Take Me

Milo McLaren hated Valentine’s Day. The morbid commercialization of love made him sick. It was the time of year when flowers, chocolates, and cheesy greeting cards became depression triggers for the currently unattached. Ah, good ol’ Singles Awareness Day. The only reason he wasn’t wallowing in a self-imposed pity party was because— Ding. The elevator doors to the Rebel offices opened. Besides the typical work frenzy, he walked into on a daily basis, the reception area and glass-walled bullpen where the cubicles were located were bedecked in every conceivable Valentine’s Day paraphernalia. Love vomited all over the place. No surface of the most popular fashion magazine’s office space was spared. Cupids shooting love arrows hung from the ceiling. Hearts clung to the walls. And red roses everywhere. Each employee table seemed to have a vase of them sitting on the cluttered surface. The cloying scent stung his nostrils. Even the clothing racks weren’t left alone as red bows were tied to each end. The urge to run in the opposite direction consumed him. But to miss work because of his personal issues was unforgivable. So, instead, he prayed. Unfortunately, his prayer for a swift death was interrupted by a wave of confetti and the shouted words of “Happy Valentine’s—” The greeting cut off at about the same time the toxic scowl he reserved for magazine layout day and uppity diva models manifested, contorting his classically handsome features into a demon mask only a handful of people were immune to. The two standing before him weren’t included in that group. They immediately paled and took several steps back as he exited the elevator. “Who died?” Kasey, the top-knotted, hipster-glasses-wearing receptionist asked, referring to his black-on-black vintage-inspired Marc Jacobs suit. “My dignity,” he said, sliding his scowl toward the art director’s assistant. The always colorful Garret in suspenders and plaid, whose hair currently screamed pink, cringed before he leaped forward and began dusting gold and red shiny squares off of Milo’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered on repeat. “Please don’t fire me.” Milo’s confetti shower chilled him to the bone. He took a deep breath and enunciated each word he spoke. “Please tell me you haven’t been throwing confetti at each person who comes out of this elevator?” He narrowed his gaze at the naughty culprits who thought they were being cute. The idea that their boss walked out to this in her couture was enough to make him draw blood. Kasey shook her head so hard he was afraid her top-knot would fly off. “Only you. Promise!” She waved her hands for emphasis . . . or as a defensive maneuver against possible attacks from him, he didn’t know. He swatted Garret’s fretting hands away. “And why did you two think I needed glitter rain this morning?” Clasping his hands together, Garret said, “You’ve been absolutely gloomy. Valentine’s Day should be a happy occasion.” A long and protracted sigh left Milo’s lungs once the realization hit that his two friends were just looking out for him. For his happiness. On a regular day, he would have found their antics cute. But not today of all days. Not today. He willed the annoyance away as he ran his fingers through his thick chestnut waves tamed by product, dislodging several more foil squares. “Clean this up before Cassandra gets here.” He pointed at the mess. “She’s already here,” Kasey said as Garret scampered away to, Milo assumed, fetch a broom. “What?” His heart made a beeline for his throat while he checked his watch. “She doesn’t usually get in at this hour.” “She’s been here since six.” And it was already eight. A different kind of annoyance ignited in his chest. He always got here before the boss. Always. “Did she tell you why?” he asked, not bothering to mask the rising panic in his tone. Rebel had no set working hours. Everyone’s schedule varied. Depending on the task assigned, from editors down to assistants, staff came in when they needed and left when they were done. Days could start as early as six, sometimes earlier, and could end as late as midnight. There were special circumstances, such as a double-issue layout, where no one went home at all for two to three days straight. The longest anyone ever stayed at the office was a week, and that was because someone accidentally downloaded a virus into their network. It ate up everything needed for the coming issue. Milo had blocked out most of that incident, yet he still experienced facial tics when remembering it. Safe it to say that i***t no longer worked for Rebel—or anywhere in the fashion industry, for that matter. “She’s been on a conference call all…” The second the words conference and call were uttered, Milo didn’t bother listening to the rest of Kasey’s sentence. He hurried to his desk located