House of Payne: Steele (3 page)

His attention flicked to Estella Santiago. As he watched, she smirked.

Hmm.

Unexpected.

His attention slipped to that smirking mouth, and how her upper lip was equal in fullness to her lower one. There was a shadow of a scar at the corner, virtually undetectable in good lighting. He almost moved closer, to make sure he was seeing it right, but Payne’s voice snapped him back to what he was supposed to be doing, which sure as hell wasn’t looking at a woman’s mouth.

“We artists create something from nothing, and yeah, that takes time. But if you want to make money off of that something, you’ve got to prove that you can produce high quality shit over and over again. When you stop thinking of yourself as a fancy artist and start thinking of yourself as a one-man or one-woman factory that doesn’t get paid until your product has been delivered, an amazing thing happens. You get… fuckin’…
paid
. Until then, you’re just another brilliant bag of hot air and unfulfilled potential, and the only fan you have is yourself. Now, does anyone have any questions?”

Dizzy and Olivier had apparently turned to stone, but Estella’s long-fingered, creamy gold hand went up. “Do we get an allowance for the raw materials, or does this come out of our own pocket? I’m not rich, so I live on a budget. I like to work in leathers, but if I’m shelling out my own
dinero
to create my lines, I’ll have to use less expensive materials.”

“You each get fifteen-hundred bucks.”

Much to Steele’s disappointment, Dizzy rediscovered her tongue. “Per line?”

“Nope. Fifteen-hundred dollars for everything, so budget accordingly.”

Olivier clearly came to the conclusion that now was a perfect time to launch himself from his place off the couch. “That is insane! I would have to use inferior materials to keep to that meager budget. Inferior materials mean inferior results. Is that what the great House Of Payne wants? Inferiority?”

Estella, who had merely nodded at the response before digging her phone out of her pocket, did some quick thumb-typing, then opened her sketchbook to write furiously. The other two were veritable geysers of melodrama, but for all the attention she gave them, Essie might as well have been alone in the room. She even seemed pleased with something as she wrote it down, smiling to herself in a way that made him want to lean over to see what she was writing.

Again, with the moving closer to her.

He needed to lock that shit down.
Now
.

“You really should have read what you signed in this agreement, pal.” Payne tapped the folders on his desk before settling back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “You’ve agreed to accept whatever terms I throw at you and not bitch about it. You’ve also agreed to stay out of each other’s way and not trip each other up, because backstabbing each other doesn’t help the House one bit. And lastly you promised that you’d be courteous to me, the people who work here and your fellow contestants. So check your damn self when you’re under this roof, or I get to bounce you.”

Steele watched Estella nod absently without looking up from whatever it was she was doing in her sketchbook.

“As of now, the three of you can wander wherever you want inside the House, except for the tattoo booths and private offices, in order to get a feel for the place and soak up its vibe. That’s what I’m looking for in your designs. I want something that truly represents everything that the House is.”

Again Essie’s hand went up—a kind of cute grown-up version of a kid in a classroom. “I understand that it’s a very private affair, getting a tattoo, and we wouldn’t dream of making a customer uncomfortable by asking to sit in on a tattoo session. But are we allowed to talk to the tattooists?”

Dizzy Izz gave a juicy-sounding snort. “Why? Dizzy Izz sees no need for that. An artist doesn’t question other artists.”

Steele gave Estella Santiago credit for not rolling her eyes. “I personally feel that talking to the tattooists is very important. You know, get to know them in their downtime in order to get a feel for who they are. I’d like to know what’s important to them in both their art and how they perceive the world so that I can more fully represent who they are. Are we allowed to do that?”

Steele watched Payne’s pissy expression vanish with a quick grin. “Great question, Es. Most of our tattooists are slinging ink from the moment they arrive, so it’s probably best to make an appointment with them ahead of time initially, and then you can work details out as you go. They all know what’s going on, and since one of you will be responsible for integrating their artwork into fashion, I’m sure all the tattooists will be happy to help you understand the depth and meaning behind each piece.”

She nodded. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Any more questions? No? I’m now officially done with this meeting, so I want everyone except Essie out. Now.”

