Page 61 of Savored Sins
Trey strides off toward the office, where the two female models are sitting out of sight, long nails clacking as they scroll mindlessly on their phones. I feel a little bad at how bored they look, but I thought Zeke was going to be here. I was counting on him to be the life of the party.
By now the VIP guests have all arrived, prompt and prim and polished, and I hope my smile doesn’t look too slapped on when I greet them. As the reporter for the Boston Current arrives to shake my hand, I try hard to project confidence. But behind my enthusiastic, on-top-of-things demeanor, my chest is about caving in on itself from panic and pure, white-hot rage. I can’t believe Zeke would do this to me. I can’tfuckingbelieve him.
At one minute to showtime, I’ve got Erin and Nina—my models who actually showed—lined up behind our makeshift curtains, ready to strut their stuff at Trey’s cue. We’ve got their outfit changes ready to go, a platform set up next to the runway for the photographers to snap some artsy shots, and a style book with glossy photos of the season’s pieces in the hands of our front-row influencers. There’s still no sign of Zeke, and according to Will, who just texted Lydia back, his car’s not home, either.
Fucking great.
Trey strides out on stage, and from where I stand, peering out from behind the curtain, I see him flash a dazzling smile at the modest, yet highfalutin crowd.
“Goooood morning, Hawthorne Bay! First off, I want to thank everyone for coming. The Velvet Noir autumn collection is absolutely stunning, and we’re so thrilled you’ll all get the first look today. There has been a slight change in schedule, however, and we’ll be starting with the women’s pieces instead of the menswear. So, without further ado…”
Trey gestures a sweeping hand toward the tech crew at the back, and the bass of the music starts at the same time as the lights dim. Without missing a beat, the first model pulls the curtain smoothly aside and steps confidently out onto the runway, just like we practiced this morning.
As she struts her way down the aisle, a cool, closed-mouth smile on her striking face, the crowd oohs and aahs over the pieces she’s wearing: a pair of patchwork leather moto leggings I stitched together myself, and a hot pink trench coat over a slinky, white tank top. Every single piece has been salvaged and upcycled, using only the highest quality material I could find. None of this fast fashion BS—my pieces are meant to last a lifetime.
The first model reaches the end of the runway, gives a practiced spin, and starts back the way she came while Trey details the pieces she’s wearing. Giving the second model a look that says “you got this”, I duck out from behind the curtain and skirt my way along the wall toward the back of the store to try Zeke one more time.
My heart’s pounding. What if something’s seriously wrong? What if he got in some kind of car accident? Went off the road and is lying in a ditch somewhere, and that’s why his car wasn’t at home when Will went to?—
My whirling thoughts come to a sudden, screeching halt as Zeke walks through the front door. He’s got on aviators, and he’s pulled a trucker hat down low on his brow. Although my blood’s still pretty much frozen, I force myself to move, barely feeling my legs as I slink behind the crowd and yank Zeke to a corner near the door. I obviously can’t see my own face, but with how much rage I’m feeling, I’m pretty sure I must look absolutely terrifying. Ifeelterrifying.
“Hey,” Zeke rasps. Although he flashes me a half-hearted grin, it only lasts a second. He looks like absolute shit. Too bad I don’t care.
“Don’theyme. Where the fuck have you been?” I hiss. “You were supposed to be heretwo hoursago—the show’s already started.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I got here as fast as I c?—”
Zeke cuts off abruptly, and a weird look comes over his face as his throat contracts. It’s kind of dark in here, but I’m pretty sure his lips are white.
I draw in a long, trying-to-keep-my-shit-together breath—because why the hell is he being so weird?—and that’s when I smell it. Tequila. It’s practically seeping out of his pores. Now everything’s starting to click into place.
“Have you beendrinking?” I demand, my voice still low. I’m staring at him, but he doesn’t meet my gaze, just keeps looking at the runway in this strange, wistful way.
Zeke nods, his shoulders slumped. “Last night. But look, I brought the clothes. I said I’d walk, and I’ll?—”
He can’t even get through the sentence. Without any warning, he turns and stumbles to the door, barely managing to slip outside before he hurls all over the sidewalk. I can’t hear the splatter over the booming of the bass—and thank god the crowd’s been fully captivated by whatever spell Trey and my female models have cast—but seeing Zeke blow chunks outsidemy shop is a whole new fucking low. For him. For me. For whoever’s gonna have to clean it up. Probably Trey—I don’t know.
One thing I do know is there’s no way inhellZeke is walking in my show like this.
I slip out the door behind him and stand there a moment, watching while he gulps in breaths of fresh air. He’s still bent down with his hands on his knees. When he finally turns to look at me, he straightens, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You’re out,” I say, pointing a finger at his chest. He reeks of alcohol, and now of vomit, too. “I needed someone to model menswear in my show—if I’d wanted a frat boy, I’d have called a fucking frat.”
“Autumn. I’m sorry. I’m good now, I can do it?—”
“Oh, fuckoff,” I spit. “You are not good. You just threw up all over the sidewalk. No way am I letting you anywhere near my pieces or anywhere near that runway. Some of us, unlike you, have actual businesses we’d like to not wreck—although you’ve sure as shit wrecked whatever trust I had in you.”
Zeke stares at me, stunned. “JesusChrist, you’re dramatic. I threw up. You act like I killed s?—”
“No,” I say, cutting him off again. Because I am having none of it. “You don’t get to talk. This ismybusiness. It’smyshow. And you knew how much it mattered to me—youknew. Are you even sober right now? I hope so, otherwise your sorry ass will have to wait for big brother to come give you a ride, like the absolute child you are.”
“Wow.” Zeke lets out a low whistle, turning away from me with a scoff, like he can’t believe I just said what I did.
I don’t wait for him to reply further, though. I’ve got things to do, a show to run. And quite frankly, I don’t care if I hurt his little feelings or not. Boo fucking hoo.
I leave Zeke out on the sidewalk, slipping back inside without a look behind. The models have pulled off their outfit changes without a hitch, and Trey’s grinning into the microphone as he details the second set of pieces they’re wearing.
Thank god for Trey. Thankgod.
