Gap Year - 21. Chapter 21

February 9, 2004

The Bryant Hotel

New York, NY

 

Will

I was wearing the green suit Karl Lagerfeld had sent me, and I had to admit it looked really good on me. My eyes were the color of a well-fertilized lawn, and the suit matched them perfectly. I had decided to come back here to the hotel after going out last night because I really didn’t want to deal with JJ. It was also convenient, because I’d been able to order room service for breakfast.

Zanie had arrived yesterday, looking as cute as she had when I’d last seen her in England. I had been looking forward to hanging with her and hearing all about the people I knew in England, but she and JJ were too annoying. One of the things they’d evidently bonded over was Absolutely Fabulous, and while I liked that show a lot, those two took it to an extreme. It was like watching them role play with each other as if JJ were Edina and Zanie were Patsy. I grinned slightly, since with the way I was partying here, I was much more like Patsy than Zanie. They were constantly calling each other ‘sweetie darling’ and shit like that. Stef tolerated them with patience, Grand said nothing but his eye twitched a bit when they talked (a sure sign that he was annoyed), but they bugged the shit out of me. I chuckled when I thought how cool it would be to have Darius here, because he’d tell them they were both fucking idiots. I decided it was just as well he wasn’t, because if he did that, JJ would pout and Zanie would act all offended, then Darius would have to hear a lecture about being nice to people who were staying with us.

I took one more look at my hair to make sure it looked good enough that I could avoid being suddenly sent off for emergency salon care, then strolled into the main suite. I found Stef sitting at his desk working on something, while Tom sat on the sofa. “Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning,” he responded. “I was worried you would not be chipper this morning.”

“I did much better last night,” I said. “I didn’t get drunk, and I didn’t fuck anyone.”

“I am not sure that is better,” he said, making me chuckle. “I would like you to do me a favor.”

“What do you need?”

“I would like you to take this to Chanel and hand it to Karl Lagerfeld,” he said, handing me the envelope in the enormously expensive stationery he and Grand used.

“What is it?” I asked. He gave me a sour look for prying. “Look, I just want to know if this is something I guard with my life, or a more casual note.”

“Let us assume it is somewhere in between the two,” he said. I rolled my eyes at that. “Chanel is located on 57^th street. The car will pick you up out front.”

“Got it,” I said, then grabbed my coat, and walked out the door. It was awesome to have rooms at this hotel since that meant I just had to walk across the street to be at the show. Bryant Park was a beehive of activity, with people running around doing shit, trucks delivering stuff, and shows being prepped. The weather was sunny today, but it was still fucking cold. It had to be actually freezing. It was kind of a pain in the ass to go up to 57^th street when all the action was in front of me, but whatever.

The trip uptown was painless enough. The car picked me up in front of the hotel and dropped me off in front of the big building that housed the Chanel fashion empire. I left my coat since I only had to make it from the car to the front door and braved the cold for that brief exposure.

I got in the elevator, zipped up to the floor noted on the directory, and exited into an incredibly tasteful lobby, just as one would expect. “May I help you?” asked a receptionist who could also easily be a supermodel.

“My name is Will Schluter, and I’m here to deliver an envelope to Karl Lagerfeld,” I said crisply, remembering that New Yorkers often didn’t like to waste time over pleasantries.

“I can deliver that for you,” she said, holding out her hand.

“I was told to deliver it personally,” I said, getting an annoyed look in return. “I think he’s expecting me.”

“Have a seat and I’ll check,” she said, and picked up her phone to dismiss me. I took a seat and waited patiently. I couldn’t blame her for the attitude. There must be tons of people who tried to bluff their way past this reception desk.

A young man walked up to the receptionist, who gestured at me, causing him to approach me. He was very attractive, and very short. I could probably pick him up and throw him across the room, he looked that slight. “Good morning, Mr. Schluter. I am Edouard, one of Mr. Lagerfeld’s assistants.” He had a decided French accent.

I stood up and shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said in French, getting a smile from him.

“How wonderful that you speak French!” he said. “Mr. Lagerfeld asked me to show you around while he finishes up a few things.”