It seemed Olivier hadn’t yet gotten his full quota of being an asshole out of his system. “Essie? You can’t meet with just one of us. That’s favoritism—”

“There you go, telling me what I can and can’t do in my own house. Get the fuck out of my office before I throw you out.” He nodded to Steele, who wordlessly opened the door to herd the two other designers out. Without conscious thought, he glanced back to where Estella Santiago sat, no longer scribbling away in her sketchbook, but sitting ramrod straight and eyeing Payne like he held a bloody axe.

It took a shocking amount of willpower to shut the door behind him, leaving her to face Payne alone.

Chapter Three

Silence reigned as the others left the office, except for the heavy thudding of Essie’s heart.

Crap, crap,
crap
.

She’d screwed up big-time, and now she had to pay for it.

“I’m sorry,” she said even as Payne took a breath. She eyed him warily, knowing full well that he had a temper almost as bad as her brother’s. Twist, she could handle. Payne was a different story. “You must think I’m as flaky as the others, walking out without a word one minute, then swinging back in the next. I just reacted badly to…to something, and I needed to have an attitude adjustment.” Of course, Ezekiel Steele of the awesome boots and shitty disposition had been in charge of that attitude adjustment, but she wasn’t about to go into that now. “I know this isn’t a game you made up for funsies, and I know your time is too precious for me to jerk you around, so I’m truly sorry, not to mention embarrassed. It won’t happen again.”

He stared at her for a long moment before a grin split his face. “Damn.”

“What?”

“I’m struggling not to call your brother in so you can demonstrate how to properly apologize. He’s never done it without a shitload of sarcasm involved.”

Heh
. “That sounds like Twist.”

“I was the one who wanted to apologize,” he went on, surprising her. “I didn’t think how my need to know all about the contestants would hit you. That’s probably because through Twist, I already feel like I know you—your story, your family, and what to generally expect from the Santiago artistic temperament. But the least I could’ve done was given you a heads-up that this background check was on the horizon.”

She took in a slow breath. Of course Payne knew about her as well. At this point it wouldn’t have surprised her if passersby knew her background chapter and verse. “That’s nice of you, Payne, but I don’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else.”

“Glad to hear it, because I’m still going to go through the personal background check on all three of you.”

“Yeah, I’d already assumed that.”

“But I promise none of it will be made public. I just don’t want any nasty surprises cropping up and potentially tarnishing this project for the House.”

“I can’t imagine anything nastier than my background, so if you’re willing to put up with someone like me being involved with House Of Payne, you should be okay.”

Payne’s expression turned stony so fast it was alarming. “That shit that went down… that had
nothing
to do with who you are, Essie, you hear me?
Someone like you
. What the hell does that even mean?”

Whoops
. “I’m sorry. I just meant—”

“I know what you meant, and it still pisses me off. That horrible shit that happened… that wasn’t you, so there’s no way in hell I’d ever think that it somehow reflects badly on who you are. And it sure as fuck doesn’t make you
someone like you
in my mind. Understand?”

She nodded, relieved. “Got it.”

“All I care about is whether or not you can produce original ideas and do it quickly. Oh, and I’m also kind of hopeful you’ll help keep your brother off my back during this final stage of the contest.”

Oh, no
. “What’s he done now?”

“Up to this point, nothing more than the usual shit I’ve been expecting, so he’s been easy to ignore. But if he gets wind that you were upset during today’s meeting—”

“He won’t hear it from me.” That was something she’d already decided, so it was easy to promise. Then the rest of his statement sank in. “Wait, what do you mean,
the usual shit
? What’s Twist been doing?”

Payne eye-rolled. “‘You know my sister’s the best one out of all these losers, right? I don’t even know why you started this fucking circus when you know my sister’s the best one. You should be grateful she’s even bothering with you and your bullshit. Why aren’t you thanking me for bringing the best designer you’re ever going meet right to your front door? I should get a raise.’ That kind of usual shit.”

