1. Chapter One #2
Of course the documentary told me nothing I didn’t already know about the Barrons Fashion Academie.
I’d dreamed of attending but knew it was a brass ring I’d never reach.
Hell, I couldn’t even afford to attend FIT in New York even though I’d been accepted.
Mom couldn’t make it on her own here, not until the twins were a few years older, so I had to back out of going.
For now. Perhaps someday I’d be able to swing a student loan or ten but for now life was for the twins.
Something I was happy to agree to. We four were all we had left now.
The only nugget that I gleaned as I hustled around getting ready for eight hours of loading feed into trucks for farmers was there were whispers of a new project with the Barrons name attached.
Not sure how I had missed that tidbit right before the credits.
Probably I’d been in too big of a hurry to rewind it to the parts where Claude was being sexy by a pool in Capri.
More than likely there was a new line of perfume or shoes, perhaps bags, to go with his designs.
I’d look into it later. Tapping my phone off I did a fast jog down the creaky stairs to the our decrepit Ford Bronco.
It was rusty, needed a new cylinder, and burned oil badly but it was ours.
Hopping in I adjusted the seat back, turned on my phone, and made the drive to the Yellow Hills Feed Mill blaring Chappelle Roan instead of Dierk Bentley.
Just another reason Kinder Graham didn’t fit in here. Add it to the list…
***
There were long days and then there were long days.
Today had been stupidly annoying as well as backbreaking.
Every two weeks we got crushed as milk checks to dairy farmers came in bi-monthly so they bought feed when the cash rolled in.
Which was cool. I liked milk. What I didn’t like was being made to work the loading docks with Lyle Idleman, the son of Lonnie Idleman, owner of Yellow Hills Feed Mill.
Lyle was an asshole. A hateful bigot who went out of his way to taunt me about my queerness as well as my love of fashion.
He sprinkled the F word around within hearing range like sequins on a plain black dress.
Lyle was the kind of troll who liked to talk shit to the anyone who pulled up for feed just to make sure I heard how much he hated my kind.
Lyle, asshole extraordinaire, also liked to take pot shots at the cats that roamed the loading docks mousing.
If he could boot one on the sly he would.
We’d gotten into a fight six months ago about him kicking Tobie, one of the nicest toms in the world, just to be a prick.
The only reason I still had a job was because the mayor’s wife saw him kick the cat and me defending poor Tobie as she waited for her chicken feed to be loaded into her SUV.
She had four cats. Lonnie, who was married to the sister of the mayor’s wife, kowtowed to her but secretly began making sure his boy was my partner every other week.
Whatever. Punching Lyle in the face for kicking Tobie would have been worth being fired.
By the end of a long, hot shift I was ready for a cold Coke and a friendly face.
I found both at Murphy’s Corner Store. Ivy Anne, my best friend, was just getting done when I rolled in for a cold soda and a meat stick.
The corner store sold gas, cold drinks, snacks, and magazines.
Her parents had owned it for years just as her grandparents had for years before that.
Seemed no one ever left this crappy town.
A buzzer sounded as I entered, enjoying the cool air as I gave Mr. and Mrs. Murphy a wave as they chatted behind the register.
Ivy was stocking milk in the coolers, her round face lighting up when she saw me through the glass door.
Bright blue eyes widened as she held up five fingers to indicate she’d be done in five.
I nodded, grabbed a cold bottle of Coke, and made my way to the magazine rack to flip through the latest copy of Harper’s Bazaar.
I’d buy this one, I always did, since Mrs. Murphy got them in just for me.
No one else around was going to be interested in what was give two damns about runway trends or high-end editorial shoots.
On the cover was one of Claude’s dresses.
Easily notable as one of his creations, it was a gorgeous ombre tea dress that tickled the back of the knees.
“Hey,” Ivy said as she came up behind me unheard. I threw her a startled look. She giggled, a light and airy sound that helped to ease the tension Lyle had created between my shoulder blades. “You look at fashion mags like some guys do Playboy.”
“It’s a Barron’s original.”
“Ah.” She tossed her blond ponytail over her shoulder.
Her cheeks were pink from the cooler which made her pale skin look even whiter.
POC were hard to find in our neck of the woods.
My mother, an Angelotti before marrying a Graham, had passed onto her children her Italian coloring.
Dad had been white as a curd. Something he joked about when he would step outside and be sunburned in five minutes while Mom and us kids only tanned a deeper brown.
“Oh! Did you see he’s making some sort of big announcement tonight on his TikTok? ”
“No. The internet at the mill only works in the office.” I closed the magazine, tucked it under my arm, and headed for the junk food rack before remembering my mother had asked for me to pick stuff up.
Whipping around, I nearly bounced off Ivy.
“I’ll have to make sure to look for it. Probably he’s announcing doing Paris Fashion Week, as if he would ever miss. Paris is Barrons as he likes to say.”
“Maybe. I just saw something about it on my feed.” She fell in beside me to help carry the small order to the register.
Her dad grinned at me. He liked me a lot.
Guess he knew his daughter was safe with me so he could relax.
“Dad, I’m going to hang out with Kinder tonight so don’t look for me to be home before midnight. ”
“Oh, someone cleaned out their closets?” Mr. Murphy asked. I nodded vigorously, which made him chuckle. “I’ll let your mom know.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She hooked her arm through mine, just as she had throughout elementary and high school to hurry me along when she thought I was poking. “Let’s go. I can’t wait to see what you’ve inherited. I could use some new clothes.”
We jogged back out into the glaring heat. North Dakota could get blistering hot in late June. A long cool shower, a fan, and some dinner sounded great. I’d make spaghetti for the twins, me, and Ivy then store the leftovers for Mom to take in her lunch pail tomorrow.
“You’re the most fashionable woman in this town,” I commented while twisting off the cap then downing half the soda in one long pull.
Someone drove past, not sure who, and shouted at us.
Something about Ivy needing a real man and not a pansy.
She flipped them off. “Have I ever mentioned how much I hate it here?”
“Yeah, me too. I mean…” She blew out a breath as sweat started to bead on her furrowed brow.
“I need to get out of here. I’m twenty-five and still live at home.
There are no jobs other than working for my parents which is fine but…
yeah.” She huffed. “There are no decent men to date around here. They’re all morons like that bunch.
” She waved a small hand at the pickup truck rounding the corner.
“When you’re rich and famous can I ride your coattails?
Every gay designer needs a straight female bestie at his side when he’s strolling through Milan right? ”
“Right! One day we’ll leave this hateful place behind and never look back.” I gave her a quick tug hug, bouncing her into my side then releasing her as I was sticky, sweaty, and in need of some better deodorant. I bet Claude never smells this way. “Want some spaghetti for dinner?”