New York City, New York
Spring 2015
All outside of The Briarbourne appeared as still and calm as could be for a building nestled in the heart of the never-ceasing, constantly bustling city.
A steady stream of mustard-yellow taxicabs skidded by, with the occasional one sliding slickly to a halt by the curb at the frantic hailing of yet another passenger.
Perched just outside the gleaming glass and bronze revolving doors, a valet lingered lazily at his post, eyes downcast at the mobile device he had hidden from view behind his podium, scrolling rapidly through post after post of tedious nonsense.
Taking advantage of the lull that fell between breakfast and the noontime lunch rush.
Or so he thought...
From the bumper to bumper traffic, punctuated by the errant, impatient horn blare and swear word, a car emerged. A pristine cotton candy pink Audi, setting on twenty-four inch chrome rims polished to a mirror-like finish.
Alas, the work of the lowly car-parker was never done.
Setting his smartphone aside, he squared his shoulders, rounding the podium and approaching the vehicle, as the driver's door popped open.
And a black, chunky, high-heeled boot, laden with silver chains, studs and grommets met the pavement.
Unfolding from the luxury vehicle, was a tall, willowy young woman.
She was not of the 'ladies who lunch' archetype.
No...far from it.
By appearances, anyway.
Around her, women in bright, floral dresses, sky-high pumps and conspicuous designer handbags wafted to and fro, like giddy, fluttering butterflies.
If Wednesday Addams had been a Twenty-First Century creation, she was alive and well in the form of Avery Dennings.
Avery, quite striking in her 'alternative' approach, was stunning conventionally in spite of it. She was of a pale, luminescent, porcelain complexion, so white it was astonishing, perhaps blistering to the eye when caught in direct light, and set her far apart from her sun-worshiping and spray-tan obsessed counterparts.
In a decidedly heart-shaped face, pointed of chin, a trifle too wide across the cheeks, her eyes were enormous.
A crisp, clear, haunting shade of grey they were, accented artistically by swipes of graphic liner, giving hints of the once Mod-ish style popularized by Sixties model, Twiggy.
The only hints of color to her, were found in her grooming: lips, plump (possibly enhanced) painted a light, matte shade of pink, a step or so up from her natural lip color.
The barest traces of a coordinating shade barely kissed her cheekbones, blended expertly to the point were is showed as a mere wash on her face.
The only real 'color' to be found on Avery Dennings, outside of her all-black ensemble of a sheer oversized cardigan worn over a matching lace bralette and high-waisted skinny jeans, showing off her reed-slender physique was that of her hair.
Her mane, thick, silken and flowing to the mid-back had had been dyed an unnatural hue to say the least.
Multidimensional, her hair had a base of a dark, grungy purple with varying tones of silver, pewter and slate highlights running throughout.
And in the bright sunlight of that Friday morning, her hair shone and shimmered like that of a brand new dime.
Yes, a jarring look it was, one which caused the poor valet to stagger as he approached her, hand out for the keys to her car, and several passersby did give a double take as they ambled around her.
It was nothing unusual to Avery, for she had grown accustomed to the intrusive attention and at this stage in her life hardly paid it any mind.
She had far more pressing matters she was concerned with; the idle judging of complete strangers mattered little, if any, to her.
The ring, consisting of the automatic fob that controlled all aspects of her car, her house keys and a tiny chrome, articulated skeleton were dropped into the roughened palm of the awaiting man's hand and with a simple nod of acknowledgment, Avery breezed past him the few steps to the revolving door.
It was there she halted, as her pink prize sped away and off into the adjacent lot.
Moist palms pressed the iridescent clutch she held against her bosom, the glazed leather squeaking softly.
She couldn't be a chicken and back out now; why, it'd be unprofessional.
Avery had never before backed out of a meeting with a potential client and she wasn't going to allow today to be the first.
Too much was riding on this to turn coward.
Besdies, yellow was an unbecoming color on her.
Taking a deep breath, she tossed her hair in abject defiance of her own nerves, and pushed her way through the door of The Briarbourne.
The Briarbourne, one of the premier eateries in the City was usually full to capacity, with a line out the door, but as Avery had caught it at just the right nick of time, the atmosphere was much calmer, quieter and laid-back.
A much welcomed change from the constant rush that was Avery Denning's life.
The interior, a dimly lit yet warm space filled with industrial accents of unpainted brick, exposed beams and dark woods came across as inviting, if a bit too masculine for Avery's tastes.
But 'interior decorator' was not in any way a part of her job description.
Upon seeing the mostly vacant bar decided a drink was exactly what she needed to sooth her frayed nerves and help her get her head back on straight.
Sitting there, nursing a Cucumber Melon Mojito, Avery shivered at her good fortune.
For the last ten years of her life, Avery, a Fashion Institute of Technology dropout, had been scraping by, doing her very best to try to achieve her dream of becoming a 'big name' fashion stylist, much like her idol Rachel Zoe.
All Avery could dream about, while running here and yonder, dressing and coiffing people no one outside their own personal social circle had likely ever heard of, was one day dressing A-Listers.
Top singers, dancers, actors...even politicians.
People whom actually mattered.
She was sick and tired of kowtowing to X-Listers at best, and dressing them for the most mundane of activities: dates out where one paparazzo for some tabloid rag appeared (if they were lucky) to interviews with podcasts who had but a handful of listeners (again, if they were lucky)
No one of any caliber who could help boost her and advance her to a place where she could at least start trying to move in the right circles and make a better name for herself.
Dressing Lil Wannabe Rapper for a night of bar hopping where he'd get carried—or thrown—out of some sketchy dive just was not cutting it for her anymore, at all.
But now...now Avery had a chance.
A few days earlier she had received an email from a gentleman named Joel Greenbaum, asking if she'd like to take on his client—a musician by the name of Taryll Jackson.
Immediately, bells had begun ringing in Avery's head.
Jackson....Jackson....Jackson....
Could he be?
He couldn't possibly....
Was he really?
One Google search and about a half hour of shill screaming into oblivion,later...
She couldn't believe it.
Taryll was a Jackson.
Nephew of the late King of Pop, Michael Jackson, the largest, most revered musical artist there ever was. (And was still selling millions from Heaven!)
The middle son of Michael's brother Tito, he was a true, of the blood Jackson.
And according to Mr. Greenbaum, Taryll was in need of a stylist as he had a a solo album coming out in about a week and wanted to promote it with a “small, intimate concert for some of his most loyal fans”.
At the time, Avery was reeling.
A scion of the Jackson Family, nay, Dynasty, wanted to make use of her services, when he quite literally could have had the pick of the litter of the fashion industry at his beck and call?
Took a while for her swollen head to deflate and for Avery to come down off her high horse enough to begin research on her charge—of course she accepted the offer.
She'd have to be a damned fool not to.
God didn't hand out blessings like this every day!
Gathering herself and trying to regain the voice she shouted away, Avery returned to the search engine in an effort to glean every bit of information about Taryll Jackson that had ever been set to typeface she could find.
From what she could gather, Taryll had been performing off and on as part of a trio with his two brothers called 3T (they were wildly popular in Europe and starting to gain traction once more in the States after a multi-year hiatus) and started to branch off on his own.
Avery, whom had been expecting Taryll to come across like his famous relatives, was surprised to see that his style was an incredibly relaxed approach to fashion.
Most of the photos she found of him, showed Taryll wearing basic pieces, plain or graphic tees, sweatpants, jeans, hoodies and sneakers.
Tour photos showed him and his brothers performing in baggy tees and pajama pants!
A few days passed where Avery was close to a nervous breakdown...with no true idea of what she could bring to the table as this man seemed set and perfectly happy in his... 'rut'?
Then, thankfully, the previous night, she'd received a short email, from Taryll personally,
“Could we meet for brunch to discuss ideas for clothing for my upcoming show? I'm thinking of going a different direction with my look.”
It was as though the Heavens themselves had parted and angels swooped down singing.
He...was open to new ideas.
That was all the goading Avery needed, her creative mind unleashed.
Following a round of emails cementing date, time and place; there she was.
At The Briarbourne willing every pore on her body not to leak nervous perspiration.
She hoped she could impress Taryll.
Oh she so badly wanted to make a good first impression--
“Hey...could I get the Blood Orange Screwdriver, please? I don't want a table just yet, I'm meeting someone and I'm not sure if she's already here...”
Avery paused mid-sip, her mouth full of muddled cucumbers and top-shelf white rum.
That voice...she knew that voice!
After a solid week of living on black coffee, a few meager hours sleep and viewing every solitary shred of footage she could wring from the World Wide Web—she knew that voice!
The gulp of liquor went down audibly, ears commencing to ring as she watched a highball glass be half filled with ice cubes, poured over with two parts vibrant red-orange juice, squeezed fresh by hand and topped with one part of Grey Goose. As the bartender inserted a swizzle straw and twirled, mixing the beverage, Avery dared let her eyes drift across the polished hardwood.
Her heart rising like a phoenix to her throat.
The only other patron at the bar, as the waning breakfast crowd was dispersed among the tables and booths dotting the eatery, idled, drink placed in hand.
A tall, uniquely handsome gent of the thick-set variety, caught her eye.
Yes...yes...yes...
For the first time, she was seeing him, in the flesh.
The clay she was to mold.
To dress, to style.
By some force beyond her control, Avery began to gravitate towards him.
Grasping the remnants of her Mojito so tightly the glass should have shattered, she neared him, her nostrils perking up to the wisps of bright citrus wafting her way.
No, it wasn't the drink she smelled, it was lemon, mixed with...was it star anise?
She detected a note of the spicy as she sidled up next to him.
Pink pepper, perhaps? Or was it a touch of ginger?
Her trained eye immediately went to his outfit, a force of habit for her.
Hmm...
Somewhere, there was a good body underneath that outfit of slightly baggy, grey Adidas brand sweats worn over a white tee.
His shoes were nice...a luxury label that always left Avery with a twisted tongue.
They were a bold, highlighter yellow and seemed to glow against the neutral colors of the rest of his ensemble.
She silently examined him further.
He was in profile.
He was very good-looking.
Almost too good-looking, if that were possible.
Avery had picked up off the web that he was Black from him father and Latin from his mother, a combination that photos just hadn't lent justice to.
His complexion, smooth, creamy—it was clear he took the utmost care of his skin—was of a deep, rich, bronze hue, which Avery couldn't decide had been God-bestowed, or baked in by the sun, was lovely nonetheless.
The high, intelligent forehead, impeccable cheekbones, little straight, ski-jump nose.
The tender little mou--
Avery stopped and squinted.
What...what the hell?
That hadn't been in any of the pictures she'd seen.
The man had a beard!
While he'd been clean-shaven in all of the photos and footage she'd viewed, he now stood there, rocking a beard!
He'd really grown in some 'chin fur' and no one had thought to alert her to this breaking development.
An immaculate, full beard it was—she's seen so many desolate, patchy ones—and the more she looked at it, the more she realized that indeed it became him.
Dark, as was his hair, trimmed on the sides and left longer on top, trained into neat waves, held in place by what appeared to be pomade; it sparkled under the flourescents.
It was then, as if on cue, his head whipped to the side.
Like he could feel her gaze upon him.
Had she been staring at him that hard?
Avery froze.