“He probably does deserve a raise, or at the very least a finder’s fee,” she couldn’t help point out, now that they were being honest. “I really am the best at what I do, and obviously so is Twist. Now that I think about it, it is kind of a lucky break for you and House Of Payne that my brother and I decided to be here. We could have gone anywhere, but we chose the House.”

“Holy shit, it’s genetic.” With a resigned shake of his head, he shooed a hand at her. “Get outta here and make brilliant things. And remember, you’re doing it for the House.”

The moment Essie stepped into the apartment building’s hallway, the thud of drumming hit her ears. Perfect, she thought on a sigh, keys already out. The mighty Thor in the apartment above hers was at it again. Maybe she should count her blessings. At least this time around it wasn’t two o’clock in the morning when he decided to practice his heavy metal drum riffs.

“Hey, girlie.” Before she could slide the key in, the door opposite hers swung open, revealing the reason Essie had moved into that particular building in Logan Square. Carla Knowles—now Carla Knowles-Harper—popped her dark blonde head out. It was up in a messy bun, and since it had once been almost as dark as Essie’s when they’d been growing up, her upswept ‘do revealed it was time to get her roots done. “Drumming started about an hour ago. Want to complain to the super again?”

“Sisyphus probably has better luck with his rock-rolling activities than we would have talking to that guy again. Besides,” Essie added, glancing at her watch before pushing her door open, “technically speaking, Thor is doing what we asked. The sun’s still up, so that means he can practice his black heart out.”

“The sun stays up
forever
in summer. It’s after six. In another couple of hours I’ll be putting the kids to bed.”

“If Thor’s still hammering by then, we should make him put the kids to bed.”

“I wouldn’t allow that inconsiderate butt stain anywhere near my kids.” Carla’s upper lip curled back in a disdainful sneer as she turned a glare up to the ceiling. If it had been a tangible thing, it would have been a dead-on kill shot. “Considering how he treats his cat, can you imagine how he’d treat a one-year-old baby?”

“Uh-oh, his cat.” Essie threw the front door open and looked across the miniscule studio apartment to the window. Beyond the glass, a sad orange face stared back at her. “Aw, poor little guy. I’d better let him in.”

“He’s not your cat, Essie.” Carla closed her apartment door behind her to follow Essie into the studio apartment, turning on lights as the setting sun sent out its farewell rays in the west. “You keep letting him in and feeding him, he’s going to think he’s yours.”

“I just feel so bad for the poor thing. If I can’t stand the racket that jerk makes, can you imagine what it must be like for an animal with sensitive hearing? No wonder he looks so stressed. Come on in, Mooch,” she cooed as she opened the window to the rickety fire escape. Like liquid orange, the painfully thin cat slunk through the open window and zipped under the pull-out bed. No doubt it was his version of putting his head under a pillow.

Behind her, her friend shook her head. “Mooch? Did you actually give that scraggly thing a name?”

“Not really. That’s just what he is.” Essie shut the window—lessening the horrible drumming by maybe a fraction—and crossed to the mirrored coat rack by the door. “I didn’t take you away from dinner with Patrick and the kids, did I? That’s what you’re usually up to this time of day.”

“We just finished. Patrick’s attempting to herd the rug rats into the bath while I’m supposed to be doing the dishes. Instead I’ve been monitoring the hallway for you like that creepy gym teacher we had in high school…ugh, what was her name? You know the one I’m talking about. The one with the chin hair.”

Essie tried not to make a face and failed. “Ms. Yeckley.”

“Oh God, how could I forget Yeckley? That woman fit her name in every possible way. She would patrol the halls just waiting to pounce on anyone to shake them down for hall passes, and if they didn’t have that, cold hard cash.”

“Luckily I never ran into her when I went to school here.” It had been late summer when Essie had left Chicago between her sophomore and junior years. It had been four months after that when she’d finally been well enough to pick up a school book of any kind, relearning how to make her eyes focus so that she could understand words on a page. “Why were you hall-lurking like Ms. Yeckley?”

“Gee, let’s think. You blew out of here midday to find out who the other finalists are, and what you have to do to land a gig at the most famous tattoo studio in the entire world. So naturally I was hall-lurking in the hope that I’d run into a Girl Scout selling cookies.”