outside Cassandra’s frosted glass office. The door was closed. The dark silhouette inside indicated her presence. s**t. Dumping his bag on the floor, he didn’t bother removing his coat and scarf as he bent over his computer and cued up today’s schedule. He cursed under his breath and inhaled sharply, his lips disappearing into a tight line. At the top of the list was the conference call. He’d been so distracted this past week that he’d completely forgotten about the prep. Paris Fashion Week in March was one of Cassandra’s biggest events of the year. It took, at least, six months to plan and coordinate the trip. Logistics alone was a nightmare. Meetings, fashion shows, dinners with designers . . . the list of things to do went on and on. As her executive assistant, Milo held the sole responsibility of pulling everything off without so much as an unplanned hiccup. Instant disappointment at himself punched through his chest. Totally dropped the ball on this one. He bowed his head and massaged the back of his neck, gathering his courage to enter the lion’s den. His hatred for this day got him into this mess, and like the confetti Kasey and Garret were cleaning up, he had to sweep his way out. He clicked print and straightened as the printer spat out the schedule. He pulled off his scarf and shrugged out of his coat, composing the appropriate apology for being late. Much groveling may be involved. Maybe even some self-flagellation. Milo swallowed and tugged on the lapels of his suit jacket before he grabbed the schedule from the printer tray and rounded his desk to stand in front of the door to hell as a majority of the interns called it. Many an onion-skinned person had run out of this office in tears over the years. Even Milo had shed a drop or two when Cassandra was feeling particularly vicious. An angry Editor-in-Chief meant a tense staff. Lives were at stake if he made a mistake. Not bothering with a deep breath, he knocked once and pushed in. The best editor-in-chief in the business stood behind her desk with arms crossed. She wore a sleek suit covered entirely in peacock feathers with exaggerated shoulders. One of the perks of her position was having all her clothes custom-made by the best designers. It was almost like she was a goddess and the designers were supplicants giving her offerings so she would shower them with her blessings. Making it into the pages of Rebel meant making it in the fashion world. So, yeah, keeping Cassandra happy was a full-time job for designers. She spoke in rapid-fire French just as he nudged the door closed. Someone at the other end replied via the phone’s speaker and she shook her head. Her silver hair, cut in a severe bob with razor-sharp bangs across her forehead, followed the movement. She spoke again and crooked a finger at Milo. The walls of his throat closed at the sharp look she gave him. She was a strikingly beautiful woman. If she didn’t love the behind-the-scenes more she could have easily been a model like his mother. Forcing his feet to move, he approached her desk cluttered with fashion magazines, newspapers, and sample swatches. While she continued to argue with whoever it was, he clipped her schedule on a board hanging on the wall then proceeded to tidy up. He had trained himself over the years to anticipate Cassandra’s every need. Magazines with Post Its were always left open. Magazines without them were closed and stacked on the left side of the desk. Newspapers were folded and went on the right side. He picked up the cloth swatches and Cassandra pointed at the rack of clothing samples slated for the fall issue. He nodded and busied himself with matching pieces of fabric together. Looking at the selection, it seemed military-inspired leather jackets were making a comeback, but instead of the usual camo, they came in jewel tones. This meant silver jewelry and chunky belts. Milo prided himself in knowing how to predict trends. It took him years to get the nuances, but when he did, it was like opening a door into a magical world not many were able to enter. With his father always away on business, his supermodel mother had no choice but to bring him along on photo shoots and fashion shows. He grew up among models, photographers, makeup artists, and designers. Instead of trucks and blocks, he played with makeup brushes and helped pull together outfits. Being in the fashion industry seemed like the perfect fit for him from the get-go. An internship at eighteen propelled him to his esteemed position today. A million people would kill to be in his Prada loafers. It didn’t matter that his boss also happened to be his mother’s best friend and his de facto godmother. And that his father owned the publishing company the magazine belonged to. Nepotism may have been in play when he was starting out, but he didn’t get to