Eyes, hazel, flecked with amber and green, ran her up and down, head to toe, returning to her face which, what little color was left had swiftly drained away from.
Masterfully arched brows raised, and that musical, gentle voice questioned,
“Are you Avery? Avery Dennings?”
Dumbly, she felt her head bob.
Speech? What was speech?
The notion had all but vacated her mind in such a presence.
Her tiny, limp hand was enveloped in the much larger, warmer hand, being shaken eagerly.
Friendly.
Those lips parted in the most blindingly white smile she'd ever seen.
“I'm Taryll Jackson! It's so nice to finally meet you!”
* * *
“...here we are: a Spinach-Artichoke Quiche for the lady and Steak—medium-rare—and Scrambled Eggs for the gentleman!”
The waiter declared brightly, as with a flourish, he set the two steaming platters in front of the newly minted pair, seated in a far, lonesome corner.
Away from prying eyes and ears.
“Thank you--”
“Is there anything else I could get you? I see both your drinks need refreshing; same--”
“No...” Avery interrupted politely with shake of her head, “I don't drink while I'm working. Instead of another Mojito...”
Those grey eyes, heavy with false lashes that added drama without making her look like a wayward theatre nerd, swept the beverage menu, still open on the polished marble top of the table.
“...the Tahitian Vanilla Iced Coffee, please.”
“That sounds good,” Taryll, across the booth, in the process of buttering of the complimentary Scallion Cheddar Biscuits, piped up. “I'll take one of those, too.”
With an impish wink, he added jovially,
“No one really drinks until after five, anyway.”
How very wry this man was.
Avery, still a bit shaken at being so close to a direct descendant of a veritable music empire, felt herself smile, more as a reflex of studied and bred manners than truly agreeing.
Also, she wasn't a big drinker.
Creative minds liked little splashes of spirit, not to be doused in it.
A lull fell between them, and unconsciously, Avery traced the crust's edge of her egg pie with a slim finger topped by a long, glossy black, coffin-shaped nail.
Usually she was incredibly outgoing, and exuberant, able to chatter on like a cheerful magpie with seemingly no end in sight.
But, this meeting with Taryll Jackson was different.
There was something about him
Something that made Avery second-guess herself.
Put herself so far in her own head, that she now sat in silence listening to the sound of herself chewing, that of Taryll's cutlery colliding with the china, and the intermittent notes of Muzak piped into the eatery through hidden speakers
For a woman as sure-footed as Avery Dennings, this new, uncharted wash of emotion was unnerving.
Thankfully, her charge broke the impending doom, announcing as he uncapped a bottle of A-1, pouring the rich brown condiment over his pink-centered beef,
“I...I wanted to thank you for agreeing to meet me on such short notice. I'm sure you're very busy here, in one of the fashion Meccas of the world.”
“It was no problem, honestly.”
A chunk of artichoke heart, speared on the end of her fork went to the matte mouth and was chewed on thoughtfully, with her inquiring after an interval,
“I feel like I kind of fly below the radar, so I was very surprised when your manager reached out to me—how did you find out about me?”
Avery relied more on word of mouth than more traditional means of advertisement to garner attention and fresh customers.
(Word of mouth was much easier on her wallet.)
“Well, that's what I wanted” Taryll was dabbing his tender lips with a linen napkin. “I specifically asked for a stylist who wasn't that well-known just yet, but who showed promise. I didn't want who everyone else went to. I'd just end up looking like a cookie-cutter, manufactured clone with no originality of my own.”
As he put the napkin back into his lap, the lights caught and danced off the large, satin-finished, silver skeleton timepiece circling his mildly hairy right wrist.
Breguet...Avery's brow raised as she recognized the watch, which she had only seen in fashion insider periodicals.
Yes, Taryll Jackson was a man of taste.
There was hope.
No, that wasn't right.
Taryll was a Jackson. It was bred into him on a molecular level to be a man of taste, of class.
He was rough around the edges, but it was the details that stood out:the tennis shoes, the watch.
He just needed to be refined, reigned in a bit.
Avery did posses the expertise for such an undertaking.
“...my family, especially my late uncle, is known for their style. They've influenced so many people, including me. I always want to make my family proud, but you know, still be organic to myself. Like, I don't want to be a carbon copy or a look-alike...”
He trailed off, the waiter returning with two large, frosty glasses filled with coffee and cubes, topped with luscious mounds of fluffy whipped cream.
His lips curled impishly.
Light eyes scanning the impossibly pale face, cheeks sucking in as she sipped at her java with a bendy straw.
The clear eyes meeting his.
How interested she appeared.
Was she truly hanging onto his every word?
Taryll laughed suddenly, a sound which Avery was unprepared for and jumped accordingly,
“I guess I'm not exactly answering what you're asking...”
He paused, lifting his glass and completely ignoring the straw sticking from his, audibly gulped the cold, refreshing beverage, a teeny dollop of cream clinging to his upper lip.
With a flash of pink tongue, it was gone, his somewhat aimless soliloquy resuming,
“This is my third solo album, and I wanted it to have a different sound than my previous work... or what I've done with my brothers. Untamed Heartbeat is less pop, more rock, with a touch of EDM and techno. I'm at a different, new stage in my life.”
Another biscuit was buttered, but Taryll was slow to eat it.
About a quarter of the quiche remained on Avery's plate, untouched as she searched his handsome face, trying to harvest some type of understanding, get a idea of the direction in which he wanted to go.
But he was taking the scenic route, that was for sure.
“I wanted a new look--” His beard was indicated with a flick of the wrist.
“I grew my chin hair, which I like--”
“It does suit you!” Avery interjected, noting with a zealous thrill how he smiled fondly at her compliment.
Was she starstruck? Possibly.
Was she attracted? She was getting into that dangerous water quickly.
She downed more coffee in an attempt to calm her nerves.
(A caffeinated to drink to calm nerves, that was a laugh!)
“It took me several months to cultivate my beard” Taryll further explained, cutting a piece of meat ad poking it into his mouth, speaking around the beef as he macerated it with those pearly whites.
“I was, and still am very proud of it; got plenty of compliments on it from my friends and family...then I had the misfortune of going to see my previous stylist. A stylist whom I worked with since my first solo album, and the accompanying tours. Thought he'd be on board with the 'new' Taryll Jackson. Apparently not. He took one look at me and said 'shave it'!”
Avery felt her fragile features contort with horror, the tips of her lashes meeting her brows as her eyes widened in disbelief.
That was a strict no-no in her rule book.
She never told a client what to do; she suggested, so that if there was a disagreement, it left the door open for negotiation until a satisfactory compromise could be reached.
“We went around in circles for about six days, Clayton didn't even want to begin discussing clothing or anything until I shaved...”
The last of his eggs was consumed, with him stifling a burp with his napkin.
“Obviously, my former stylist and I had creative differences and parted ways, or we wouldn't be having this meeting right now, Avery.”
The last scraps of broiled beef disappeared.
“For about a week, I scanned social media, burned through most of my contacts and associates, trying to see if I could pick up and find someone to help me. I wasn't having much luck. No one was really doing the type of style I was looking for ...then I went to my brother's house for dinner.”
Another sip of coffee was taken, an ice cube being crunched.
“When I walked in my brother and his fiancee were arguing. Nothing serious; Taj and Alyce get along too well for that, but they were 'discussing' her hair. Alyce is a natural redhead, which Taj loves, but she was considering dyeing it a different color. So, as they're going back and forth, I look at the laptop where Alyce had pictures she was using to, unsuccessfully,convince Taj, and it was your Instagram page. She really liked your purple hair...”
Avery felt color rushing hotly to her little cheeks and couldn't decide if it were from being flattered that someone in Taryll's inner circle liked her own personal look, or the way his gaze fixed on her, eyes shimmering.
“Can I get you--”
The eager waiter was waved off, Taryll leaning in.
His knuckle brushed her ever reddening cheek as he took a lock of her hair, twirling it around his index finger.
“Is this color just 'purple' or does it have a special name?”
Did he really coo the question or had she imagined it?
That ginger-y aroma played havoc with her nostrils.
Staring down into her lap, where small, white hands began to wring out of general sight, Avery heard herself whisper, throat remarkably tight all of a sudden.
“It's called... 'Smokey Gunmetal Violet'.”
She hoped he didn't notice that she sounded like a bullfrog.
If Taryll had detected the change in her tone, he made no mention of it.
Instead he seemed determined to relay the tale of what had occurred during the meal at his older sibling's house.
“Dinner was a disaster: Taj and Alyce argued the whole time about her hair until she hit him in the forehead with a cloverleaf roll.” Taryll snorted to himself. “And I kept myself occupied, eating my Irish Stew—Alyce is from Donegal—and checking out you 'gram. The way you were styling your clients interested me, because that's the direction I want to move towards. You have a rock-influence, but it's more fluid. Not so much heavy metal but, easier. It isn't vulgar. Fashionable. I see that looking at you.”
A long finger indicated her.
“The way you're dressed, your hair, your makeup....I hope I'm making some sense. It sounded better in my head as I drove up from Manhattan.” He admitted, a wry chuckle escaping him.
“You are...” Avery assured him, picking at the tremendous moonstone ring circling her right middle finger. “...but while you've been circling the airport instead of bringing the plane in, Taryll, I still don't really know what you require my services for. I mean, I know you want me to dress you for your concert, and you'd like a more edgy type of look, but...”
Brow furrowing, her eyes darted up to his swarthy face.
“How would you like to look...like what are your influences? At least what colors would you like? I need a jumping off point.”
She had ideas brewing but wanted to see if they were anywhere near Taryll's frame of mind to ensure they were on the same page.
It was now Taryll's turn, his arched brows coming together, hazel eyes going up to the ceiling, where Avery could almost hear the gears of his brain whirring.
“Like...I want to be comfortable, I basically wear what you see me in right now: sweats, sneakers, maybe jeans, hoodies. But I know it's a show and I have to dress it up some. I want to do little nods to my late uncle and the rest of my family, but I still want to be Taryll, you know? I don't want to come out looking like I'm trying to impersonate my uncle or my father....”
Taryll said more, which was lost on Avery as she looked over his face again.
It was a bit jarring but it was then she realized, Taryll did bear a strong resemblance to Michael Jackson.
He was a bit darker, a bit, hmm, stocky, but yes, the features were there.
The cheekbones, the clefted chin, the ways his brows arched sharply...
She could work with this.
She wanted to work with this.
“...I'm open to color, I'm open to different fabrics. I'm wide open! I just want a professional's input. That special extra touch.”
Hands folded on the tabletop, the coy smile Taryll had been cheerfully wearing, dissolved away into a plain expression of solemnity.
“It's not the 90s anymore. I'm not a kid. I can't go sing in pajama pants—unless its for Anything. The fans would riot if me or my brothers didn't put on the trademark pajama pants performing our biggest hit!”
The unlikely pair, the pop star with glitter in his veins and the softly pastel goth girl shared a hearty laugh.
Consuming the last few forkfuls of her quiche, Avery wondered,
“Is it alright with you, if I take a couple of days to go around to some boutiques and shops so I can compile some options for you?”
“Sure, absolutely!” Across from her, the waved head was bobbing in accord. “I know its all last minute. Might not have been the most professional move from my end, but it is what it is. I just appreciate your help. My manager will email you all the details, my measurements, brands I like—huh?”