Essie grinned. That was Carla in a nutshell. She might not have a clue how to give a straight answer, but she sure as hell could generate a laugh. “Please tell me you picked up some Thin Mints. Ooh, and Samoas. I love those things.”

“I will if you tell me what happened in a minute or less, because I could swear I just heard Patrick cry for help. Normally I’d laugh at that, but since the children are involved, I’m thinking I should probably worry.”

Oy
. “Long story short, my two competitors are like every other designer I’ve met in the business—artsy-fartsy weirdos who’re totally incapable of being normal. One’s a woman who talks in the third person and flaps her hands around with every word she speaks. The other one’s a guy who seems to be the physical embodiment of hatred.”

“Sounds like my in-laws.”

Essie laughed and hung up her scarf. Before she could stop herself, her eyes flitted to the scars that ringed her neck. Resolutely she turned away to shoot her friend a wry smile. “Get this. There’s going to be a fashion show a couple months from now, streamed live online, to show off our various collections to the masses. Just the thought of it makes me so nervous I want to puke up things I ate a year ago.”

“A fashion show? Are you serious?” Carla’s usual acerbic tone was momentarily eclipsed with squeal-worthy excitement, even as she opened the apartment door and stuck her head out to listen. Apparently all was well since no bloodcurdling screams could be heard, so she leaned back against the open door’s frame. “That sounds awesome. Do you have any idea what you’re going to make?”

“That’s the problem. I’ve got way too many ideas churning in my head. I’m hoping I’ll be able to focus better on what I need to do after I dive into every fabric store on Roosevelt and maybe even Merch Mart.”

You mean
we
, babe.” Carla looked so gleeful Essie wouldn’t have been surprised if she started rubbing her hands together. “We’ll strap the kidlets into their strollers and make a day of it. With any luck, they’ll start screaming and the shop owners will give us whatever fabric you want just to get us the hell out the door. Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds great.” She joined her friend in the open doorway, and when the drumming ceased overhead, she leaned back against the doorjamb with a blissful sigh. “Ah. Peace at last.”

As if on cue, the door across the hallway burst open and Carla’s husband Patrick appeared. Usually he was a low-key, latte-loving kind of guy who only got pissed off when people threw away regular trash in the recycling bins. Like Carla, Essie had gone to school with Patrick, though she didn’t remember him that well since her best friend hadn’t hooked up with him by the time Essie had been shipped off to Texas.

The low-key guy Essie had come to know was nowhere in evidence as he struggled to hold onto his wet and naked one year old son, Dillon. “Carla, this isn’t working. Hey, Essie.”

She grinned. “Hiya.”

“Look, you need to help me,” he went on, his reddish-brown hair falling into his eyes as he struggled with Dillon. “She won’t stay in the tub without you there, and every time she gets out, I have to get Dillon out because I can’t leave him alone in—”

“Mommy!” Shiny wet and as naked as the day she was born, two year old Charlotte toddler-ran out into the hall and threw herself at her mother’s legs. “Mommy, baff time!”

“So I see.” With a quick laugh, Carla bent and caught her giggling daughter up into her arms, then sent Essie a wicked smile. “This is just a preview of what tomorrow’s going to look like, girlie. Expect lots and lots of free fabric.”

Essie’s laughter faded as she closed and locked her front door, then stood and listened to the little family laugh and chatter as they retreated as well.

And as they retreated, silence slowly crept in like a living thing to fill the void.

It still amazed her that her best friend since grade school was now married and the mother of two. Essie was the same age as Carla and Patrick. Exactly the same. But her life was worlds apart from theirs.

It always would be.

“It’s okay to come out now, Mooch.” As the sky darkened beyond the window, the silence amplified further, filling the apartment with its heavy emptiness. It was just a one-room studio, with a closet-sized bathroom and a kitchen that took up one wall of the overall living space—space that was cluttered with her sewing machines, adjustable dress-form mannequin and cutting table. Most of her clothes were still in boxes stacked in one corner near the door, and a small flat screen TV—a “welcome home” gift from her parents—stood on top of a card table she optimistically called the dining table.