Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
Deacon
There was a bit of a crowd around the bar, so it took me a moment to actually get a drink. Just a regular rum and coke. Nothing too hard so I didn’t risk getting drunk; my alcohol tolerance was disappointingly low, and the caffeine would help me keep my energy up throughout the rest of the night.
People dressed in fancy suits and dresses pressed all around, laughing and bumping into one another. The heat of so many bodies in close proximity was making me lightheaded and I took a large gulp of my drink to try and cool down. That was when I remembered that I’d eaten almost nothing the entire day, too nervous to choke down more than a few saltine crackers at breakfast. The alcohol hit my empty stomach like a sledgehammer and the room instantly began to spin. I stumbled and knocked into the person next to me, causing them to spill their drink.
“So sorry,” I stammered as I stared down at the new puddle on the floor. Judging by the smell, it had been a very expensive brand of whiskey. It had also stained the person’s shoes. Luckily, they were leather, so they should clean up easily, but I still winced. People in the fashion world tended to be very particular about their clothes, myself included, so I braced myself for yelling.
“If you flinch like that, people will think I’m going to hit you,” a deep masculine voice said.
I couldn’t tell if the man was angry or not. He had very little inflection in his voice, but at least he wasn’t yelling. Feeling hopeful, I finally raised my gaze from the floor, but before I could get a good look at the man, he grabbed my arm just above the elbow and dragged me away from the crowd.
“Come with me.”
My only choices were to either comply or make a scene. His grip didn’t hurt, but it was too solid for me to slip away. For now, I decided to follow him, and would only resort to making a scene if he tried to remove me from the room altogether.
Luckily, he merely brought me to a more secluded corner where there was a bench for me to sit down. A cold water bottle was pressed into my hand, which the man had apparently snagged from the bar.
“Here. Drink something. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Thanks,” I said, and winced when my voice cracked. “I’m just a bit overheated, and I didn’t eat enough today. Nothing serious.” The cap of the water bottle cracked when I twisted it open, meaning the seal hadn’t been tampered with, so I gulped down the water with confidence that at least the stranger wasn’t trying to drug me.
“Nervous for the show, I assume,” he said as he watched me drink.
Glancing up to finally get a proper look at the man, I nearly choked on my water.
Working in the fashion industry, I’d built up a tolerance toward beautiful people. I was surrounded by them every day, and the delicate beauty that most models and fashionistas tended to prefer had never really interested me on anything other than an aesthetic level.
Rugged handsomeness, on the other hand, was woefully lacking in the fashion world, so I had no immunity to it. When I looked up at a man so perfectly “my type” that he could have been picked directly from my wet dreams, my soul nearly left my body.
Well over six feet, he was a perfect mix of rough and refined. His hair was short and immaculate, not a hair out of place, and his features were both broad and sharp. Even his more subjective traits, such as the gray hair at his temples and the tattoos I could see on his neck and the backs of his hands hit my preferences perfectly.
So, I had a weakness for older men and secret bad boys. A lot of people did. I wasn’t ashamed of my preferences.
As if guessing where my thoughts had wandered, the man smiled. It was just a slight curve of his lips and didn’t show any teeth, but I could tell the expression was genuine.
“Nathan Sterling,” he said as he held out his hand.
I shook it, and winced when I realized condensation from the water bottle had left my hand unpleasantly damp. My words stuttered, refusing to come out properly. I needed to say something, but the ability to start a conversation had completely abandoned me.
“Deacon Millar,” I eventually managed to blurt out.
“I know,” he said as he took a seat next to me, politely refusing to wipe his hand free of the moisture I’d definitely left behind. “Your collection had that interesting piece at the end.”
I couldn’t help the snort that escaped me and quickly took another swallow of water. “Interesting is a word for it.”
Up close, I got a better view of Nathan’s suit, and my opinion of him rose even higher. A dark gray silk blend, it had a subtle herringbone pattern woven in, and had obviously been tailor made for him. Understated and classy, he didn’t need to put on bizarre colors or patterns to stand out. The one odd detail I noticed was his cufflinks. The iron dark metal was stamped with an image of a wolf’s head and lacked any other embellishment.
I realized I’d been observing his clothes a little too long when he tugged his cuffs back into place.
I quickly snapped my gaze back up to his face. Thankfully, he didn’t seem annoyed. Rather, he seemed amused by my distraction.