As he had spoken, Avery had discreetly opened her clutch and placed an item on the table between them.
A copy of the first album Taryll had released with his siblings as 3T: Brotherhood.
“I....I hope I'm not imposing...” Avery was tripping over her own tongue again. “...but, in the lead up to meeting you, I...I played your music, to try to get an idea of your sound and...well...I really like your music...”
Her face felt very hot and she could only pray that her entire face hadn't gone redder than a beet.
“Would...would it be too much to ask--”
Picking up the CD, Taryll winked at her again.
“Let me hang on to this and I'll get my brothers to autograph it for you too--”
“Oh! Thank you!”
Without a thought, she was so giddy and full of mangled nerves, Avery had grasped on to his hand.
She was flashed that devastating smile once more.
And their eyes, golden hazel and steely grey met.
They shared the gaze a good long moment and the longer it lasted, the more Avery was certain she was going to swoon.
Dink!
Somewhere on Taryll's person came a muted, metallic sound.
Quite reluctantly, the meaty hand slipped from her own and from his pocket, Taryll came up with an iPhone, it's case featuring the logo of the Los Angeles (formerly Brooklyn) Dodgers baseball team.
A quick look at the screen produced a frown, folding his gently androgynous features up like an origami swan.
“Shit.”
Avery's ears tingled at the sound of such a soft, sweet voice uttering such a naughty word in anguish.
“Avery...I'm sorry...” Taryll was rapidly rising to his feet. “I have to go. I completely forgot I had a rehearsal today. My band is...um...”
“I understand, you're very busy and have to promote your album.” Avery tried her best to hide her disappointment, standing also, but staring at her feet sheepishly.
She jumped slightly as Taryll gripped her shoulders, plying them.
Such strong, powerful hands he had.
“I'll see you soon.” His voice was apologetic and Avery found she couldn't look up at him, eyes dropping down to his acid neon shoes.
“Again, thank you.”
Then he was gone, wrangling the waiter to settle up the check.
Avery sank back into her seat, watching from afar as Taryll paid at the bar with a credit card, then advanced out to the valet, to await the return of his vehicle.
Occupied with scribbling his signature, Taryll Jackson was utterly oblivious to the grey eyes tracing his physique.
The broad shoulders, the reasonably chunky mid-section.
The pronounced, meaty backside, legs heavy and defined with muscles.
He had no idea of the fuse he'd lit...or the slow burn it was doing towards an explosion.
* * *
Over the course of the following four days, it seemed a thought was unable to pass through Avery Dennings' mind without being linked to one Taryll Jackson, in some way, shape or form.
Yes, she had taken him on as her very first A-List client, and as such, she'd run all over the city, compiling a selection of options worthy of such a charge.
Sumptuous fabrics, innovative designs, fancy labels with multi-figure price tags began to fill the small living room of her loft apartment.
One had to think as one's client in order to correctly select for them. At least that was the halfhearted mantra Avery continued to repeat to herself endlessly.
Swiftly...swiftly, Avery was beginning to spin out of control.
She may have been dressing the nephew of Michael Jackson, but she took to her task as though she were intending to outfit the late pop supernova himself.
He'd mentored his nephew! He was a chip off the crystal glove.
Of course, Taryll would expect the best of the best.
It was Avery's duty to provide that.
Beyond.
Again and again, Avery found herself in a hellish cycle where she'd discover the 'perfect ' piece and ten minutes later she'd be burning rubber all over for a completely different look.
Armed with a brief dossier containing Taryll's measurements that outlined what 'aspects of his body' he'd rather not have attention drawn to, Avery was a woman possessed.
If she wasn't pulling pieces, she was inquiring about more. The rest of her meager clientele were put on hold; Avery's sole focus was pleasing and impressing Taryll Jackson.
In spite of her very best efforts, she was losing a war with herself.
All too often, she found that her thoughts of her client were straying far from what would have been considered professional.
Flashes of her concise brunch with him would invade her consciousness.
The way his smile had been so dazzling against his tanned, glowing visage.
How his honey-hazel eyes had sparkled, washing over her with keen interest.
His hands....how firmly he;'d held her shoulders.
Had he wanted to hug her, but decided against it at the last moment?
What was sleep?
Avery no longer had a grasp of the concept. Her days spent pounding the pavement; her nights spent pacing the floors of her cramped domicile till all hours.
Usually with Taryll's music providing a backing soundtrack to her mounting madness.
Between 3T's three albums and Taryll's additional solo albums, Avery had a nonstop stream of pop tunes.
Even while actively communicating and musing with her fashion world cohorts, Avery had one bud in her ear, Taryll's flawless tenor serenading her.
Taryll was the last thing on her mind as she drifted to the Land of Nod; the first when she roused from a tragic slumber punctuated by tossing and turning.
Then there was the fateful morning she had awakened, kissing her pillow.
Huskily whispering his name.
Was this love, lust, lunacy?
The boundary between reality and fantasy had become blurred.
Avery was through the looking glass.
This was getting to be too much.
Yet, Avery didn't really want this feeling to leave her.
There was something to this—this silly giggly, giddy feeling.
The goosebumps, the fluttering heart, the chills.
Avery was starting to like it.
Suddenly, it seemed there was a personal element to her shopping.
She shopped for her client's tastes, their likes, their wants.
With Taryll, she was, in a way, creating how she wanted him to look.
To be styled.
Almost as if he were her own, six-foot-tall, Exotic Ken Doll.
Oh, how she enjoyed dreaming of him.
Looking into his swarthy face, those eyes glimmering like citrines, his teeth like polished ivory.
His lips...God..his lips...
She could almost taste those silken, dewy--
“...not the ordinary...anything you wear looks good on you...especially...”
Avery, buried under a certifiable mountain of blankets and comforters stirred, her peaceable slumber shattered by the voice of a close-but-not-quite Michael Jackson sound-alike warbling from her nightstand.
As the ringtone of Debarge's 'You Wear It Well' repeated, a groan emitted from the left side of the bed and after a moment, reluctantly, the small white hand slithered from under the mauve duvet, dragging her phone, in a glittery leopard print case back into the folds.
Accepting the call, the mashed the advice to her ear and half-yawned, half-spoke,
“Hmmmm....Hello?”
That quickly she was starting to doze back off.
Sleep-crusted eyes shot open, a voice on the other end speaking up sprightly,
“Hello? Avery? This is Taryll. I hope I didn't wake you, I know its really early...”
Instantly the covers were kicked aside, the young woman shooting bolt upright in her bed.
“Oh, no...I'm wide awake.” She hastily lied, raking her disheveled hair from her face. “W-what can I do for you?”
He was calling her?
Taryll Jackson was personally calling her?
Not having an assistant or toadie mediate for him?
She wanted to flap up and fly around the loft.
Her heart! Was it going to pound its way right out of her chest?
“...I was just checking in to see if you were able to get some clothes for me to look over? My concert is less than a week away.”
The show was that forthcoming Saturday.
“Yes—yes!” Avery was scrambling to her feet, and to the edge of her bedroom as it overlooked the rest of her living space below. And the overflowing abundance of garments shoes and accessories.
Perhaps she'd gone a bit overboard.
“I found quite a bit, you might be interested in.”
If that wasn't the understatement of the century.
“That's fantastic! I can't wait to see what you selected! Is it possible for you to bring it to my house?”
His house?
“Um...”
Avery looked at the four full racks of clothing, and it dawned on her that so many pieces would never fit into her little Audi.
A horrible sinking feeling took her.
What was she to do if she couldn't transport the merchandise to him?
Her hand shook as she started,
“I'm not sure I have enough space in my car--”
What kind of stylist couldn't move the much needed fashions?
He very well couldn't go onstage naked with a guitar strapped to him!
His name wasn't Flea!
“That's okay! I'll send some people to come get it and set it up here. I'd look it over this morning but I have a meeting in Manhattan to go to. We can catch up this afternoon—say, three-ish? I'll text you the address later; I'm in the middle of traffic now—”
Through the phone a horn was mashed in rapid succession aggressively and away from the receiver,
Taryll's voice changed, dropping several octaves as he barked, annoyed,
“What are you doing? I will beat your meth-head looking ass if you bump my car and I JUST had it detailed too! You're swerving over three lanes, you fucking dumbass! Goddamn idiot! Oh? I got middle fingers too! Look at that! Look! I can do it too! Don't make me pull on the shoulder and get down. I will knock you into Jersey! If it's too cute to drive—PARK IT! Stupid motherfuc--”
With that the call disconnected, leaving a stunned Avery in its wake, her ears tingling
She...had never heard any of his family use that type of language, and to a degree it intrigued her.
The Jackson Family, through the decades had maintained a wholesome, family-friendly, lily-white image.
It was very interesting to hear one, albeit speaking with a mature, cultured, learned voice, slinging profanity around the way his uncle threw Swarovski Crystals.
Peering down at the racks, a chill ran her spine causing her to jerk unwillingly.
The angered tone on the phone had frightened her—she desperately never wanted him to address her in such a fashion.
Taryll Jackson had the power to make or break her career.
And if he screamed at her like he had that careless driver on the Brooklyn Bridge, it'd be all over for her.
Six Hours Later
As promised, less than thirty minutes after Taryll's call, a quartet of men, each in starched jumpsuits with Quality Movers emblazoned across their backs had come knocking.
Almost as quickly as they had arrived, they were gone, along with the dozens of carefully procured items.
Leaving Avery in a dark Hello Kitty nightshirt, and fuzzy slippers, in the middle of the now barren space of her living room.
With only her thoughts and worries to keep her company.
They hung over her like a stray rain cloud that refused to leave her alone.
While she ate her oatmeal with sliced bananas, she worried if she should have tried to include some jewelry options for him, though his dossier clearly stated he only wore a watch and gold chain when he performed.
While she showered, and washed her hair, before setting it on large curlers to air dry, she fretted over the pieces. Were there enough? Too many? Was the price range too low? Too high?
There had never been a mention of a budget, but she didn't want to play too fast and loose with the hand dealt her.
Again and again, the sound of Taryll getting belligerent over the phone came back to haunt her.
She didn't want to cause that reaction.
Would Taryll yell at her? Would he yell at a woman?
No...he wouldn't do that. He was too well-bred for that.
Would she ever have peace again?
Shortly after lunch where she barely picked at a Yoplait yogurt cup, her phone had tinged with a text.
From Taryll, of course, relaying his address to her.
And, of course, he would live on the Upper East Side, a few blocks from Fifth Avenue.
(Where else would such a talented man with a renowned last name be expected to rest his head in the Big Apple at night?)
Slipping behind the wheel of her pink pride and joy, shaky fingers typed the coordinates into her GPS.
Merging into the mangle of metal, fiberglass and rubber that was traffic, Avery, who was not a particularly religious woman, said a prayer and probably shocked a few angels overhead in the process.
And she was off, white-knuckling the steering wheel.
Her heart, or possibly the oatmeal from earlier, a solid lump in her throat.
Over the course of her career, Avery Dennings had ventured to some of the best neighborhoods in both Upper and Lower Manhattan, catering to her wannabe playboys and pretend socialites who knew a guy who knew a guy who's cousin knew someone of actual note.