“That sounds good to me,” I said, continuing our conversation in French. He led me past the reception area and into a room that had people working on various things, some working with fabrics or other materials while others seemed to be doing more sketching.

“This is our design center,” he said, then got very serious. “You must promise not to reveal anything you see in here.” I almost rolled my eyes at him acting like this was the fucking Pentagon.

“I promise,” I said. We walked through and talked to some people, and the stuff they were working on was really cool. “I figured that everyone would be more panicked with the show on.”

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “They are working on the ready-to-wear show, which is not for another month or so. Chanel debuts it’s fall line in Paris.” That last statement was said with considerable arrogance.

“I understand,” I said. I also understood now why JJ fit into this world so well, with its exaggerated idea of its own importance and its overall arrogance.

An amazingly hot redheaded woman walked by, turning both of our heads and prompting Edouard to leer at me. “I am assuming you would like to see the models? We are preparing them for the ready-to-wear show.” It was interesting, based on my conversation with Stef, to note that this guy had pegged me as a straight guy focused on women.

“But of course,” I said. He led me to another room, and as soon as he opened the door, we were treated to the sounds of an irate man yelling. I took in the scene quickly, shocked at the vignette in front of me. A man who was about the same size as Edouard was staring up at Johnny Falco, screaming at him and jabbing his finger into his chest.

“Perhaps we should come back later,” Edouard said, embarrassed, but I didn’t move.

“Because you were late, designers, costumers, make-up artists, and everyone else were kept idle!” the little man shouted. It was barely possible to determine his French accent, even though he was so agitated.

“I’m sorry,” Johnny Falco said. He sounded and looked terrified. “It was only 15 minutes.”

“15 minutes!?” the little man shrieked. “Do you know how much 15 minutes costs Chanel? Do you not understand that time is money?”

“I am really sorry,” Johnny said. “It won’t happen again.”

“So you say,” he said with a sneer. “You are so stupid that the wall has more brain power than you do! Can you even tell time? What time is it?” Johnny made to look at his watch, but the man grabbed his wrist. “What is this? What kind of thing is this?”

“It’s my watch,” Johnny said.

“I see it is digital, which must be so much easier for you,” he said sarcastically. I glanced around the room and saw about 10 other people, all standing there saying and doing nothing while this tyrant ranted. I hated bullying, and I really hated it when people were allowed to do it in public like this. I felt my anger burn through all or my normal restraints.

I walked up to him, ignoring Edouard who grabbed at my arm to stop me. “You know, yelling, like you’re doing, is a form of abuse.” If anything, my intervention terrified Johnny even more.

He glared at me, blinking in surprise. “Who are you to come in here and tell me how to do my job?” he said to me. “Someone have security remove this idiot.” That comment was directed to the room in general.

“If you were beating someone with a stick, I would intervene then too,” I said to him. “Bullying is bullying.”

“Ass-sucking American pig,” he said loudly, but in French. I briefly thought that his insults were largely on the mark, since I was American, and I did like ass, but I wasn’t a pig.

I reached out, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, picked him up and slammed him against the solid structural wall behind him. “Do not call me a pig,” I said in French. He looked nervous at that. “You owe me an apology!” I demanded, shifting back to English.

“I owe you nothing,” he spat back.

“No?” I asked, pushing him harder against the wall with my body, freeing up my right hand. “How about if I pound your face into mush.”

He swallowed. “Security will be here any moment.”

“Really, asshole? I don’t see anyone rushing for a phone. Doesn’t look like any of these people like you enough to help you out. That’s pretty sad, don’t you think?” He looked stunned. “So now it’s just you and me and my fist.”

He swallowed hard. “I am sorry I called you a pig.”

“Are you afraid?” I asked menacingly. “Are you?”

“Please put me down,” he said, all but admitting that he was.

I let him down and brushed off his lapels in a courteous way. “The fear you felt, that’s the way people feel when you yell at them,” I said. “So stop doing that.”

“I think that is good advice,” I heard Karl Lagerfeld say as he breezed into the main area. “This is a very intense business, but there is no need to abuse people.”

“I did not mean to upset him,” the little man said.

