6. Chapter 6
6
Brody
I know damn well I’m running late when I step out of the shower, but I can’t say I feel all that guilty. An image forms in my mind of Miles pacing by the front door. I took an extra half hour at the gym this morning, forcing him to stay and continue working out. I really don’t want to do this stupid shopping trip.
Wrapping the towel around my waist, I crack the bathroom door and turn on the fan. Then I go through my post-shower routine and finish by running a comb through my hair before tousling it slightly with my fingers. I watch the way it falls, longer on top, shorter on the sides.
I throw on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that has an image of a tardis on the front left breast. On the back, in large, faded, white letters, it says ‘Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey Stuff’. Slipping on my tennis shoes, I grab my wallet from my dresser and head out to find Miles doing exactly what I expected him to be doing.
“Bro.” The annoyance in his voice is obvious, even in that one syllable. His eyes roam down my body and back up. “Really?”
“The whole point is to get new clothes today,” I say with a shrug, leading the way out the door and leaving Miles to grab his keys. If he’s making me do this, I’m making him drive. “I figure she should know what she’s working with. ”
Miles groans when he sees the back of my shirt, even though he’s seen it a million times. He locks the door behind us and meets me at his jeep. I check my phone to see just how late we are, knowing that with LA traffic, it’s going to take longer than a map tells us.
Miles pulls into a parking lot half a block away from Moira’s shop in Glendale. All the street parking was full, which we figured out after spending a solid ten minutes trying to find something, so we end up in a paid lot.
The shop, simply called Moira’s , has a sleek storefront. The outside is all matte, black, metal finishes with a gigantic window next to the front door. The only thing visible through the window is a waiting room with a plush, leather couch, two dark blue, velvet armchairs, and a reception desk. Behind the desk, Moira’s name is set in a beautiful, gold script. Lights behind the sign illuminate it, making it stand out from the dark wood behind.
The bell above the door dings when Miles and I walk in, catching the attention of the man sitting at the desk. He glances up, the overhead light glinting off of his shaved head and thick-rimmed, black glasses. He studies me with something akin to disgust. Actually, that’s exactly what it is. The look he gives Miles is only slightly better.
“We have an appointment with Moira,” Miles says, confidently sidling up to the desk and slipping his hands into the pockets of his coral shorts.
“For…” The man looks down, possibly checking a calendar. “Brody Torrence?” He looks back up at Miles and then at me.
“That’s the guy,” says Miles, waving his hand toward me.
Without acknowledging the answer, the man lifts the receiver of a phone to his ear.
“Miss Hall, your nine o’clock is here.” He pauses, listening. “Yes, ma’am.” He hangs up and stands. “Follow me, gentlemen.”
Miles shoots me a look with his eyebrows raised to silently say ‘Get a load of this guy’. I press my lips together, fighting a grin, and follow Miles around the desk and through a dark blue, velvet curtain that matches the armchairs out front.
On the other side of the curtain is a room with a similar vibe. Centered against one wall is another leather couch with a gold side table at either end. The tables are topped with a black disc that looks like it might be marble. Off to one side is a raised, circular platform with a three-sided mirror. To the other side are three curtains and directly to my right is a door of dark wood marked ‘Private’.
“My name is Luca,” says the receptionist. “Can I get you anything to drink? We have several rare whiskeys, wines, or- ”
“Just water, please,” I interrupt. I don’t want to be rude, but I definitely can’t drink with my nerves this way.
“Two,” says Miles.
Luca nods and disappears through the private door while Miles sits on the couch and spreads one arm out along the back.
“This is way too fancy,” I mutter, taking another visual scan of the room.
“You can afford it,” Miles assures me. I know he’s right. He knows he’s right.
“That’s not the point. This isn’t me.”
“It could be,” he offers. “Man, I know how much you hate this whole attention thing, but I promise you that your dates will thank you for looking like you give a shit. They’ll thank me .” He holds a hand over his chest for emphasis.
Luca reappears and hands each of us a glass bottle of water.
“Moira will be with you shortly. Make yourselves at home.”
As he walks away, I call out.
“My sister may join us. Her name is Isla. She can come back whenever she gets here.”
Luca doesn’t turn, but I see him nod. I suppose that’ll do.
“You invited Isla?” asks Miles with genuine shock.
“I didn’t mean to,” I grumble, taking a seat next to him and while I open my water.
“So, why did you?”
“Should I tell her not to come?”
“Oh no. We need her opinion. I’m just surprised.” Miles shrugs, completely at ease in this space. Jealousy forms a knot in my throat.
A few minutes later, the private door opens again and I glimpse a short hallway behind a petite woman with short, curly black hair. She grins when her brown eyes land on Miles, her dark red lips standing out starkly against her pale skin.