If she was lucky, the charge's home would be a halfway decent apartment, something akin to her own loft...a few still lived with their parents.
The worst of the worst lived in five and six story walk-ups the size of a crushed sardine can—and she'd had to lug all her wares both ways. (with no help offered whatsoever)
None of them had been as polite or as courteous as Taryll Jackson.
Certainly none had sent over their own people to spare her the trouble of hauling clothes, shoes and other encouragements that made cut fabric into an ensemble.
But again, Taryll Jackson was far from a typical client.
Avery had long ago reached that conclusion, yet the point was once more driven home...when she saw his home.
Driving along, with one ear dedicated to the monotone directions being spit out lifelessly by the GPS, Avery knew she was entering another world the moment she turned onto Taryll Jackson's street.
It was quiet...almost too quiet.
An extreme rarity in the city that never stopped.
But as soon as she turned on the road, Avery, with windows down to look out for the correct address, couldn't help but notice that somehow, someway, the roar less than a block away was dampened, muffled.
She'd never heard such peace!
Also, as she crept along, it was clear, each of the four-story, limestone faced, townhouses were private residences, many with a luxury vehicle displayed from a private, ground level garage.
There it was...
Taryll Jackson's home.
Avery carefully pulled up to the curb, eyes growing in her head.
The home boasted fine Art Nouveau details, particularly over the front door, as it was a wide, sweeping arch with stone swirls, engraved leaves and curlicues.
Directly in the center of the arch was the bust of a woman.
Unconsciously, Avery was out of her pink Audi and wandering up the stone steps onto the alcove that connected to a small terrace that set above the wrought iron door to the garage.
The terrace was crowded with decorative pots of flowers, leaving the air thick with the scent of rose and honeysuckle.
She squinted up at the bust and realized it depicted a woman from the waist up, her full bosom quite prominent.
Glancing down at the black and white tie-dyed silk of the sweatshirt dress covering her, where her bosom, a full B-cup on a good day, made a suggested bump and wondered enviously,
“Does Taryll like his women so...endowed?”
TOOT! TOOT! TOOT!
Avery jumped and spun, the sound of a horn honking behind her.
Pulling into the short driveway, coming to a halt at the shut garage door, was a silver Mercedes G-Wagen, so highly polished, it shone like new money.
Would a Jackson roll in anything less?
Through the deeply tinted windows, she could just make out a hand waving at her.
Weakly, she waved back, the engine shutting off.
It was a long, tense moment for Avery.
Slowly, the door swung...
“...no, I haven't decided which electric guitar to use just yet...”
His voice reached her before she saw him and she shifted nervously from one black, crystal encrusted, Converse low-top to the other.
Watching as Taryll, phone to his ear, slid from the Wagen.
“I have one acoustic guitar, you know that TJ...” He remarked,closing the driver's door with his hip and opening the driver's side passenger door, removing a cherry-red guitar case, his name in black script across it, tossing it lazily by a strap over his shoulder.
The red popped brilliantly against his dark outfit of a black blazer over a v-neck, worn with greyscale camouflage joggers.
Had Avery not been frozen on that concrete stair, positively squeezing the banister so hard she should have left dents behind, her eyes roving the relaxed, yet snappily dressed form ambling towards her.
Still merrily chattering away on his phone, nevermind that he was talking to one of his equally famous siblings, Taryll was oblivious to the way those grey eyes were devouring him as if he were a buffet of delights for all the senses...sight was but one way to enjoy and enrapture oneself in such a creature, such a being, such...a man.
“...I haven't picked an electric guitar yet. I don't even know what I'm wearing yet, Bro—why do you think I hired a stylist?”
Did he wink at her?
Yes, one of those glimmering hazel orbs twitched playfully at her, as it had during their first meeting.
Knees, don't buckle now.
He paused, one foot, this time in a patent black Gucci trainer squeaking light as he mounted the first step.
At once his brow furrowed, his voice dropping octaves that showed he was trying to control the same temper which had waned on him when he'd sank into his bout of road rage earlier.
“...That's neither here nor there TJ...”
He made a few more steps, and Avery swayed, as upwind, she was struck by gingery spiciness of his cologne.
She came crashing back to Earth when Taryll stiffened and screamed into the receiver, his voice cutting the silence of the avenue like a red hot blade,
“THAT'S NOT WHY IN THE HELL I HIRED HER AND YOU KNOW IT--” ,
With Taryll so close to her, she heard it over the rapid, frightened, intrigued pounding of her heart.
Laughter.
Loud, wild, hysterical laughter, as if TJ Jackson had heard the funniest joke ever uttered.
Crying laughter through the phone.
Impatiently Taryll went to prodding the touch screen in an effort to hang up on his sibling, inadvertently turning on the speaker instead.
There was a remarkably loud amused snort, with TJ wheezing,
“...lusting after The Violet-Haired Vixen! A-ha! HAAAAA! WHOOO SHI--”
There was an audible bloop, and the call was disconnected.
Taryll remained on the spot, his nostrils visibly flapping, chest rising and falling as he collected himself.
Avery stared at him, afraid to breathe.
Trying to make sense of what she wasn't supposed to hear.
Was he? Did he? Was his brother just joshing him?
He was staring at her.
There was a nakedness to his face.
As if a grand secret had been unwittingly shared with the party it was meant to be kept away from.
The secret had been shared.
Avery was the party.
TJ...wherever he was, was the pariah for not shutting up a sentence or so sooner.
Yes, Taryll was as disenchanted as a child having learned Santa was but a myth.
He had been stripped, so to speak and laid bare so plainly right there, with no hope for recovery.
Avery squeezed against the railing as Taryll moved past her, unlocking the door to his home.
Disappearing into the foyer.
A moment later that bearded, swarthy face poked out the door.
Peering at her.
And it came crashing back to Avery Dennings that she still had a job to do.
She still had to dress this man for his concert.
The clothes were but a distraction; the mere catalyst of a much larger desire.
For the last three quarters of an hour, Avery had been by her lonesome in the center of Taryll Jackson's living room.
No sooner had the pair passed through the marble swathed foyer, than the master of the maison had excused himself, saying he was taking his guitar to his studio on the top floor.
In his absence, Avery did what she did best.
She had to keep her mind off the intrusive thoughts tying to rampage through it.
The racks of handpicked clothing had been set up in a semi-circle around the coffee table, and Avery immersed herself into arranging outfits for her very first A-Lister.
She still had to impress him and win his favor if he were to become a repeat customer.
There were more than a few (overdue) bills depending on her success.
In no time, ten different outfits consisting of a jacket, shirt, slacks/jeans and shoes had been hung.
And now she sat on her fishnet covered knees, placing a pair of zebra print loafers beneath the final, finished product.
Resting on her heels, she heaved a sigh of relief, her task, for the moment, complete.
Sitting there, on the plush shag area rug, Avery, was for the first time able to take note of her surroundings.
Modern, luxurious, but without pretension...that's what the living room was.
Stunning, but functional.
Avery had seen too many homes that looked as though they belonged in a museum.
Well appointed, but cold, without a touch of personality at all. More as a display of egregious wealth than anything else.
An oftentimes tacky trophy.
At least Taryll seemed to actually do more than change clothes and sleep here.
Just behind the racks, was an unlit hearth of charcoal slate, above which was a large portrait of Taryll with his siblings and father, all in matching black (bespoke?) suits, staring sternly straight ahead, against a stark white backdrop.
Taryll did appear so commanding, so debonair in that portrait, leaning casually against his father.
His siblings flanking them on either side.
Didn't that family age?
All so handsome, and youthful-looking.
Tito seemed more like an extra brother than father to his offspring, so ageless was he.
Climbing to her feet, Avery realized that as with the clothing Taryll seemed to gravitate towards—deep neutrals—he decorated his home.
The walls were a light grey, balancing out the divans and armchairs of a darker shade of crushed velvet with brushed silver and polished chrome end tables and accents.
An abstract crystal ball laden chandelier dangled precariously overhead.
The air was heavy with an herbaceous, woodsy aroma, which as she shuffled around the open space, found was produced by a tremendous scented candle, setting atop a closed black lacquer grand piano.
A open music book revealed that the last song played had been a concerto by Mozart.
Avery stared at the vase in which the candle was housed; it was fine, frosted glass, adored with nude maidens dancing around it.
She didn't know it at the time, but Avery had been faced with a genuine piece of Lalique art glass.
It seemed quite at odds with the rest of the decorations, mostly framed photos of the Jackson family and Taryll from infancy to the modern day.
In his mother and father's arms, taking his first steps, pitching in Little League as a child...coaching Little League as an adult.
According to one photo, his team, The Treacherous Tigers, were regional champs, all posing before a huge golden cup.
For a brief, fleeting second, Avery almost forgot who he was and who his people were.
He was so normal--
Then she saw it.
EEP!
A quivering hand went to her mouth, stifling a squeak of amazement, with her scampering to it, overcome.
Encased in a glass box,atop a white marble pedestal, was a single black fedora.
Avery was without words, as she knew, instantly that the chapeau had belonged to Taryll's Uncle Michael.
The King of Pop.
The greatest artist whom had ever warbled into a microphone.
A piece as well-recognized as the single crystal covered glove that once adorned the star's right hand.
She went to touch the glass, but stopped herself; she didn't want to spoil it with her fingerprints.
Plus, she had no permission to touch anything in that house!
But, Avery had never been so close to such...greatness.
An article that had topped off the body of the most powerful man in entertainment.
Beside the...memorial...was a mirror, that ran from floor to ceiling.
Drawn to it, Avery stood, studying herself.
Her notoriously critical eye taking in every inch. .
TJ Jackson's words resounded in her head.
What he had called her?
“The Violet-Haired Vixen”.
And by the way it had rolled out of his mouth without a hitch, TJ had probably been using that 'term of endearment' for quite a while.
(It was lost on her the wonder that she was even a topic of conversation betwixt them)
How pale Taryll had gone; how his eyes had widened in horror at TJ's blabbering.
She squinted at herself, trying to replay TJ's words exactly.
What he had accused Taryll of?
Lusting after her?
Had it all been brotherly teasing?
No, Taryll certainly hadn't reacted as though it were all a joke.
The way he'd looked so dejected.
The way he'd beat a hasty retreat the moment they entered the house.
Was Taryll Jackson truly attracted to...her?
Lusting?
She fluffed her tresses, cascading around her shoulders like an amethyst waterfall.
She had taken extra time, made the extra effort to make her hair voluminous.
Big,but not too big.
Giving her a somewhat 'come-hither' look.
Yes, she'd worked, but had come together in a way that seemed effortless.
She didn't want him to know she had tried “too hard”.
The multitude of bangles lining her wrists tinkled as she twisted from side to side, preening.
Her style may have been a little to the left, the heavy winged liner, the tiny black heart crystal worn like a beauty mark beneath her eye.
She was pretty, in a soft, haunting sort of way.
Her plump lips, curled, shimmering with a glittery gloss, her self-esteem soaring.
Possibly to the highest it had ever crested.
She was growing to be as vain as a peacock with full plumage.
Why shouldn't he like her?
Perhaps she wasn't a socialite or rock star scion like himself, but Avery had plenty going for her.
She was very attractive, had a pleasant disposition, made her own money—she was no gold-digg--
“GET OFF MY GODDAMN PHONE, TJ!”
