Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
PHIL
“There isn’t anything new to tell,” Harold informs us.
“Boss was mad for some dumb reason, and while he was lecturing me and I wasn’t listening, I realized I can find a boss who’ll lecture me closer to you guys.
So, I quit. Now I just have to find a job in LA, and I can hang with you all the time.
” His grin is decidedly evil. “I can’t wait. ”
“We need to hire, but you hate sewing, and that’s basically the whole job,” Calla says.
“Unless you’re willing to make the sacrifice?” I add. Harold’s not the best machinist, but Heidi would know how best to use him.
“Fuck no,” he answers immediately, making us all laugh.
“I don’t mind tailoring my own clothes, but I’d be lucky to last a week if I’m only sewing.
Besides, I’d get mouthy at some point, and you’d need to reprimand me to avoid setting a bad example for the rest of the staff, and eventually our friendship would be ruined. I’d rather starve in a gutter.”
“Pretty sure we can avoid that,” Xera says dryly. “You forget, I oversee your investment portfolio.”
“So you’re looking for another interior design job?” Blaise asks. “How do you feel about set design? I could ask around….”
Harold purses his lips with mild interest. “Maybe. I don’t know if I’d cope without my wealthy housewives to bitch with, though.”
Griff leans down to whisper in my ear, “What?” and I snort.
“Most of Harold’s clients are bored rich women who supply him with constant gossip from the country club. Every time they want to bitch about their friends, they call him to come and redecorate something, or find new art.”
My boyfriend—fuck, I love thinking of him that way—blinks a few times, then grins. “They pay him just so they can whine about their friends?”
“Yep.”
A thoughtful expression crosses his face, and he raises his voice. “Have you considered fashion styling?”
My mouth drops open. I can’t believe that didn’t occur to me. “That would be perfect. The only thing you’re better at than choosing furniture is choosing clothes.”
“You could even keep your wealthy housewives,” Butch muses. “They’d just be paying for you to find them clothes instead of furniture and tchotchkes.”
“This is intriguing,” Harold agrees, looking at Griff. “How would I start? Reach out to upscale department stores? Will my lack of experience in the field be a problem?”
Griff shakes his head. “You’ve got the education, experience in styling, and you clearly know how to put an outfit together.
” He gestures to Harold’s clothes, and my friend preens.
“Most important, you have an existing clientele. A department store would take you based on that alone, but I was actually thinking you should talk to Damian. Everyone at Style Me has a full roster right now, and usually that means he looks at bringing on someone new to take on all the wannabe new clients.”
“Not that I don’t have complete faith in Harold—” I blow him a kiss. “—but Style Me could have a thousand experienced fashion stylists apply if Damian let people know he was looking. Would he really consider someone who’s never worked in fashion before?”
“If I didn’t agree, I’d totally be offended by that,” Harold informs me, then turns back to Griff and points at me. “What he said.”
Shrugging, Griff says, “I can’t make promises, but Damian prioritizes aptitude, personality, and cultural fit over experience.
Plus, like I said, it’s not going to hurt that you’ve got an existing client list. New stylists take on whichever client makes an enquiry, and sometimes they’ll stick, sometimes not.
As you build your list, you’ll start getting referrals and you’ll be able to be pickier about who you take.
Having clients already means you can start bringing in income from the get-go.
I think it’s worth a conversation, at least.” He glances down at me. “You don’t mind, do you?”
I have hit the fucking jackpot. “Do I mind that you want to help my friend get a job? Nah, I think I’m okay with it.” I give his hand a little squeeze, then ask Harold, “You want Griff to talk to Damian on Monday, maybe set up a meeting?”
Harold nods slowly. “Yeah. That would be…” He chuckles. “It would be fucking epic.”
Xera claps her hands. “Yayyy! And even if it does take time to build your client list, you’ve got a place to live. This is fantastic. Now I’ve got my own personal artist, designer, and stylist.”
Blaise laughs. “Dammit, that’s why you talked to us that day at the ball game. You’ve been playing the long game.”
“She married me for my connections,” Butch says, deadpan, and we all crack up laughing.
“Calla, beloved,” Jordan wheedles, “my queen of diamonds, did you get the cheddar with butterscotch that I like?”
“Queen of diamonds, hey? I like that.” She looks at the cheese platter. “It’s right… fuck. I know I bought it. Let me check the kitchen; otherwise it’s at our place and I’ll bring it next time.”
“Or I could come and pick it up,” Jordan suggests as she heads in that direction. “It’s really good cheese,” he explains to Griff. “I can’t get it when I’m in Houston, so I have to eat as much as possible here.”
“Plus it’s not really part of your diet plan during the season,” Polly points out.
“Shh. We don’t need to discuss that right now.”
Calla comes back in, her hands full. She tosses Jordan the wrapped cheese, and he yelps and lunges to catch it. “There you go. Phil, this is for you.” She lobs the small, taped-up box in my direction, but before I have to duck—because catching isn’t a skill I have—Griff nabs it out of the air.
“What is it?” I ask. “It doesn’t look like cheese.”