“I cannot believe you got him here,” she laughs, approaching us.
Miles and I both stand. I hold out my hand, opening my mouth to introduce myself, but Moira–I assume it’s Moira–pulls me into a hug stronger than I would expect for someone her size. I grunt as the air is pushed from my lungs, my hand stuck awkwardly between us.
“Down, girl,” Miles laughs.
“Sorry.” She backs away and I smile timidly. “I’m Moira. Obviously,” she adds. “Miles has told me a lot about you. ”
I turn to raise an eyebrow, but Miles shrugs and focuses his gaze on the woman in front of me.
“Where’s mine?” He holds his arms out, but Moira walks past him to a table beside the mirror.
“You haven’t joined us for Sunday brunch in a month. No hugs for brunch dodgers.” She glares at Miles, but a smile plays on her lips.
“I’ve been busy.” Miles falls back onto the couch.
“Excuses, excuses.” Moira turns her eyes on me. “So, what are we doing for you today, Mr. Torrence?”
“Call me Brody.” I look to Miles for help. “Er, I don’t- I’m not sure.”
“I’m forcing him to start dating,” Miles says. “So casual outings all the way up to, like, eight-course meals.”
The gleam in Moira’s eyes is the most enthusiastic look I’ve ever seen. On anyone. Especially when looking at me.
“Free reign?” she asks, speaking mostly to Miles, though she keeps her gaze trained on me.
“I’d say floor it, but maybe just eighty percent,” he laughs.
“If I pull back twenty percent, will you let me style you for the next awards show?”
I always forget about the awards in the adult industry. Miles has gone to events for the last two years, but I never thought about people hiring stylists for it.
“Deal.”
The bell in the front of the store dings and Moira frowns.
“I don’t have anyone else scheduled until this afternoon.”
“That might be my sister,” I say. “Isla.”
Moira’s expression instantly returns to one of delight.
“Oh yay! Another woman’s opinion. She’ll still have better taste than that bozo.” She hooks her thumb at Miles who looks hurt.
“Bozo?” he repeats just as Luca leads a woman through the curtain.
She’s got the same brown hair, tan skin, and green eyes as me. Anyone would take one look at us and know we’re related by those features alone, but that’s where the similarities end. Where I’m a giant in any room, she’s barely five foot two and–without being offensive–she’s never been skinny. She does hit the gym, though, and it looks like she just came from a workout, standing there in her athletic shorts and tank top, hair in a messy bun .
“I’ve got it from here, Luca,” says Moira. He disappears and she smiles at my sister. “I’m Moira and you must be Isla.” She grins.
“Sadly, yes. I'm related to string bean over there.” Isla nods at me.
“Can I get you anything? Wine, champagne?”
“Oh, champagne!” Isla’s eyes light up with excitement as Moira disappears to get her drink.
“Glad you could make it, kiddo,” says Miles. Isla sits beside him on the couch and crosses one leg over the other.
“Have I missed anything?” she asks, looking between us.
“I just negotiated for Moira to take it a little easy on your brother,” says Miles. “It was practically a hostage exchange.” I roll my eyes.
Moira reappears with a glass of champagne as well as a bottle in a bucket of ice.
“Oh, I like her,” Isla laughs, thanking Moira for the glass before taking a sip.
“So, Brody,” says Moira, turning back to me, “I’m going to take some measurements first and then I’ll bring out some items that I think will look good for your skin tone and size. Some pants may be too short, sleeves too. You’re taller than most of my clients. But this is for looks first. I have in-house tailors who can ensure the clothes you do purchase fit you perfectly. Any questions?”
“Is it too late to run?” It isn’t a joke, but the room fills with laughter anyway.
“Way too late,” says Miles. “You’ll live.”
Moira sets her tablet down with the screen unlocked and beckons me onto the platform.
“Shoes off,” she orders. I do as she says and step up. “Ok, just hold still and breathe,” she instructs. “This is going to get a little personal.”
Miles snorts behind me and I glare at him in the mirror. I know what this is going to entail and while I don’t enjoy the awkwardness, I don’t shy away from Moira’s touch. Even when she measures my inseam I remain still. After each measurement, she types the number into her tablet to keep track.
When she’s done, she disappears through the private door again, telling me she’ll be back with clothes to try on.
“Think she got swallowed up in the clothes?” asks Isla after about fifteen minutes.
“I’m sure there’s a lot to go through,” says Miles. He stands to bring me my bottle of water. “You good? ”
He places a hand on my upper arm, looking up at me from the floor while I remain on the platform.
“Just want to get this over with,” I say with a tight grin.