“I’m guessing that wasn’t what you originally planned to have as your finale piece.”
Heaving a sigh, I explained about the missing dress.
“Even the model who was supposed to wear the dress is nowhere to be found. I’m hoping she didn’t steal it.” Feeling a little more confident now that I’d managed to string several sentences together without stumbling—and the dizzy spell had passed—I set the water bottle aside to face Nathan directly.
“How’d you know that last piece wasn’t planned? Everyone I’ve talked to so far has been praising me for my ‘artistic deconstruction of fashion’. I haven’t had the heart to tell anyone I slapped it together at the last minute.”
He laughed. A single sharp barking sound, like the snap of sharp jaws. “I thought it was obvious. The last piece didn’t fit the theme of the rest.”
“The... theme?” I asked, equal parts hopeful and wary.
“Yeah. Your pieces each embodied the movement of the different cars on display.”
A spark of joy, and the thrill of recognition, filled me. Before I could second-guess myself, I slapped his arm like we were old friends, a big grin splitting my face.
“Thank you. Finally, someone gets it. Even my assistant didn’t really get what I was going for.”
Luckily, he didn’t seem to mind the slap. Based on the muscle I’d felt under his suit, I wasn’t sure he even noticed the impact of my hand.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” he admitted. “It was just a general observation that the first outfit seemed to match the low riding speed of one of the cars. It wasn’t until the fourth outfit that I was sure about the theme. Making that poor girl walk in shoes of two different heights seemed a bit cruel, but it was a perfect representation of a really old classic car that has no shocks and can’t get above thirty kilometers an hour.”
His use of kilometers instead of miles alerted me to the slight accent in his voice. It was slight, and I couldn’t place the country, but I was at least certain that he wasn’t born in America.
Not that it mattered. He could have been a penguin from Antarctica for all I cared. I was just happy to have someone I could talk with about my art who actually understood it.
“I second-guessed myself so many times about using those shoes. I was terrified that the model would trip halfway down the runway, but the piece wouldn’t move the same without that uneven gait.”
Nathan merely shrugged and leaned back a little more, draping one arm over the back of the bench so it pressed against my shoulder. “The models are professionals. Walking under difficult conditions is their job. If they can’t figure it out, then they should find a new job. But what made you choose that kind of theme? It seems a lot harder to capture than what everyone else chose to go with.”
“Cars are meant to move,” I said, getting excited enough that I was talking with my hands as much as my mouth. “They aren’t meant to just sit in a showroom. Cars, even ones just meant for the movies, belong on the road. For speed and movement. To only admire their form when they’re sitting still is like... like presenting a leather chair and calling it a horse.”
With a few pointed questions from Nathan, I went into a long description of my artistic choices, my overall style and vision for my work, and how I’d put it all together. It was only when I found myself explaining the pros and cons of muslin that I realized how long I’d been talking.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, checking my watch. “I’ve been babbling for twenty minutes. Why didn’t you stop me? You must have been bored out of your skull.”
Nathan’s broad hand grabbed my wrist, hiding my watch from view. “I enjoy it when people are passionate about something. There’s a depressing lack of passion in this world. Besides, I’m glad someone can appreciate the spirit of the cars here. That’s why I chose to come to this event. I don’t actually know much about fashion, but I know about cars, so I was hoping that would help bridge the gap. I was getting disheartened when I realized that the cars were just meant to be an aesthetic backdrop and not a feature of the event.”
He looked around the room like he was searching for something, although I wasn’t sure what he could possibly see through the crowd of people. “You know,” he whispered to me. “This museum has a new exhibit where you can drive some of the cars. Not the one-of-a-kind ones from movies, but some of the standard classics. It’s technically closed for this event, but I could probably convince the staff to open it if you’d like to join me.”
My initial answer was “absolutely,” but before I could say so, I caught sight of my watch again. So much time had passed while I’d been talking to Nathan. Kiki had to be looking for me by now. I had a job to do.
“Sorry. I’d love to, but I’m supposed to be networking right now.” I gestured toward the crowd around us. “Talking to investors, trying to get prominent companies to notice me. That sort of thing.”
I expected him to be disappointed. Maybe even angry. What I didn’t expect was for him to let out another of those sharp barking laughs that sent a shiver up my spine, which I couldn’t decide if I enjoyed or not.
