm and collected, at a tiny table on a Milan balcony and gestures to the seat beside him.

  I sit, and he sips from a glass of wine, silent for a long while. When he speaks, his voice is wistful, and that of a man older than forty-five. “Do you have any children, Marco?”

  “No.”

  “Well. You’re a little young still. What are you, thirty?”

  “Twenty-six, sir.” It is a common mistake. I don’t look my age. Neither does my resume and position.

  His eyes linger on my face. “Are you single?”

  I don’t shift in the seat, but the urge is present, various muscles in my body tensed for flight. “Yes.”

  “There seems to be a varying level of opinions in regards to your sexuality.”

  “My sexuality isn’t anyone’s fucking business.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts, and he purses his lips together, the hint of a smile disappearing. “Including mine?”

  I look away, off the balcony and out on the night, the city peeking out at us in between skinny buildings, the music from downstairs drifting up to us, paired with the scents and perfumes of a hundred strangers.

  He uncrosses his legs, his thin frame extending, and he plucks a speck of something from the cuff of his sleeve. “I often find that those who don’t discuss their sexuality are confused by it.”

  “I’m not confused about anything.” I reach forward and take a piece of cheese from the tray that sits between us, popping it into my mouth and giving him enough eye contact to enunciate the point. “If you’re looking to hire me, and a condition of that employment is to be one of your fuck toys, I won’t. If a condition of my employment is that you know whether I’m straight or gay or some grey area in between, then tell me that now, and I’ll clear up any of your curiosity.”

  He smiles. “I don’t want your cock, Marco. Just your talent and intelligence. Forgive my nosy questions. I just want to know a little more about the man I am bringing into my brand.”

  “Potentially,” I interject, reaching forward and picking a grape up from the tray, my fingers rolling the purple fruit between my fingertips. “Potentially bringing into your brand.”

  He laughs. “Don’t be coy. If I want you, you’ll be here. You may not become my fuck toy, as you so crudely pointed out, but you will work for me. It’s the right place for you, Marco.”

  He was right. His company was the place for me. And I came, without hesitation or negotiation.

  But he was also wrong. I did become his fuck toy, in name, if not in action. It took a year of friendship to build up to it, but it eventually happened, and when it did—everyone knew.

  Chapter 4

  AVERY

  Hank Williams croons from the jukebox and I glance at my watch, the restaurant empty given that it’s almost noon. I crack open a peanut and glare at the greaser who decides to settle into the stool next to me. He gets the hint and picks one a little further away.

  “Here ya go.” The bartender slides a cheeseburger toward me. “Want a refill?”

  I nod and lift the burger, my nails biting into the soft bun, a drop of ketchup and mustard falling off the end of it. I bring it to my mouth and scoot closer, leaning over the plate in an attempt to keep my shirt clean.

  “Nice watch,” the girl remarks, her eyes lingering on the platinum timepiece.

  “Thanks.” I stuff a fry in my mouth.

  “It’s too bad,” she sighs, her eyes still glued to the face of it. I hate when people do this. End a sentence in a way that requests a response. I don’t bite, focusing on my plate and the attempt to drown out the bluesy sound of a country legend.

  “I mean he’s so young.” She leans forward and lowers her voice. “I mean, fifty-five? I’m almost that age myself.”

  I give up on the guessing game. “Who?”

  Her eyes finally lift from my watch and meet my eyes. “Vince Horace. Didn’t you hear? He died Sunday night.” She says died in a hushed tone as if I’m unfamiliar with the concept. She gestures to the television behind her. “It’s all they’ve been talking about for two days.”

  The television is on an entertainment talk show, and I watch as the screen shows a ridiculously handsome man stepping out of a Rolls Royce, one hand lifting to block the camera from seeing his face. I squint, trying to picture him in board shorts, on the front of a yacht. Yep. It’s my fantasy boy from last night.

  “That’s him?” There’s no way in hell he’s fifty-five.