“No?” I asked in a taunting way. “I think you did. There are other ways to motivate people.”

Karl looked so aloof it was almost surreal. He looked at Johnny. “I will give you another chance,” then shifted his gaze to the other man. “Both of you.”

I felt the need to change the subject. “Good morning,” I said to Lagerfeld pleasantly in French and gave him faux kisses on the cheek, as if I hadn’t just created a major scene at his company. “Edouard has been showing me around and even let me see some of your new secret designs. I am not surprised that they are impressive.”

Lagerfeld smiled. “That suit looks wonderful on you, just as I knew it would. Come with me.” I winked at Johnny Falco then followed Lagerfeld through the hallways of Chanel, trailed by his minions, until we got to his office.

“I am sorry I disrupted your business,” I said, referring to the scene he’d witnessed.

“Others sometimes see things that I do not, and for that I am glad,” he said. “Besides, I am so easily bored, it is exciting to have some spice added to my life.”

I laughed. “You and Stefan are much alike in that way, although I think sometimes the drama in our family is even a little too intense for him.”

He laughed. “Then that is saying something.”

“He asked me to deliver this to you,” I said, handing him the envelope.

“You have executed the task perfectly,” he said.

I knew he was busy, so I smiled and gave him a French farewell, with faux kisses on each cheek. “I will see you later.”

“I think I will be the one looking for you,” he flirted. I smiled and walked out of his office, and since Edouard was gone, I found my way back to the reception areas and out to the elevators.

I pushed the button and the elevator arrived, and just as I was about to get on, I heard Johnny Falco say “wait!”.

“I’ll catch the next one,” I said to the annoyed people in the elevator, who had evidently stopped at this floor for no reason, then turned back to face Johnny.

“Sorry,” he said. When our eyes met, it was like I really looked at him for the first time. He wasn’t handsome, he was pretty. His voice was deep with that melodic nasal sound teenage guys have. He had a rounded nose that was slightly pulled up at the bottom, really full lips, and dark hair that looked windblown on purpose. He was a little shorter than me, at around 6’1, and had an amazing body. It was easy to see the ripples in his abs pushing through the shirt he was wearing.

“Dude, you’re fucking gorgeous,” I blurted out.

He could have made me feel like an idiot for that line, but he smiled instead. “That’s why I’m a fucking model.” That cracked me up.

“And they say models aren’t smart,” I said. “Busted another stereotype.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m pretty fucking stupid.”

“I’m gonna pretend you’re not,” I said, getting some game back.

“I just wanted to thank you for what you did in there,” he said sincerely. “It may cost me this gig, but it was really fucking cool. I owe you one.”

“I know just how you can repay me,” I said with a leer, but instead of laughing, he got all pissed off.

“That gets really old,” he said, and looked like he was going to throw a tantrum or something.

“What, people asking you out for lunch?” I asked innocently. He blinked in surprise, then frowned, then shook his head.

“Let me grab my coat,” he said. While he was doing that, I buzzed the driver to tell him to pick me up. I was glad I didn’t hit the elevator button right away because it took Johnny ten minutes before he got back. “Ready,” he announced.

We got on the elevator and ignored the other people in our car. “So where do you want to go for lunch? You can go anywhere you want.”

“Anywhere?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Anywhere,” I said.

“Even if it’s super expensive?” he asked.

“Anywhere,” I replied.

“Anywhere,” he mused.

“He said anywhere,” a gruff old guy in the elevator said. “What are you? Deaf?” That was hilarious, and I started laughing, and so did most of the other people in the elevator. The door dinged and we walked out.

I was kind of surprised that Johnny was so concerned about money, but maybe it was because he may not have known who I was. The only time I’d seen him before was when I’d been working with Patrick. I’d ridden up here in a regular limo, but I found JJ’s Maybach waiting for me. This was a definite upgrade from the car that had brought me here. The driver recognized us and got out to open the door, which usually bothered me, but this time it was cool because it impressed Johnny. I went around to the other side and let myself in. “Holy shit, this is like the nicest car ever,” he said. He actually was a lot like Patrick, in that his diction was smooth and silky until he let his guard down. For Patrick, that meant letting the Alabama boy come out, but for Johnny, that meant a hard-core New York accent, one I’m guessing was from Brooklyn.