“Oh, but that’s perfect,” he grinned just enough for a few of his teeth to show. His canines were particularly prominent, and I had a brief mental image of the big bad wolf about to gobble up little red riding hood. “I am an investor. I’ve just purchased Fantaisiste . I figured it was better than trying to build up a brand from scratch, but while it’s technically a functioning company, I’m in desperate need of some new artistic talent. That’s why I’m here, to scope out a new designer to hire.”
Like most people in the fashion world, I’d heard of Fantaisiste before. They were a newer brand that had seemed to be on track to one day rival Prada or Louis Vuitton , but a few years ago they’d run into some money troubles and struggled to bounce back.
This guy had bought it?
The whole company?
He said it so casually too, like we were discussing the merits of buying a new car versus a used car.
Before I could respond, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me from the bench. Although the room was just as crowded as before, Nathan apparently had a magical ability to make people move out of his way through his sheer presence alone. The crowd seemed to just part around him even though he didn’t say a word. With little effort, he brought me to a door that led out of the banquet hall.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Kiki among the crowd for a brief moment. Guilt gnawed at my stomach. I shouldn’t just abandon her without a word. She’d be furious. Yet, I didn’t have the heart to pull my hand out of Nathan’s strong grip and I left the room with him.
If what Nathan said was true and he really was looking to hire a designer, and I managed to land the job, then surely Kiki would forgive me.
Beyond the banquet hall, the rest of the museum was practically empty. Its halls looked empty without guests to marvel at its displays, and the minimal lighting created a strange assortment of shadows that made the place look uninviting overall.
Just as Nathan had promised, on the far side of the museum there was a small racetrack where people could test drive some of the rare and classic cars. He had talked about convincing the staff to open it for us like the idea had just occurred to him, but he must have spoken to the museum staff earlier because they were already prepared when we got there.
“Any particular one you want to try?” he asked, indicating the line of cars parked beside the track.
Looking at the selection, I didn’t have to think long as a cherry red frame caught my eye. “The Aston Martin would be fun,” I said. “But I don’t know how to drive a manual.”
Nathan was already heading toward the Aston Martin before I’d even finished my sentence. He held the passenger door open for me. “Don’t worry. I do.”
Once inside and buckled in, the staff handed us the keys. The interior of the car looked like... well, it looked like a car. In the end, most modern cars looked basically the same on the inside. However, the quality of the materials they were made from was vastly different. I could tell how expensive the car was just by the butter soft texture of its leather seats.
“Do you want to learn?” Nathan suddenly asked.
“What?”
“How to drive a stick shift car. Do you want to learn?”
“Oh, um...” I glanced down nervously at the third pedal on the floor by his feet. “I guess.”
“Don’t worry about the pedals,” he said as he grabbed my hand. “I can’t really show you that from here. Let’s just start with the different gears.”
He placed my hand on the gear shifter, then pressed his own hand overtop of mine so we were both holding onto the stick.
“To get started, we need to first put it in neutral.”
Squeezing my hand, he guided me to move the stick into the proper position. Then he turned the ignition, so the engine started rumbling.
“Then, to get going, you need to shift it into first gear.”
Again, he squeezed my hand against the stick and moved it into the right position. With a few presses of the pedals on the floor, the car started moving, yet I didn’t even glance out of the window, too distracted by the sight and feel of his hand controlling mine.
This pattern continued every time the car needed to switch gears, but even when the stick shifter wasn’t needed, he still kept my hand trapped in place.
After one slower lap around the track, we started going faster until we were flying around each corner. Centripetal force pressed me back against my seat, like a hundred hands were pinning me down, and the car’s engine purred gently beneath me.
We took the next turn faster than any before, and Nathan squeezed my hand against the stick tight enough that the leather handle ground into my palm.
I gasped. Hands weren’t supposed to be an erogenous zone, but something about the heat and strength of his grip trapping my hand in place lit up every nerve in my body. Neither of us said a word as the atmosphere grew heavy between us. The lighting in the car was dim, shrouding everything in half shadow. Most of Nathan’s expression was hidden as he watched the track, never once looking at me, but there was a spark in his expression that let me know he was acutely aware of the effect he was having on me.
We took the next turn just as fast, and he squeezed my hand again. I nearly moaned as I squirmed in my seat. Somehow, it would have been less intimate if he’d just put my hand on his dick. This oddly sensual yet innocent touch was driving me up the wall in a way I didn’t know was possible.