where he was now without clawing his way up. Elbows and knees may have been used along the way too. Outsiders thought the fashion industry was all clothes and pretty things when in fact it was far more bloodthirsty than a night inside the octagon of a UFC fight. In his world? The gloves were off, there were no rules, and may the best trend win was the only code of conduct. Once the swatches were put away, he picked up Cassandra’s slim coffee cup and brought it to her personal Nespresso machine. He placed the empty cup below the nozzle, popped in an espresso capsule, and pressed the Start button. As it gurgled and dripped, the scent of coffee filled the office. Milo felt more at home here than in his own apartment. The walls were covered with all the latest sketches from designers, all the furniture was sleek and modern, reflecting the tastes of their owner, and the view of the city was simply breathtaking. He was staring absentmindedly into the distance at the swath of green that made up Central Park when slim arms wrapped around his waist from behind. Cassandra rested her chin on top of his shoulder. He braced himself for cutting words. Instead, he got a kiss on the cheek before she let go and stepped back. He turned around, a frown forming on his lips and forehead. “Oh, my dear boy,” she said, pursing her lips and cupping his face with both hands. Instant warmth chased away the fear he came in with. “I’m sorry for being late.” The slap came swift and unexpected. It was hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to leave a mark. She wagged a finger at him. There was the scary woman he’d grown up with. “I understand the special circumstances surrounding this day, which is why I will forgive you for your tardiness,” she said in a clipped tone. He closed a hand over the one she still kept on his cheek and nodded. “Won’t happen again. The conference call—” “That is no longer your concern,” she interrupted him. “Kenji Suzuki is already at the studio for his shoot. As I have more calls to make before I can join him, I would like you to—” “I understand,” he interrupted her in return, stepping out of reach. “Very good.” He smirked. “I will keep him happy until you get there.” Her lips quirked in what passed for a smile as she waved him away. Relief settled on Milo’s shoulders once he left the office. He knew why Cassandra sent him to entertain the up-and-coming Japanese designer instead of one of her editors. He’d spent a year in Japan. At the same time, this was a test. If he couldn’t pull this off then he wasn’t worthy of becoming the next Editor-in-Chief. God only knew what Cassandra would put him through then. He’d take a slap any day, thank you very much. Grabbing his tablet from his desk, he hurried back toward the elevator. Not a speck of confetti anywhere. Kasey was already behind the semi-circle of the reception desk, taking calls. Good. A semblance of normalcy had returned to his workplace. All he had to do now was ignore the decorations for the rest of the day. “Going to the studios?” Garret asked, sidling closer, a manila envelope and his own tablet in his hands. “I have Suzuki babysitting duty until Cassandra finishes her calls.” He glanced up at the numbers counting down on the LCD panel above them. “Have you seen the House of Suzuki dresses?” Garret gushed. “I still can’t believe they’re made of hemp.” The September issue of Rebel was all about innovation in fashion. Hemp was the hot fabric of the moment and no one manipulated the course material better than Kenji Suzuki. His designs took on shapes and forms any origami master would be proud off. The art of paper folding was most evident in the centerpiece of his collection that boasted of a thousand cranes which connected to the tradition of whoever folded a thousand paper cranes would have a wish granted. It was also connected to eternal good luck. Milo had only seen pictures of the designs. To actually get to see the dresses in person had him giddy like a kid on Christmas day. “Each dress is a total work of art,” Garret mused as they entered the elevator. “And worth a small fortune. I heard actresses are already lining up to wear his clothes for awards season.” “Why are you headed to the studios?” Milo asked as he pushed the button for the floor they were headed. There must have been some heat in his tone because Garret flinched. “Cassandra chew you out for being late?