“It’s a Maybach,” I said. “So where are we going to eat?”

He leaned forward and gave the driver an address, then kicked back and ran his hands across the soft leather seats. “It’s a surprise.”

“Awesome,” I said.

“Man, I was worried about you paying for lunch, but shit, not if you can afford this,” he said.

“I told you anywhere,” I said.

“So what’s your deal?” he asked. “I mean, when I met you at the Spring show you were Patrick’s intern, and probably fucking him.” He chuckled at that.

“I was his intern, and he was fucking me,” I said, getting surprised raised eyebrows from him.

“Yeah, but here you are in the nicest fucking limo I’ve ever seen, you threaten Guy Georges with damn near death and get away with it, and Karl Lagerfeld obviously likes you,” he said.

“You ever heard of Stefan Schluter?” I asked.

“Who hasn’t,” he said. “Dude owns Mode.”

“He’s my grandfather,” I said, and watched the lightbulbs go off as he got it.

“Then what the fuck were you doing interning for Patrick?” he asked.

“He asked me to come out for his show, and I wanted to help out,” I said. “Turned out to be fun.”

“If you say so,” he said a little bitterly. “Looked like bullshit work to me.”

“Dealing with all the models, who are notorious divas?” I asked, gently slamming him. “It was actually fun.”

He nodded. “You were cool. Most people are like that dude, all panicked and annoying, but you were actually helpful.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Good to know.” There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation, so I filled the gap by showing him the cool features of the Maybach. I looked outside and noticed we were going over the Queensborough bridge.

He followed my eyes and simply said “Brooklyn,” as if I didn’t at least know that much. Once we got over the bridge, the Maybach cruised through some nice neighborhoods and pulled up to a little restaurant, one with a sign that I couldn’t quite read because it was in some foreign language. It looked like one of those small places that you found in big cities.

“What is this?” I asked. He got out of the car before the driver could open the door, while I did the same and followed him toward the restaurant.

“Welcome to Greenpoint,” he said. “The Polish heart of New York.”

“Polish?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, looking at me like I was an idiot. “Falco is Polish.”

“Cool,” I said. “I’ve never eaten Polish food.”

“This is my uncle’s restaurant,” he said. “It’s good.”

We walked in and it was really nice: It was trendy but still managed to seem old world. “Johnny,” the dude at the front said, with almost no expression in his voice. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties.

“Hey Joe,” Johnny said just as passively. “Need a table for two.”

“Take your pick,” he said casually. Johnny led me to a booth that was in the back and secluded.

“Good choice,” I said, as I sat down across from him. The dude put menus in front of us and left.

“That’s my cousin,” Johnny said. “He hates me.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s ugly and I’m not,” he said, making me chuckle. Joe wasn’t ugly, just an average dude. “Nah, it’s because I been living with my grandma, or at least I was.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“She died a couple of weeks ago,” he said, and got teary eyed.

“I’m sorry,” I said sympathetically. “That sucks.”

“My parents moved to Westchester County a couple of years ago, but I didn’t want to go all the way the fuck out there,” he said. “I grew up here. I wanted to stay here. So my grandma let me move in with her.”

“Sounds like a pretty cool lady,” I said.

“She was,” he said. “Anyway, my dad and his two brothers want to sell the house and pocket the cash, only she left a letter saying she wanted me to have it.”

“So that’s why they hate you? Because you’re trying to steal their house?” I asked, smiling.

“That’s why,” he said. “So to get back at me, the other uncle who’s in charge made me move out. That means I get to live out in fucking Westchester County, and commute into the city because everything I do is here.”

“Is that why you were late?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I can’t get the hang of the time, the time it takes to get here.”

“Dude, you better,” I said. “You got lucky today, but you’ve already got a reputation for that.”

“For what?” he asked. I was becoming convinced pretty fast that the other rumor was true too and that he really wasn’t all that smart.

“For being late,” I said. “They’ll stop hiring you if you don’t get your shit together.”