Miles nods and rejoins Isla on the couch.
Moira finally reappears, propping open the door and rolling a rack of clothes out to us. My jaw drops when she turns the rack so I can see just how many items she pulled.
“I know,” she says, seeing my face. “I know, but you obviously won’t like all of these. You might not even like half. I just need a baseline to start.”
“So there’s more after this?”
Moira winces.
“Let’s get this party started!” Isla exclaims, raising her glass. “What’s first?”
“I’m never taking your advice again.” I leave Moira’s shop around noon with Miles and Isla in tow.
Most of the items Moira made me try on were simply so she could see the cut or color on me. In between each item or set of items, Moira would show me images of the real clothing she was picturing. Her shoppers would go out and get what was needed over the weekend, though some would have to be ordered and that would take time. We settled on a lot of items. In fact, I’m no longer sure how many I even agreed to. But I’m due back on Monday to try some of them on for final touches. Moira insisted that she would have several outfits for me by then, wanting to get me ready for the dating scene as soon as possible.
“Because it was expensive or because it was stressful?” asks Isla. She pats my back gently a few times.
“Yes.”
Miles snorts.
“I’m telling you, you needed it.” He walks ahead of my sister and me.
“Speaking of,” says Isla, grabbing my arm to bring me to a stop and turning my body toward her. Miles pauses and spins around. “Dating?”
“I signed him up for a site,” Miles offers, rocking back and forth on his feet. He looks like a kid proudly telling his parents about a perfect report card .
“There’s a spot in heaven for you,” says Isla.
“Not likely,” he mutters. Isla rolls her eyes. She knows about his job, but she has never judged.
“Whatever it takes to get you out of the house and out of those stupid Doctor Who shirts.” She lightly backhands the logo on my chest.
“Yesterday, it was Star Wars,” says Miles.
“I like what I like,” I shoot back, glaring at my friend.
“Like what you want, but can you maybe wear something that isn’t faded and falling apart?” Isla points at a hole on my shoulder just big enough for the nail of her pinky to fit through.
“That’s one hole,” I correct her. “In one shirt.”
“Uh, Brody?” Miles cocks his head, his eyes on my side.
I drag my hand over my face. They might be right. I could use a new wardrobe, but I’ll never fully admit that.
“I can buy new shirts.”
“You just did,” says Isla with a grin, turning to continue walking. “Let’s do lunch. Do you guys have time?”
“Anything for my favorite little sister,” says Miles, wrapping an arm around Isla’s shoulders and pulling her roughly to his side.
“Let go,” she grunts, pulling out of his grip.
I smile at their backs. Despite the attacks on my sense of style–or lack thereof–I’m glad to have people like them in my life. I just wish they’d let me be the hermit I want to be sometimes.
“How about Mendo?” asks Miles.
“That’s a little out of the way, isn’t it?” Isla turns to me. “Brody, don’t you have to get back?”
“It’s fine. Mel won’t miss me.” And neither will the system I’m trying to debug.
Isla agrees to follow us to the restaurant.
“So have you matched with anyone yet? Or talked to anyone or however this app works?” asks Isla.
“I’ve gotten some messages.” I rub the back of my neck, looking down at the sidewalk. “And I’ve been doing my homework,” I shoot at Miles.
“No one interesting?” He raises his eyebrows.
“I didn’t say that. ”
That stops them in their tracks. Eyes still downcast, I nearly run into Miles before I realize they’ve halted.
“Wait, really?” asks Isla. She and Miles are staring at me again and I force myself to meet her eyes. There’s way too much joy there.
“It was just a conversation,” I say. If this is their reaction to a simple connection, I’m afraid of what they’ll say when I mention that we already have a date planned.
“That’s a step!”
“Any signs she’s crazy?” asks Miles, arms crossed over his chest, looking defensive. I can’t figure out why that would be. This is a step in the right direction, isn’t it? It’s his goal.
“Not yet.” Do I say it? “We’re meeting for dinner on Monday.” I said it.
I’d forgotten Isla could squeal that loud. Ears ringing, I stare at her in shock while she bounces on the balls of her feet in front of me. Her hands are balled into fists in front of her mouth.
“A date?” she asks with a muffled squeak.
“Just dinner at a brewery.”
“That place over on Wilshire?” asks Miles.
I chose what we both consider to be our place–his and mine. We go there for each other’s birthdays or other celebratory dinners, like when we first moved in together.
“Yeah, I thought it was nice but not too nice. No pressure, you know?” I ask, still trying to figure out his expression.
“I think that’s great,” says Isla. She’s still bouncing. I can almost feel the vibrations from here.
“Can we please go to lunch now?” I just want to get home and get back to work.