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry for the way I acted earlier.” “Just because today is—” “Let’s not rehash.” He sighed. “So, why are you headed to the studios? Please don’t tell me it’s to ogle the Suzuki designs.” “That,” Garret said with a wide smile. “And I have to deliver these proof changes to the photographer of the autumn jackets spread.” “Your boss changed his mind again?” Milo asked in reference to the picky, and often prickly, art director. Garret rolled his eyes. “Cassandra’s not going to like that. We’re already over budget for that shoot.” A genuine grin spread across his lips. “Looking forward to the bloodbath at the next editorial meeting.” “I’ll bring the popcorn.” He and Garret stepped out of the elevator into a long corridor filled with framed blown-up covers of Rebel. The best of the best hung along these walls, including his mother’s, who had graced the cover no less than ten times throughout her modeling career. Milo stopped at the one Stella von Stein was best known for: A close-up of her gorgeous face. She had no makeup on except for pink lips and a shaved head. Her wide-set hazel eyes—so much like his—stared at him unflinchingly. Besides the chestnut color of his hair that he inherited from his father, everything else came from his mother—perfectly symmetrical features and full lips people paid plastic surgeons good money for. Cassandra always joked that if he wore a dress he could pass as his mother’s sister. Being thought of as capable of pulling off pretty was certainly a blow to his manhood, but who was he to complain? He came from a rare gene pool. “The Breast Cancer Awareness issue,” Garret murmured in reverence. Milo remembered the day the doctors gave his mother the diagnosis. Instead of panicking about the potential end of her career she posed nude post-surgery and chemo, baring it all for the world to see. Bravest thing he’d ever seen anyone do. He was so proud of her that his chest ached. Unwilling to confront the swell of emotion, Milo resumed his trek toward the main studio at the end of the hall. He checked the shoot’s location on his tablet before pushing through the double doors. Garret followed in after him. They stepped into the whirl of activity without missing a beat, used to the hustle of a photo shoot. The makeup station lined one side of the thousand square foot space where artists painted frantically on human canvases while racks of exquisite clothing lined the other. In a corner sat equipment and photography gear. At the far end were the craft services tables with large silver platters. No one dared touch food then touch clothing. A girl was once fired for picking up a cube of cheese then handing a silk skirt to a model. The designer wasn’t happy. Speaking of a designer, Milo pulled up Kenji’s profile on the screen and quickly searched for him in the melee. Garret pointed him out. He looked pale in a crisp white suit and had lavender hair combed to one side to bare the shaved side. He wore burgundy lipstick and false eyelashes. His arms were crossed. He bit down on the long fingernail of his pinky while watching the model in a soft pink structural dress that resembled a giant water lily pose in front of the camera. “Who’s that?” Garret asked. Judging from his friend’s hum of appreciation, he was referring to the tall man in a gray three-piece Brioni suit Milo last saw in the spring collection catalog. That suit wouldn’t be available in stores until next year. The fact that he wore it meant he had considerable pull and a lot of money. He stood beside Kenji with the poise of someone who knew what wearing a good suit could do. He had his hands in his pockets, which emphasizes how broad his shoulders were. A linebacker couldn’t have done any better. Milo had worked with more than enough male models to know the way that perfectly-tailored suit sat contently on his body meant he sported some serious muscle underneath. “I don’t know,” he finally said. For some reason, he was unable to tear his gaze away from Kenji’s companion. His jet black hair was combed away from a face that boasted of high cheekbones and a clean-shaven, square jaw. It wasn’t his stunning looks alone that drew the eyes to him. It was the air that surrounded him. He was a man who stood on solid ground and was comfortable in his own skin. Someone who didn’t care what others thought. At least, that was Milo’s impression of him at first glance. Confidence personified. “Well, he’s hot,” Garret added matter-of-factly. “Don’t you have work to do?” he reminded, scowling. “I will leave if you promise to tell me his name later. Extra points if you get his number.” Ignoring his too eager friend, Milo stepped forward and dusted off his Japanese. He hoped to hell he wouldn't mess this up. Kenji noticed him first and eyed Milo then grinned as he whispered to his companion, “Kare wa utsukushīde wa arimasen?” A sudden blush washed over his face. He’d just been called beautiful by a designer with features so feminine they rivaled those of the models in this shoot. He stood frozen, not because of the cool assessment that came from the man in the Brioni suit, but from staring into steel blue irises—eyes that seemed to undress him and see through him all at once.