  “No—that’s his boyfriend. They say he’s inheriting everything. Can you believe it?” She turns to face the television, her elbows resting against the bar top. “That slice of gorgeous is about to be a billionaire.”

  I watch the man stride toward a brick building, the afternoon sun catching on his features. Close-up, and in a suit, he looks different than on the boat. Older, more refined. He’s attractive in an almost painful way, the kind that stabs you in the gut and reminds you that you are inferior, each angle only making him more appealing. It isn’t fair for men like that to exist, much less for them to inherit a billion dollars.

  The photo changes, showing a handsome older man who must be Vince Horace. He looks familiar, and I straighten on the stool, watching as a slideshow of photos flickers across the screen. Him and the hottie boyfriend on stage at the VMAs. Him, on a catwalk, beside a team of models. Him, a pen stuck behind one ear, beside a dress form. I half stand, leaning onto the bar, and blink, trying to improve my vision, trying to calm my thoughts and watch the content without jumping to conclusions.

  But the older man is him. I’m almost certain of it. The eyes are the same, the dimple in his right cheek, the closed lip smile. Granted, there are some differences. His hair is short, his features more mature, and he’s clean-shaven, his clothes clean and not rumpled. But if you take away some of the years, some of the composure, the refinement … I scramble for my bag, for the photo I keep there, the photocopy of the one in my truck. I barely get it out in time, the segment wrapping up, a final image of him filling the studio’s screen as the camera pans out to include the two hosts who chatter back in forth in front of the man’s face.

  I flatten the photo on the bar top and look frantically from it to the TV, my finger pinned on his face, the other people in the photo unimportant. It matches, enough of a match for my heart to hammer against its cavity, my breaths shortening as I practically pant, my focus closing in on the image I’ve carried around for the last seven years.

  It’s a photo of three people, all clustered on a blanket, beer cans littering the plaid fabric, the glow of a fire hanging off the left end of the photo. The blonde sits cross-legged beside a cooler, her gaze off the camera and on the guy to her right. The guy smiles into the camera, his hair shaggy, his eyes warm, one of his hands gripping the arm of the man beside him. The blonde is too young to be there, and the guy looks too old for her, but I can see myself in both of them. My fingers tighten on the edge of the photo and I glance back at the television, but the story on it has changed.

  I push to my feet and dig a hand in my front pocket, pulling out a wad of cash and peeling off two twenties. I place them on the bar and reach for m
y drink, finishing off the soda as I stare down at the face I’ve spent seven years memorizing. My eyes move to my watch, the timepiece purchased on a whim during a New York shopping spree. I’d known the brand, known the stories of the man but had never bothered to look up his image.

  Vince Horace. A household name, and one of the richest fashion designers in the world.

  My father. A hippie from a concert, one who impregnated my teenage mother.

  Vince Horace. A well-documented gay man. Now dead.

  My father. Never found.

  Could they really be the same person?

  Chapter 5

  MARCO

  I don’t feel any richer. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent ten years in this house, with Billy ironing my fucking sheets, Edward carrying around the telephone on a silver platter, and a staff of twenty others catering to our every need. I miss the nights when everyone would leave, where we would finally have privacy, and if Vince or I needed anything, we would just get it for our damn selves.

  Part of me wants to fire them all, to wipe my ass with a piece of toilet paper that hasn’t been stamped on its end. To settle my head on a pillow that hasn’t been fluffed. To peel my own boiled egg or answer my own calls. A larger part of me doesn’t care enough to change anything. Since his death, I haven’t cared enough about anything.

  I run my hands through my hair, rinsing out the rosemary soap, the scent of it filling the space, the steam clearing my lungs. I think about that night in Vince’s home, a year into our friendship and work relationship, when I’d been in the shower and he had stepped into the bathroom.

  I shut off the water and look toward the door, spying him through the fogged glass, my muscles tensing when he flips the lock shut. He turns away, his hands settling on the marble countertop, and speaks quietly. “Marco, I have a proposition for you.”