She scoffs. “It’s the stupid package that was outside our door when we left. The one I nearly tripped over. I shoved it in my bag and forgot about it, but it’s addressed to you.”
Griff frowns at the box as I hold a hand out expectantly. “It’s not addressed at all,” he corrects. “It just has Phil’s name on it.”
“Maybe one of the neighbors left me something. I made three prom dresses for cost of materials only last year, so they love me.” I wiggle my fingers. “Hand it over.”
He does, then watches over my shoulder as I rip into it. The whole thing is about the width and length of my hand and maybe four inches deep, and it’s not heavy. The tape holding it closed peels away, and I pull back the flaps.
“What the fuck?!” Griff bellows. I stare at the contents of the box, practically feeling the blood drain from my face. Anxiety is a crashing tidal wave that surges through me, and my hands start to shake. Black dots dance in my vision.
Griff takes the box from my lap and puts it on the coffee table. “Nobody touch that,” he orders, then drops to his knees in front of me and grips my hands. “Deep breath, Phil. Look at me. Come on, look at me and breathe.”
I drag my gaze away from the box and meet his worried eyes, and suddenly breathing is a little easier.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “You’re safe, okay? I’m going to make sure of it.”
I manage a nod. Words are out of the question right now. Honestly, just breathing feels like a challenge.
Keeping his tight grip on my hands, he turns his head and says, “Can someone—oh, thanks.”
And then Calla is slipping into the seat beside me, a tall glass of water in her hand and fury on her face. “Sip for me,” she coaxes, holding the glass to my lips.
I do, and the cool water in my mouth, slipping down my throat, gives me something to focus on. After a minute, I’m steady enough to free my hand from Griff’s and take the glass. Their relief is visible.
“Harold’s making you tea,” Calla says. “Blaise is looking up the non-emergency number for the police. When you’re ready, we can make a list of stuff you need, and you’ll stay here tonight.”
“He can stay with me,” Griff says firmly. “And don’t call the cops. Let me call Damian.”
“Your boss?” Polly shakes his head. “We need—”
“The police, I agree,” Griff cuts in. “But I don’t want whoever’s on shift. Damian—or more to the point, Kane’s manager—will know who to call to get one of the detectives who investigate celebrity stalkers.”
But I’m not a celebrity.
“You think Phil’s connected enough to get them to take this seriously?” Butch asks. “We can call Xera’s mom. She knows a lot of influential people. Maybe she can pull some strings.”
“She’d love that,” Xera adds. “I can call her right now.”
“Polly and I can call our managers too,” Jordan adds. “I know mine has a client who was stalked last year. That was in Tennessee, but he probably has contacts in other states as well.”
Their words are big and loud, slapping into my brain, making it hard to process, but even with the tide of anxiety drowning me, their support matters.
“Let me call Damian,” Griff repeats. “We can try the others if he can’t help. Nobody touch that box, though.”
I sit blankly, occasionally sipping water just as a reminder that I exist and can function—barely—listening to Griff explain the situation to Damian, whose shock is audible even though the phone’s not on speaker.
“Kane’s calling his manager now,” Griff tells me. “Damian wants to know if we want them to come.”
As kind as the offer is, the thought of more people here makes my stomach clench, but I can’t quite shake my head, so I just sit there, blank and miserable.
Griff studies my face for a moment, then says into the phone, “Thanks, Damian, but not right now. Oh? That’s great, thank you.
” He covers the mouthpiece and asks Calla, “What’s the address here? ”
Once that’s been relayed, he adds, “You can give him my number. Text when you know—okay, that’s perfect.
We appreciate this, Damian.” He ends the call.
“Kane’s manager is calling a detective who handled one of her other clients’ stalking case.
She thought it might smooth the way to have her call, and she’ll let us know when to expect the detective. ”
“That’s good,” Butch says. “That’s good.” She lets out a shaky breath, then comes to sit on my other side.
With Griff still kneeling in front of me and the back of the couch behind me, I’m surrounded, buffered. It both helps and worsens my anxiety right now.
And then someone takes the glass of water from my hand, replacing it with a mug of steaming, fragrant tea. I look up at Harold’s worried face, wishing I could thank him, but he’s stepping away, Blaise taking his place and offering… a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.
Tears flood my eyes. I want those headphones so bad, want the sharp edges of uncontrolled noise to be gone, but the mug is in one hand and Griff’s holding the other one. I can’t let go of Griff, not right now. I think he’s the only reason I can still breathe right now.
“Let me help,” Calla offers. She takes the headphones and gently puts them on my head, adjusting them until they’re perfect.
“Music?” she asks, her voice muffled already.
“Or meditation?” She holds out her hand for Blaise’s phone, and seconds later, the sound of leaves rustling and chimes tinkling fills my head, and part of my brain begins to calm.
I can get through this. My boyfriend is here. My friends are here. I have support; I’m not alone. Whoever sent me that box isn’t going to get to me. Sticking a knife through a doll with my face on it is the closest they’ll ever come.
I cling to that thought and sip my tea.