“No they won’t,” he said, grinning. “They love my ‘magnum’ look.” He made a face like that Zoolander dude in the movie, cracking me up.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna save your ass,” I said.

A big man, both in height and girth, seemed to suddenly appear and cast a big shadow over our table. “Hey Johnny,” he said coldly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“This is my friend, Will Schluter,” he said. “This is my Uncle Ted.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said politely, as I stood up and shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you too,” he said, and seemed surprised that I’d made that gesture.

“Will asked me out to lunch and told me I had to pick the best restaurant in the city,” Johnny said. “That’s why we’re here.”

That made Ted smile, which was pretty cool. “You made the right choice.” He turned to focus on me. “We’ll take good care of you.” If I were mildly paranoid, I might have thought that was some mob term that meant they’d get rid of me, but I went with it.

“Awesome,” I said, then waited for him to wander off. “Why the fuck did you want to come here?”

“Pisses them off,” he said. “And forces them to be nice to me.”

“Alright,” I said, shaking my head. He smiled slightly and stared at me, and I felt myself falling into his beautiful eyes. “Your eyes are incredible.”

“Dude, stop it,” he said. That surprised me. “Stop hitting on me.”

“I’m not hitting on you,” I said instinctively, even though I kind of was. “I was just looking at you and they pulled me in.”

“You weren’t hitting on me?” he challenged. A waiter came and took our drink order and told us about specials, so that gave me time to think.

“Alright, even if I was, why would that bother you?” I asked. “I mean, am I that hideous?”

“No, but you’re that fucking stupid,” he said, pissing me off a bit. “Everyone tries to get my clothes off. Fucking everyone. Girls want me to fuck them, and so do most of the guys. Some are just happy if I let them blow me.”

“Why does it bother you when I do it, if everyone else does it?” I asked.

“Because I thought you were different,” he said. “The way you stood up to Guy Georges and slammed him up against the wall. That shit is pretty rare in the fashion industry.”

“Yeah, I guess that doesn’t happen all the time,” I said, chuckling. It dawned on me that he was paying me a pretty big compliment. He was saying, teen to teen, that he respected me being a badass and that he wanted to be my bud, not a hot boy toy. “I hit on you to show you that I think you’re hot and that I like you.”

“Yeah, well thanks a fucking lot,” he said bitterly. “Everyone thinks I’m hot, and I am. Only they don’t just want to compliment me, they want to get my clothes off. To them, I’m just a whore. I’m pretty, and my body is for fucking sale.” I was pretty sure he was exaggerating this big time, but his reaction may be caused partly by the deal with Patrick, and that made me calm my ass down and be more compassionate.

“Does it have to be that way?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It just seems that way.”

“Dude, if you don’t want to fuck someone, don’t fuck them,” I said.

“Yeah, well that’s easy for you to say, Mr. Maybach,” he snapped back. “If I don’t model, then I end up doing dishes at a place like this like most of my loser cousins.”

“You’re selling yourself short,” I said. He almost growled at me. “Seriously. You’re good. It’s more than just your looks. I’ve seen you on the runway. It’s how you move, how you work it, and how clothes look so fantastic on you.”

“Thanks,” he said grudgingly.

“If you want my advice…”

He cut me off. “I don’t.”

“Too fucking bad,” I said. “You should focus more on being on time, and learn to say no to people you don’t want to be with.”

“Like that’s easy,” he said.

“Sure it is,” I said. “You just say ‘no’.”

“Sometimes that doesn’t work,” he blurted out, and for a brief moment I saw the pain in his eyes, only to be replaced by annoyance that he’d let that slip out.

“Like with Patrick,” I said, afflicted with the same inability to control my stream of consciousness that he’d just had. He stared at me in shock, then pulled himself together when our salads got there.

He waited for the waitress to vanish, then looked almost enraged. “What the fuck do you know about that?” he asked loudly.

“Keep your fucking voice down,” I said firmly, then smiled. “I don’t want to have to slam you against the wall.”

He rolled his eyes at me, to say ‘as if’, and as ripped as he was, if we fought, it would probably be damn close. “You two are tight. He must have told you all about that. About how I led him on, all but threw myself at him, then acted like a wounded pussy afterward.”