Avery's head snapped upwards, startled by the shriek directly above her.
“I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU! OH? HA!—YOU'RE SORRY? SHUT UP! YOU RAN THAT DAMN CRUSTY FLAP LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO AND EMBARASSED THE FUCK OUT OF ME! YOU CALL ME AGAIN, I'M COMING TO PARK SLOPE AND ROCKING YOUR SHIT! TAKE YOUR STALE-ASS APOLOGY AND SHOVE IT! STOP CALLING ME!CALL ME AGAIN! I DARE YOU!I WILL KNOCK THE CURL OUT YOUR HAIR!”
A door slammed, followed by what sounded like heavy objects being thrown about.
Light eyes widened, hand gripping after her throat.
He'd sacked out his own brother like that?
Just how angry was he?
She couldn't recall ever having heard any Jackson speak above a shy whisper.
The walls were practically vibrating in the wake of screams of familial anguish.
Avery wondered, her chest heaving, if Taryll even remembered she was downstairs.
She hesitated a long while, her heart pounding with trepidation, trying to decide if she should venture upstairs to try to find him.
Remind him he still had 'company'.
There were more thuds and a second door slam.
The second one was so had, it caused the chandelier to sway, the lead glass balls clacking against one another.
Curiosity ruling her, Avery was jogging across the floor to the spiral Lucite staircase leading up to the second level.
Feet barely touching the steps as she made her way up, two at a time.
Coming off on a landing, she staggered.
She was face to face with a larger than life-sized portrait of Michael Jackson.
Timidly, she stepped forward, examining it, distracted.
He was dressed simply in a red shirt with a black trench and trousers, his face half hidden with a pair of aviators.
In his hands he held a framed declaration from The Guinness Book of World Records.
At his feet a dozen more declarations had been propped.
Just how many records did he have to his name--
WHAP!
Another door was thrown with such ferocity, the picture rattled in its frame.
Avery braced against the banister, afraid the photo would fall and decimate her on the spot.
Opposite it were Taryll's own achievements, gold and platinum records for his singles and albums.
As he was more popular, overseas, there were a good half dozen accolades from France, Germany and Holland.
There was space near the bottom left, which Avery took to be on reservation for when American awards finally appeared.
(Which was more than long overdue!)
How very modest he was to have it all tucked from sight.
“...hey Taj...”
Through the crack in the door, somewhere Taryll was speaking, his tone now somber, all the hell-fire and brimstone gone.
“...oh, so TJ called you and told you his side already? I figured that slimy snake would do that—no, him being on speaker was my fault, I just upgraded my phone, but still—yeah I'm listening to you Taj...I know he's my brother. That's why I'm not moonwalking on his shriveled throat right now!”
Avery threw herself into Michael's abdomen, to avoid being seen, as Taryll lumbered by the door, phone to his ear,
“...I did hire Avery because I liked her work; the way she styled her other clients, Bro! Bro! Taj—I can't help it if the girl is gorgeous, okay? You've seen her! Alyce stays on her page, coveting her hair color! She is gorgeous! That's what God did! I didn't do it! Taj—damn! I told you I am listening to you! I'm asking your help! HELP ME!”
His voice receded as he moved away, and Avery was left trying to catch her breath.
Head throbbing from the sudden rush of blood to it.
He thought she was gorgeous? And he'd said it as plainly as saying the sky was blue.
Twice.
Hesitation was null and void.
She was emboldened.
Small, sweaty hands gripped the cool wood of door.
Unable to stop herself, Avery crept through the crack.
She had to blink several times in disbelief.
His room!
She was in his bedroom!
It was so massive!
Avery looked about herself in confusion; did his boudoir take up the entire floor?
It appeared so.
She'd never seen the like of it.
Much like the downstairs, the bedroom was dressed lavishly in those steely shades, the hallmark being an incredibly large bed, neatly made with satin pewter sheets and a tone on tone paisley comforter against a quilted headboard.
How else would one expect a Prince of Pop go off to slumber?
On either of the bedside tables flanking it, a pair of what appeared to be Tiffany lamps, and more photos of Taryll's family.
Stepping further in, she found all the curtains, thick velvet whimsically wound around their ornate valances had been shut against the afternoon sun.
Across from the bed, a huge entertainment center surrounded a seventy inch television, displaying a Major League baseball game, muted.
More photos were there for all to see, and a good twenty candles were burning.
Yes, that rich scent was much stronger!
Each in smaller nude-covered vases matching the one on his piano.
On the opposite end of the room was a desk with a computer, its screen-saver the intertwined 3T logo, and several gaming systems as a nearby shelf was overflowing with game cartridges .
Oddly, there was an empty frame of antique silver setting atop what looked like a pile of confetti.
He'd shredded his ex's photograph?
No photos were on the walls , but several abstract, geometric metal sculptures, aside from a mounted guitar, of chrome, his father's name etched directly into it, near the gaming station.
“...it wouldn't have been so bad if I were outside alone, but she was right there! Like two feet in front of me! Right on the steps! Heard everything!”
Taryll spoke out from behind her, and Avery nearly broke her own ankles twirling around.
Another door stood wide open, revealing Taryll's huge walk-in closet.
Without a clue he was being eavesdropped upon, Taryll knelt, cleaning up a mountain of multicolored sneakers and dress shoes.
Placing them back into coordinating pairs and placing the pairs into empty cubbyholes.
Was that the noise she'd heard?
“... I feel like a jackass...” He lamented woefully. “I told her I was putting my guitar away. That was over an hour ago, Taj! She's downstairs waiting on me. I have to go back down there. We have an appointment! I really do need to pick my outfit for the show—but...”
He sighed and threw his head back.
At the same time, a leopard print docksider took flight, launched so far it went from sight in the depths of the changing room.
Had he been a pitcher in his younger days?
Another shoe sailed away, and she decided he had.
“I don't even know if I'm her type!”
That took the wind out her sails for sure.
He was as nervous as she?
Worried? Insecure?
It was crazy to imagine him that way.
Was he her type?
How could he not be her type? That delightful build? Those arresting eyes? The charming way he smiled...
“...well, I looked all over her Instagram, but I didn't see her outright say she had a boyfriend...”
Avery lurched at the news he'd been lurking her page, to find out her relationship status.
As she lurched, she bumped the desk, knocking the screensaver off.
It took everything in her not to scream.
On the screen was her social media page!
Good Lord! He'd been lurking that very day!
Oh, she was going to faint!
“...she works with all these people. I sat with her, talked to her; she was nice , friendly, had this way about her...I don't know. I got a vibe off her. A good vibe, Taj. I hope I'm not wrong, again. I just have had a bad run with women lately. The last four girls I dated...you saw what happened...they hurt me. I'd get really into a girl, start to fall in love and then its over. She'd cheat or pull away or whatever. Then I'm up all night, walking the floors. Can't sleep. Maybe I fall too hard, too fast.. ”
Hands gripped to her bosom, Avery was inching closer to the door.
All she wanted was to hold him, stroke his hair, assure him she wasn't like the others.
She'd never been unfaithful, couldn't fathom ever being.
Especially not to Taryll.
His pain....she could almost feel his pain.
His shattered heart—she wanted to mend it.
Pick the pieces up, put them back together.
“...I already know I'm going overboard with Avery...but I can't help myself...” He confessed and Avery leaned against the door frame, heart in her throat.
“I want her at my show, not as my stylist, but, you know...I'm going to ask her to the show, and the after party...I had a VIP pass made up for her. She gave me a CD for us sign...”
Avery was swirling. She couldn't take it.
“I just want respect and love, Taj. I just want that. I want to have a woman to love and have her love me back. Maybe I'm crazy, but something about Avery just speaks to me. How she looked at me, laughed at my jokes, it was nice. Having that kind of interaction. I feel like I'll miss big time if I let her go. I'm tired of going places alone. I really want to have someone in my life, Taj. You and TJ have someone—You've got Alyce, TJ's dumbass has Gabriella. Why not me? Why not me? It's just so hard for me to get the courage for the first move. You know me! I know how I feel—it's all in my guts about her! I hope I'm not wrong! But I know one thing: I want...her!”
On the last word, Taryll Jackson's voice broke, phone falling to the floor as his hands came to his face.
Faintly she could hear Taj shouting his name over the receiver.
Avery could only watch, her own eyes going misty, as this strong, powerful, strapping man crouched further forward on his knees, shoulders quaking as he wept silently.
Avery wanted to go to him, hold him, caress him.
Heal all of his hurts.
Taryll remained in that position for a few minutes, Avery unsure if she needed to make herself known.
She only knew her heart was breaking for him.
She...she had no idea of his pain.
There hadn't been an inkling of it—he'd been so upbeat.
Cheerful.
“I....I gotta go Taj...”
His voice was so small, defeated.
She snapped back to life as Taryll started to lie on the floor beside his phone.
“She's waiting for me...I can't keep her waiting like this. It's rude...”
Avery was a blur, frightened she'd be found out for listening in on so private a moment, hauled ass as fast as her little legs could carry her.
If she were seen....God help her!
Making it back to the living room in record time, she hurdled completely over the coffee table, crash landing onto the couch, sinking deeply into the cushions.
She manged to pull herself into a quasi-natural position, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, right as Taryll came off the stairs.
His head was lowered—he couldn't even make eye contact with her—his hands gripped in front of him as he scuttled towards her.
“I'm sorry I was away so long. I had a couple of phone calls I had to take.” He apologized, voice softer than ever.
The marble-and-chrome-faced bar along a side wall was indicated with a flick of the wrist
“Care for a drink?”
“Uh--”
Before she could answer, he chuckled tersely,
“Right...you don't drink while you're working.”
She felt herself smiling at him remembering her little remark.
He had taken notice of the little things.
She was warm all over.
“That's correct--”
“Do you mind if I have a nip of something?”
Did he know she knew his secrets?
Was there a tactful way to bring it up without making herself look like a plundering snoop?
“Not at all...” Avery ran a hand through her hair. “This is your home. If you're uncomfortable here, is it really a home?”
It was a corny line for sure.
Though his head remained down, she could make out him grinning, the white of his teeth glowing, as he moved towards the bar.
Where a squat tumbler was placed
Avery's jaw grazed the floor as the glass was summarily filled to the brim with gin, a single cube of ice tossed in as an afterthought.
Taryll threw the liquor back like it was water, not coming up for air until all that remained was the cube.
Frankly she was surprised he was still in the upright position after such a hedonistic display!
Hot damn, he was filling the glass a second time!
As Taryll ambled towards her, Avery drew back.
If he'd tried to mask the fact he had been crying, he had done a poor job.
His eyes, as well as his nose were quite red, his cheeks damp.
“Would...” Avery was twisting her hands so hard in her lap they were bruising.
A lump formed in her own throat, as she struggled to keep herself in check.
She wanted to jump up and embrace him. Her arms were practically aching for him
Damn professionalism!
She couldn't blow this!
Stuttering, her voice hoarse, she squeaked out,
“W-w-would you like to look over what, I, ahem, picked for you? Try on something? There's ten--”
“Why don't you show me your favorite outfit.” Taryll interrupted, setting his glass on the coffee table, proceeding to shrug out of his blazer.
Revealing a clingy black tee.
The blazer was thrown carelessly across the back of the nearest armchair.
Avery stared a moment, watching him sit, as the shirt clung to him, leaving very little to the imagination as she clearly made out every bump and ripple to his upper torso.
He wasn't fat, very far from it
There was the slightest touch of...chub...thickness to him
Avery did like her men with a little extra padding—it was more to hold onto when needed.
He'd called her gorgeous? He was gorgeous himself!
Legs quaking, Avery rose, crossing the room to the racks.
Swick...Swick...Swick...
She'd had an ensemble in mind but had wanted to build up to it with tamer options.
Taryll eliminated that curse of action right off the bat.
But she had a job to do, no matter how cold and clammy her hands were or how blurry her vision had become.
Carefully she picked up a hanger, from which an extravagant jacket was suspended.
Avery could hardly bear to look in Taryll's direction.
What if he didn't like it?
Was it too far outside the box for him?
Would her career be ruined?
Focusing on the garment, she recited, robotically,
“Here is a piece from the House of Chandol's collection for Fall/Winter 2015. Chandol is an up and coming designer from Dubai. He's a favorite of anyone who's anybody in Dubai. As you can see the jacket is made of a glazed oil slick leather.”
Moving her hand underneath she manipulated it,demonstrating how the black leather shone with shades of chartreuse, plum and gilt
Treating himself to another deep sip of the quality booze, Taryll spoke around the rim of the tumbler,
“And what made you choose this for me?” There was a mild teasing to Taryll's voice.
Her head dropped, looking to the outfit topper like it was the most interesting thing on Earth.
His eyes...still reddened, were so very piercing.
It was like he could stare through her with those magnificent orbs.
“I liked it, because it's flashy, and I thought it would look good onstage. Especially under the lights. It'd compliment your olive complexion, the greens and golds in your eyes. It's a nod to your Uncle Michael because some of his most iconic looks were leather jackets—Thriller, Beat It, Billie Jean, Bad. But it's not a knock-off of any of those. It's a Taryll jacket. Plus, your entire family is well known for their style. You should be too. ”
In her comfort zone, Avery added, voice a bit stronger,
“If you look, you'll see its cut and seamed in a way to make your shoulders look very broad—they already are—while tapering down on the waist, giving a slimmer appearance. I thought it would be complimentary to ….your...build...”
A shadow fell across her, causing her statement to choke off.
Taryll stood directly in front of her, feeling the sleeve of the jacket.
Why were his fingers so long?
So deft—yes, he was a guitarist.
“And what would you have me wear the jacket with? What is you vision for Taryll Jackson?”
He questioned, voice losing an octave and throwing a chill through Avery.
Turning to the rack, she countered, weaker than a newborn chick,
“Why do you trust me so implicitly, Taryll?”
She could feel him behind her.
Her hair moved with his breaths,
“Is there any reason why I shouldn't, Avery?”
Through her hair, his hands laid themselves on her slim shoulders.
Kneading them.
Shutting her eyes, her entire body trembled.
His grasp so powerful, yet gentle.
Assertive, yet lenient.
After an interval, she managed,
“Are...are we still talking about your concert outfit?”
His hands slid down to her biceps and with a light tug, he pulled her back against his warm body.
She could feel his heart racing and hers beating in tandem.
What he said next fairly knocked the carefully teased poof from her hair.
Leaning, his breaths smelled of the luxury gin.
“I know you were in my room while I was talking to Taj—your shoes squeak. You may not notice the sound, but I did.”
Eyes flying open, her mind ceased function and dumbly she tried to sputter a reply.
Fired, she was going to be fired!
He knew she was there?
Maybe if she started crying, he'd go easier on her.
And not drop kick her into poverty.
Her jaw came unglued with a frenzied wail,
“OH! I'm—I'm so sorry Taryll! I was just looking for you! I didn't mean to intrude--”
A hand, loud with cologne covered mouth, silencing her.
With just enough grip to put the fear of God into her.
“What would you have me wear with the jacket, Avery?”
He repeated, voice slightly louder than before, yet still in a deeper register.
Her own hands were visibly shaking.
“Um...” She mumbled tentatively under his grasp, seeing stars as he pulled his hand away, fingertips caressing her lips ever so gently.
Avery was assaulted by a wave of wanton heat, which overwhelmed her so viciously, she should have erupted in flames.
It was a definitive struggle to keep herself upright, as she wanted to sink to the floor squealing like a stuck hog.
It was clear Taryll intended to loom over her, his breaths continued to muss and blow her hair about, watching to see what she selected.
If the outfits hadn't already been arranged, Avery would have been lost, her mind had shut down so swiftly and completely, she could hardly link a coherent sentence.
A chill lit her spine, large hands going into her silken, silvery-purple tresses, with him massaging her scalp lightly.
“I'm waiting...”
Swick...Swick...Swick...
“Please...” If Avery didn't put some modicum of space between them, she couldn't trust that she would be able to keep up her professional, ladylike facade for much longer.
Was it his intent to drive her beyond the brink?
Was he truly trying to blur these very rigid lines?
Begrudgingly, Taryll did release her, taking a step back and allowing her to approach the racks alone.
“As...as it seems you gravitate towards more neutrals, from what I can gather...ahem...”
Out of her peripherals, she saw him draw up beside her, arms crossed, listening.
She was thanking her lucky stars that she had practiced her “speeches” for every outfit beforehand the previous night.
“I...pulled a black silk shirt, but it has gold studding all along the front to go along with the...the leather jacket. A pair of plain black jeans, but excellent quality—all from Chandol. And underneath, you see there's a pair of sneakers, with uppers in the same fabric as the...”
She trailed off curiously.
His eyes were fixed very obviously on her bosom, fairly bouncing as she struggled to regulate her breathing under such pressure.
“...the jacket.”
The glossed mouth snapped shut, and she could only look on as, very openly, without a shred of shame, Taryll's eyes drifted down, over her to her shoes, flicking for a moment to the gold shoes, made in the style of Vans, then back up to her colorless, doe-eyed face.
“If you think this is what I should wear to my concert, then I'll wear it.”
Came the solemn, measured response and Avery was left reeling.
A hand clapped to her forehead with such force it glowed red for a second.
“You...want this outfit? Don't you want to look at the others?”
But..there were so many other options!
“...nope...” Taryll shook his head in the negative. “I told you, I trust your vision, Avery...also...”
He was invading her space, trapping her between himself and the rack.
“I've kept you here for much too long...I'm sure you have other places to be this evening.
Other clients to take care of. ”
His mouth may have been calmly speaking, but his eyes were pleading.
Giving him away as they had out on the steps.
He didn't want her to go.
Was she really reading him correctly?
“I...I don't....I cleared my schedule....for you...”
She whispered, her heart flying between her spine and sternum so hard the bones should have been reduced to a fine powder.
He picked up one of the shoes, twisting it back and forth in his hands.
Watching the colors change freely.
Impishly, Taryll sucked in his bottom lip, giving him the look of a mischievous child.
He was so devilishly handsome.
“Tell me something, Avery, as I'm not too familiar with how your end of being a stylist works.”
Through his beard, he stroked after his chin thoughtfully.
“I know you get paid a flat fee for styling me, but do you also get some type of commission based on what pieces you sell to me?”
“Well...”
He was twirling a locker of her silvery-lavender hair around his fingers.
“I...I do get a percentage...as it counts as 'advertisement' when you or someone else purchases and wears certain brands. To have it on a noteworthy person--”
“I'll take everything you've brought in.”
Avery's ears were ringing like she had the worst case of tinnitus ever diagnosed.
Had she heard him correctly?
Everything? He wanted everything?
She had never worked with anyone who so easily took every single piece.
He hadn't even looked at every single piece!
She squinted at him, as if that would make her hearing and comprehension any better.
Taryll moseyed over to the coffee table, back to her, and resumed sipping his gin.
Was he drunk?
“Are you absolutely sure--”
“I need you to get me one more outfit, Avery. I know its short notice, but if there's a rush fee or something, I'll cover it.” He spoke over his shoulder at her.
Jaw dropping slightly, as his concert was less than a week away, Avery, struggling with the two halves of herself, one wanting to leap onto his back and kiss him about the ears, while the other tried to keep her sanity in check.
There was something there. She knew it. She could feel it.
He'd been hemming and hawing around it.
Hell, he'd admitted it and knew she knew it.
“What else do you need?”
She was again inching towards him, drawn like a magnet to red-hot metal.
A long finger was dragged around the rim of the glass, producing a dull tone.
“I'd like a black dress...something clingy, sexy, but tasteful. Maybe off the shoulders...and some high heels.”
“A dress?” Avery repeated and stopped cold in her tracks, the gravity of his words slapping her.
It all clicked.
“For me?”
“Yeah—oof!”
Taryll stumbled, as with the boundaries finally rubbed away to nothing, Avery rushed forward, embracing him from behind tightly.
She lost herself completely, pressing to him, feeling his strong, plump glutes against her, her hands running across his pecs and abdomen.
Her lips tickling the backs of his ears, starting to glow redder with each ensuing peck.
The glass in Taryll's hand fell to the carpet, without breaking, the last swallow of liquor leaking out.
Avery winced slightly, his hand crushing her bicep as he wrenched her around to face him.
There was a new, fresh, vibrant wildness to his eyes.
Those large, strong hands cradling her face.
His gorgeous visage, cheeks scarlet, coming closer and closer.
His upturned nose collided with herself a second before his lips did.
Lips, tender, soft, tasting faintly of the gin mashed hers so perfectly.
Muscular arms wrapped her reed-like frame, and Avery was melting against him, her nails digging into his shoulders.
Lips continuing to move across each other, his tongue slipping in and out at intermittent intervals, each forcing her weakened legs to sag.
She never hit the floor; he was holding her.
Would he ever let her go?
She never wanted to be out of his arms.
How had she lived, breathed, existed before being in his arms?
Slowly...slowly, their lips parted, staggered, ragged breaths puffing back and forth.
Avery was squeezed to him, resting her chin on his shoulder.
Trying to force her poor, withered brain to accept that this was reality, and not another of her fevered fantasies.
That yes, Taryll was attracted to her.
Yes, he wanted her.
Yes—he had kissed her!
Rubbing her cheek against his she delighted iv the tickle of his beard on her skin.
The alluring aroma of his cologne.
How terribly she desired him.
And the words had flown her lips.
Breathless, dazed, too infatuated to mask it any longer.
“I want you.”
The eyes turned to green slits in the deeply tanned face, brows raising to the hairline.
“Are...are you sure?” He questioned, as her arms slid around his neck, her embracing him tighter.
“You don't have to...”
Stormy grey eyes met his, the response lowly growled at him.
“Yes.”
Taryll didn't need to be told twice.
The next thing Avery knew Taryll had lifted her legs so they wrapped around his plump midsection, bodily carrying her the Lucite staircase...
* * *
The bedroom was cool, silent, dimmer than before.
The main lights had been switched off, leaving only the warm glow of the twenty-odd candles lining the dark painted shelves.
Avery had been reduced to no more than a pair of low-rise, black mesh panties, the front embroidered with a blush pink rose in full bloom on the front.
The rest of her ensemble, dress, fishnets, sneakers, were scattered along the length of the staircase as the pair had started up before reaching the door to the boudoir.