“He told me about it because it was relevant,” I said.

“How is him raping me relevant to you in any way?” and once again seemed annoyed that he’d actually said that. I decided to come back to that later and talk about the relevancy issue.

“Because he was blowing me off, and he finally told me that he couldn’t be seen around me because I’m under 18,” I said.

“You are?” he asked, surprised.

“I turn 18 in September,” I told him.

“You seem older,” he said, as if evaluating me. “Nice clothes help.”

“They do,” I said, and opened my jacket to show him the inscription from Lagerfeld.

“Did you have to fuck him for that?” he asked, in a cocky way.

“No,” I said, shaking my head casually. “I just flirted with him and made him think I wanted to.”

“Would you? Would you fuck Karl Lagerfeld?” he asked, chuckling.

I thought about it for a second. “Yeah, I probably would. He’s so fucking witty and smart, and such a sage.”

“I can see that,” he said, pondering it. Our entrée came, and that interrupted our conversation. I decided to go back to the deal with Patrick after the waitress left.

“You said Patrick raped you? Is that what happened?” I asked. He gave me a really fowl look, only on him, it came out as a model expression, and almost made me laugh.

“You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened,” he said, getting really agitated. “I went over to his place. I knew he was into me, so yeah, I figured he’d hit on me. I thought it over, and decided that he was hot, and I liked him, and I’d let him blow me, or I’d fuck him if that would make him happy.”

“Another beer?” the waitress asked, making me wonder how much she’d overheard.

“Yeah,” I said, more to get her to leave.

“He was fitting these pants and had his hands all over my ass, which I’ll admit was pretty hot. I took the pants off so he could mark them better, or so he said, and I was boning big time. He grabbed my dick, and we started making out,” he said, then paused to take a drink.

“So far it sounds like a porno,” I said, with a combination of sympathy and humor that fortunately worked. He smiled a bit then went on, lowering his voice even further, so no one would hear him.

“So we did shit, and he had me face down on the bed and was rimming me and playing with my ass. Felt so fucking good,” he said, making me super horny. “Next thing I know, he’s lying on top of me, and his dick is probing my hole. I told him I didn’t want him to fuck me, but he told me I’d love it. I told him no again, and he said he was just going to push in a little bit. I’d never done that, so I thought I’d see what it was like, so I relaxed. Only instead of just a little bit, he jammed the whole thing in, and he went so fucking slow it was like he was trying to prolong the pain.”

“I’m not trying to defend him here,” I said, “but going slow is actually normal, so it isn’t painful.”

“Well it didn’t work, because it fucking hurt,” he spat bitterly. “After a few minutes, it was like I blacked out, I mean, not that I passed out or anything, but it’s like I was detached from my body. So he pounded my ass, and while he was causing me all that pain, he kept murmuring shit in my ear, about how hot I was.”

When he said that, I totally felt like shit. No wonder my bullshit flirting attempts bugged him so much. “I’m sorry about hitting on you,” I said.

“That’s not your deal, and I shouldn’t have gone off on you about it,” he said.

“No, now I understand,” I said firmly. “So what happened then?”

“He shot a massive load in my ass, or at least that’s what he said,” Johnny said. “Looked that way when he took the condom off.”

“I mean what did you do afterward?”

“Called him an asshole and got dressed as fast as I could,” he said. “I could tell that he got what he did, and I could see how afraid he was. So I told him that he’d just fucking raped me, and he’d get to hear from my lawyer about it. He totally freaked out, dropping on his knees and apologizing, begging me not to do anything. I just left. I was so done with it.”

“Wow,” I said. “At least there’s one good thing about it. At least you didn’t actually enjoy it.”

“Oh great,” he said. “It’s better because I didn’t have any fun, because I felt like there was a hot poker up my ass, and because every time I take a shit, I think about it.”

“When it almost happened to me, I liked it,” I said, even as I cringed.

“Dude, you’re fucking super-rich,” he said. “How could someone get past your guards to do that to you?” And so I told him all about my abduction in Paris, and my experience with Berto in Rome.