A tangle of frantic arms, and legs, kisses, mumbled swears.
She should have been cold, standing just beyond the foot of the bed, arms crossed over her bared bosom.
Rather, she was an inferno in danger of leaving scorched carpet beneath her little feet.
As a few inches from her her black, French-tipped toes, was another pile of clothes.
The familiar black tee, camouflage trousers, the Gucci shoes and socks.
Her heart rattled like a tom-tom in her chest.
Somewhere, out of the reaches of the flickers of candle light, Taryll hovered.
She could feel his eyes on her, feel his sheer presence.
Tentatively, she brought a curled finger to her lips, gnawing on it with ever mounting anticipation.
How heated she was—she should have been a pile of smoldering embers.
Her mind recalled Taryll's hands, a few dizzy, dazed moments before, tearing her garments away, throwing them wherever they may fall.
Anxiously, Avery spun in a circle, trying to decipher his delectable form from the shadows.
Where was he? Why did he torture her this way?
Taryll held such power of her, and Avery was eager to do whatever his bidding.
He'd undressed her; his intentions clear as crystal.
Suddenly, a flash of red caught her eye.
Wafting through the air, landing perfectly atop the pile, was a pair of silky briefs.
Avery was faint and clammy as the realization hit her with the force of a speeding freight train.
Somewhere; in extremely close proximity to her, Taryll wore nothing more than his God-given birthday suit!
Oh, she couldn't stand it, chills running the length of her spine with delightful shocks.
His body, that Adonis like form was hers for the taking!
Ever so slightly, the bed shifted with a soft squeak.
A small gasp leaving her lips, Avery stiffened, Taryll's hands gingerly kneading her zealously trembling shoulders.
Gently, so gently, she was pulled back against the plush comforter.
“Are... are you sure you want to do this? I don't want to force you into something you're not comfortable with.” Her murmured hotly, voice barely above a whisper.
Avery's lips took on a churlish curl at this feeble attempt to behave like a civilized gentleman.
Taking hold of those big, strong hands, Avery guided them up and over her small, yet pert breasts.
“I am comfortable...” She purred, head tilting to the side to allow his furred chin to rest upon her shoulder. “...with you.”
“You're so lovely... so beautiful...” Taryll confessed, in between hot smacks delivered along her jawline, with Avery reaching back to rake her nails through his satiny waves.
“Please--”
She was pulled back further and came close to leaping from her skin, her slim backside colliding with a cloud of curls, as she pressed up against him.
Much to her delirious wave of delight, she could feel, in real time, his manhood springing to life and rapid hardness at the touch of her skin.
Taking a seat on the foot of the bed, Taryll, with a single flick of the wrist, had moved all of her lavender-tinged hair off and over her shoulders.
Hands planted firmly on her hips, kisses were showered, delicately, deliberately along her back, each one eliciting more and more aroused shivers from the young woman, her chin pressing her chest, culminating in a low growl of longing.
It was uncertain from whom the growl had come.
It didn't matter; as the noise signified that the lusty pair were beyond the point of no return.
If Taryll kept this up, Avery was surely going to go up in flames.
Her left bicep was gripped, and she was guided around to face her impromptu lover.
She staggered a moment, her legs threatening to give out in the wake of the splendor in which she found herself.
The stunning, bronze body, glimmering with an obvious coating of cocoa butter—how had he found the time to do this?
Avery's breath caught in her windpipe an awed block of desire, the longer her mind took to process that this was no mere hallucination of a hot and bothered mind.
This was reality and she was more than ready to revel in it.
Her actions were no longer her own.
Briefly, Avery was aware of herself kissing Taryll.
His tongue pressing into her mouth gliding along hers.
Her panties being slipped off, and her buttocks being soundly smacked with such force, she jumped a few inches into the air.
Hands continuing to rest upon slim hips, eyes more green than hazel flickered in the candlelight.
Eyes roving her pale, fully exposed form.
There was a slight smug smirk to Taryll's lips, with him looking first to the mounds, fairly glowing in the dimness at him, the areolas a barely perceptible, fleshier pink.
The smirk became a full-on grin, a bemused snort escaping him as his eyes fell past the flat, toned tummy, down, down to the little slit.
Goosebumps of excitement breaking out on the outer lips of which as a long finger came into view.
And poked at the postage stamp sized, trimmed tuft of hair just above it.
“I don't believe it!” Taryll exclaimed more to himself than to Avery, touching at the patch.
“It's...purple! Like your hair!”
Staring down at the dark head, Avery heard herself hiss sexily,
“Well, of course I have to have the carpet match the drapes!”
“I love it...” Taryll intoned, Avery wrapping her arms around his neck, smothering his face in kisses.
“Oh, girl...” He growled, causing more lustful, yearning shivers, her mouth migrating along his cheeks and past his beard.
Over the sparse fur of his chest, between his pecs, growing steadily thicker the deeper she got.
He was so warm, smelled so delicious...how was he possibly real?
Avery soon found herself on her knees, her nails grazing his beefy thighs.
His stomach had gone concave.
Peering up at his face, the scarlet cheeks, the mouth hanging slightly agape.
He was waiting, anticipating her next move.
In that position was there really any need for a guess?
She could feel the smooth, bulbous tip of the engorged shaft bumping the underside of her chin.
Taryll keened as warm, pouted lips mashed the tip, with an audible, peck resounding in the silent room.
“Yes....Yes, Baby...” He cooed, watching at the violet mane spread out over his pubic, mixing with the hair fanning off onto his thighs, the lovely face taking more and more of him, close to a foot of manliness.
“Shit!”
That quickly her face was visible once more, teeth bared at him in reckless abandon, her hands wrapping the meat standing straight up saluting her fully.
Stroking after him.
Under the large mass, his fuzzed, orbicular scrotum bounced hither and to with every jerk.
“You like that?” Avery questioned, tossing her hair back in a lavender arc, electric with the lust of a thousand groupies and more ego than all combined.
Before he could answer, Avery was gobbling him up a second time.
Any inhibitions she may have been harboring, any worries had been cast aside, forgotten, gone with the wind.
Her only focus was the cock she was slowly allowing further and further into her greedily little mouth, delighting in the way her esophagus was stretching in an effort to accommodate all of his incredible girth.
Listening to the soft grunts of ecstasy leeching their way from between Taryll's grit teeth.
He'd fallen completely supine, the paisley fabric clenched in his fists.
His belly, showing the slightest bit of a pleasing pudge, was rippling with every bob of her head on him stating at the swollen, reddened tip, with her sucking as though she were trying to extract his very soul, her lips meeting the perfumed bush at the base of the shaft.
His cologne...was it making her high?
Was it him making her high with passion?
The passion she had repressed for far too long?
“Yes...yes....yes....”
From the bed, Taryll began reciting that single word, almost as a lust-filled mantra.
“...yes...yes...yes...”
It wasn't lost on Avery for a minute that his toes were curling so hard, the joints were popping.
“Ah, Avery!--what are you doing--?” Taryll gasped, flying upright, as a new sensation caught him off guard.
He could only stare, jaw falling even further open as he saw that Avery was no longer running the entirety of his succulent manliness.
Instead, the beautiful heart shaped face, lip gloss slightly smeared, partially obscured by his own willy, clutched firmly in one hand.
The other hand was lifting his sack, puckered lips leaving a smattering of kisses all the flesh, goose-pimples springing forth.
“What are you doing to me?” He wheezed, fingers running through her hair, nails grazing her scalp.
Steely eyes fixed up at him and she spoke into his balls, voice heavy, giving them a playful smack.
“I'm pleasuring you, Taryll.” Her teeth were bared in a sneer. “I always want to pleasure you.”
Again, she went for his mushroom tip.
“Uh-uh!” Taryll head shook rapidly, and with a single jerk of her hair, he'd pulled Avery to her feet.
“Ow--”
He was towering over her, kissing her forehead, hands massaging her little mounds,
“Did I hurt you?” He inquired, eyes sparkling with concern. “I don't want--”
A slim finger was on his lips.
“I like it when it hurts.”
Avery corrected him, watching his eyes widen with aroused glee, and a hand clamped on the back of her neck.
“Like that?”
“Yes—TARYLL!”
The world just managed to clear her mouth as she was thrown forward, her feet leaving the carpet.
Landing square in the middle of the bed.
Thoroughly winding her.
“I like the sound of you saying my name; I want to hear more of it.”
As she struggled to regain her wind, a bronze-yellow blur fell upon her.
* * *
...THA-WICK!...THA-WICK!...THA-WICK!...
Rhythmically, the padded, quilted headboard made contact with the wall immediately behind it, in tandem with the utter chaos erupting from the foot of said bed.
“Ah! Oh! Oh God! OH GOD! Oh!”
Avery gasped through gnarled teeth, burying her face into the cool, slick satin case of the oversized pillow, arms wrapping ever tighter around, in an effort to contain herself in spite of the unceasing thrusts so deliciously assaulting her nether regions.
“Ugh! Yeah! Yeah! That's it! So tight...Ugh! Perfect...!”
While Avery was in somewhat of a kneeling stance, her lily-white backside in the air, and vibrating with every seducing smack of her love's loins Taryll remained on his feet, eyes directly on the slim flesh rapidly turning a deep scarlet as he worked himself against it.
Perfect...yes she was so perfect.
He'd figured it probably from the moment he'd first set his hazel eyes on her, but now, in such an intimate context, it was more apparent than ever.
Her slender lithe body, the softness of her supple dermis, the scent of her perfume in the air.
The way she seemed such a wondrous addition to his room; the way she all but matched the decor with her pale skin, grey eyes and pewter streaked hair.
It was as if Fate had tailor-made Avery for that room.
From conception, she had been destined to be there, in that very moment, with him.
Had God, the Fates or whatever Higher Entity That Be was at work allowed their paths to cross...on purpose?
“Ah! Ah! Taryll! Ah! Oh my—AH! Taryll, please! Ah--”
Avery cried in front of him, both hands balling the bedding savagely.
Again, the word perfect resounded in his head, as he plunged forward into her, producing a sharp cry of pleasure.
She was the perfect fit for him, felt so good, so warm so comfortable to him.
How had he made it thus far in life without her?
Suddenly he pulled back, retreating from her moist depths.
“Uh!” Avery fully collapsed, struggling for her wind.
“Taryll--” She started and was cut off by him laying bodily on her, his surplus weight pushing her down into the cushiony mattress.
“Baby....” He mumbled hotly off into her ear, large hand cupping her pointed chin.
Baby, he'd called her Baby!
She was his Baby!
Slowly, he tilted her head back, directing her face, with a bit of straining towards his.
Her heart skipped a beat as his eyes glowed green as a feline's at her, cheeks scarlet, beads of perspiration rolling down his forehead.
Tongue circling his lips in anticipation.
Avery arched against him, lips mashing hers, nibbling and sucking with abandon.
Caressing the length of her throat, he confessed breathlessly, sucking after the flesh between her neck and shoulder.
“I needed this.”
Silken hair was swept away, Avery giggling as his lips eased behind her earlobe.
Squeezing the pillow tighter, the young woman, nearly overcome and fighting off the naggin in her loins which was rushing her far too soon, Avery turned slightly.
Lust ruling her, she wondered timidly,
“What....what are we?”
The licks tracing her left shoulder blade slowed to a halt,
“What...do you think we are, Avery?” Taryll replied, voice deeper still, a lilt of the curious to his tone.
Slim shoulders rose and fell with uncertainty.
Instantaneously, Avery had been flipped onto her back, Taryll lifting himself just enough so she wasn't crushed by his manly girth.
Taking his time to nestle himself between long legs, his black bush colliding with her purple patch.
Hazel eyes widened and a brow went up as he looked over the pale, inhibited under him.
“You're here with me...you're in my bed...” He spoke slowly, his hips starting to flex once more.
At the sensation of him plowing into her forcing her walls to expand and contract over and over, Avery sighed, falling back against the mattress.
Only to have his hand at her throat, squeezing to garner attention, but not enough to do any true harm.
“Look....look at me...” He whispered, thumb and index twitching over her carotids, and Avery saw stars behind her eyelids. “Look at me!”
It was a struggle but the crystal clear eyes focused on his face, growing ever redder, more sweat rolling down it, soaking into his beard.
Droplets falling off his chin and dampening her heaving little bosom.
“You are here...” Warm breaths went into her mouth. “You are mine. Do you understand?”
The thrusts came harder, swifter....
“Ah! Ah! Yes! YES! Taryll—Ah!” Avery started to scream, the sound muffled, his sweet, delicious mouth obscuring hers.
She was his! He'd claimed her!
What she had carelessly daydreamed about in the back of her mind...was a reality.
As real as he was in that moment.
Every silky, slicked, manly inch of him.
Head sinking down to suck at the strip of skin between her bouncing jiggling bosom.
Still pumping into her, Taryll steadied himself, hands on her hips admiring her.
Sucking earnestly on his bottom lip.
...THA-WICK!...THA-WICK!...THA-WICK!...
Again the headboard was beating against the wall , its contact coming ever faster, faster, faster...
“Taryll--” Avery manged to gasp, tracing his face with her hand and running it down to his wildly heaving belly. “I'm...I'm gonna...”
“I know....shit....” He threw his head back, solidly forcing his back bone into her. “I'm close too....so close....aw....damn it....Oh Girl....Avery....Oh....”
And he was on her, arms wrapping her, pulling her legs around his beef midsection to allow maximum contact.
“AH! AH! AH! TAR—AH! OH! CHRIST! STOP! AH! AH!”
Unable to control herself and the rush that was swiftly heading for her loins, all Avery could do was hug her lover's wet neck and shout off hoarsely into his ear, and hope he wouldn't be deaf in it evermore.
That is, if Taryll could hear her over his own wails of passion.
“Ugh! Ugh! Here it comes! Ugh! Oh! Girl!”
...THA-WICK!...THA-WICK!...THA-WICK!..
And suddenly, the feeling, the intensity, everything she had both been enjoying and battling against for close to an hour finally came rushing over Avery.
Arching herself, she threw her head back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut ,the last thing she saw was Taryll's sweaty face, eyes sparkling and teeth glinting at her.
“I can't....I can't....” Unable to finish her thought, the legs wrapped around his juicy midsection starting to quiver as it seemed not only her body, but her soul was surrendering to this rapture.
“I know Baby...I know.,, me too!” Taryll's voice lower, yet shaky came to her, puffing into her ear as he all but collapsed her, damp bristly cheek pressing hers.
His thrusts were starting to slow, and he hugged her to him tighter.
With one last pitch of his hip, he drew a sharp intake of breath, and Avery could feel his spurts of love flowing.
Pulling him closer, Avery murmured, “Don't ever let me go.”
“I won't....never”
As the pair drifted off into a deep, merry restful slumber...a bright resplendent future waiting when they awoke.
A Few Days Later
“...no...no...the Michael Jackson medley comes after my set of 3T's hits...then it segues into my solo stuff...c'mon guys, we've been rehearsing this for weeks!”
Avery Dennings, whom had been wandering aimlessly along the second level of Club Pyre paused, and leaned lazily against the double chrome plate rails running the length of the level forming a perfect oval above the main stage and dance floor.
A dream...the last few days had been nothing less than a dream for Avery.
She and Taryll had been inseparable.
Morning, noon and night, no matter the time, whenever she looked up, he was there.
Breakfasts at little foreign bistros about town, sitting in on rehearsals for the big show, speedy lunches where Taryll didn't even sit, a hoagie in one hand, the other pointing out buttons to his lighting technician for cues during his performance.
Dinners were informal, intimate affairs where food was delivered to his home,generally starting amicably enough in his dining room and ending with pleasurable romps wherever they pleased.
Avery had had flings, and flings that had become relationships, but nothing had ever moved with such speed as her connection to Taryll Jackson had.
It seemed as soon as there was the understanding of a mutual attraction, they'd become meshed at the hip.
“...it goes from 'Why' into 'Human Nature'...then Rock with You...”
Down below, Taryll was pacing back and forth, the length of the stage, doling out instructions to the four-piece band backing him, and out of the sight, in the wings, the sound and lighting technicians.
They had all been there, all day rehearsing since about ten a.m., for the nine p.m., show.
Taryll, more resplendent than an Oscar statuette was already outfitted in his gold ensemble; the jacket, the shirt, the trousers, the shoes... all looking even ore marvelous than Avery could have hoped.
Hanging off his back by a leather strap was his electric guitar. A custom gold Fender Stratocaster covered in crystals.
Again his hair had been tamed into place with pomade, his poor hairstylist, a tiny Asian man whom had chased him back and forth for two hours, crying out in Japanese in dismay each time Taryll moved.
“We're going to do it again. The doors open in less than an hour...” Taryll was explaining seriously making his way back to center stage and setting his microphone on its stand.
“Thirty-five hundred fans are already living up outside and going around the block. We're going to give those kids their money's worth...”
Still trying to set the mic straight, his head came up, and his gaze found Avery.
With a wiggle of his fingers, he summoned her and watched as the slim figure wearing a black sweatsuit, his name emblazoned in a red heart on the front, Untamed Heartbeat on the back came strolling to just below the stage.
Setting on his knees, he smiled at her a long moment, murmuring,
“Why don't you go on back and slip into your dress, Honey? It's almost show time. Plus I can't wait to see it on you.”
Twisting back and forth sheepishly, Avery giggled in reply,
“I was just waiting for my cue from you to skiddoo--”
She was cut off by his lips pressing hers, fingertips pinching her cheek and her knees shook.
Avery hoped she never lost the feeling of joy, pride and wonderment his kisses brought her.
Leaning back and tapping the tip of his nose playfully she snickered,
“Will you miss me?”
“I'll count the seconds.” Taryll winked standing back up and watching Avery until she disappeared behind the stage.
As the heavy door leading to the dressing rooms, in a blank austere white brick hall, shut after her, Avery could faintly make out the opening beats to The Jackson's song Can You Feel It.
He was doing his Jackson Five/Jackson Tribute again, for about the ninth time.
By now, as party to at least a half dozen rehearsals, Avery knew every word, beat, and cue to Taryll's entire two and a half hour set.
At the end of the hall, Avery found the door, a simple sheet of paper taped to it, her beau's name printed on it and twisted the knob.
Inside the frankly small, cramped room were the bare essentials, a lighted mirror above a small vanity, littered with Taryll's stage makeup, hair care products and an empty can of Rockstar energy drink.
On the back wall was a rolling rack, containing the street clothes Taryll had arrived in—a larger version of the sweats she now wore and a pair of worn Adidas.
Beside it was the bag containing her outfit for the show.
Quickly, Avery was out of her sweats, for a split second in only a flesh toned g-string before the dress was slipped on.
And she danced in front of the mirrors admiring herself.
The dress was off her creamy shoulders, black, with an exposed zipper up the front, showing her figure to perfection.
The same cosmetologist, whom had chased Taryll all over creation had also primped her.
Her lavender locks had been swept up into a sleek, high ponytail, her makeup punctuated by a dark smokey eyes and glossy nude lips, she was stunning.
The look was rounded out by a diamond tennis bracelet and matching studs—courtesy of Taryll, of course—and a pair of T-Strap platform pumps.
A glance at the analog clock mounted above the mirror showed thirty minutes to showtime.
Avery had to haul ass; she had to reach the VIP pit close to center stage, before she'd have to pick her way through a mob.
Leopard phone in hand to flood her 'Gram with photos of her man, she let herself back into the hall, to hurry for the main floo--
“Avery?”
She stopped, on the spot as a new, yet familiar voice called to her.
Turning, she spied a pair of men walking rapidly towards her.
The shorter of the pair, dressed in a black button down and slacks, his rotund face half hidden by a sheet of neat dark braids grinned widely at her.
The taller, in an green satin bomber over pretty much the same outfit, wore a small expression of worry on his chiseled face, wild curly hair bouncing with each step he took.
Momentarily shocked, Avery could only nod as Taryll's brothers, Taj (smiling) and TJ (not) reached her.
“Hey! It's so great finally meet you!” Taj was cordial, sweeping Avery into a bear hug and pecking her cheek. “Taryll's been texting me nonstop about you! You're even prettier in person! I'm Taj!”
“I....I know...” Avery was at once sheepish, his eyes dancing at her. “It's nice to meet you too.”
“Come on.” Taj was looping her arm through his own. “Taryll sent us to get you. Doors will be opening soon. I can't wait for you to meet Alyce! She's dying to meet you and see her your hair in person. That purple is interesting!”
Avery cast a sideways glance to TJ, who had his own phone in hand, pretending to look at it, but by the way his cheeks were scarlet, she could tell he was uncomfortable after such a gaff he'd made.
Wanting to pour salt into the wound, as it was all still too fresh in her mind the way Taryll reacted, she inquired snidely,
“Is Gabriella looking forward to meeting me also...TJ?”
Thick, groomed brows went up in surprise at being directly addressed.
“Uh...yeah....ahem.” He was rubbing his neck and as they reached the door leading back to the main floor of the club, Avery patted is shoulder.
“I'm glad you opened that gaping maw you call a mouth, TJ...”
Behind her Taj stifled a snort.
“...if you hadn't flapped those gums of yours out of turn, I'd have never become Taryll's girlfriend. So those loose lips are good for something.”
With a swift tug, she opened the door, leaving TJ stumbling over his own words, Taj cackling.
“...keep on with the force...Don't Stop...Don't Stop Til You Get Enough...”
Taryll's voice flowed trough the speakers, lights flashing, as he danced back and forth in front of his microphone.
In the VIP Pit, now cordoned off with velvet ropes, two women danced. A pretty petite red head in a blue beaded strapless number, waving freckled arms over her head; the other a beautifully dark Latina in a hot pink bubble dress, moving back and forth, whooping it up, her arms carefully hugged around her very pregnant belly.
“Avery! Hiiiii!” Alyce, strong Irish accent in effect cried with a wave as she and Gabriela took turns hugging her. “I love that hair!”
Above them, Taryll was ripping into the guitar solo breakdown of the song drowning out the women as they cooed over each other.
Taj and TJ stood closer to the edge of the stage, observing with approving nods and smiles.
“...I'm expecting twins next month...” Gabriella, with only a mild Cuban accent was gushing proudly, when something caught Avery's eye.
As Taryll came to the end of his solo, he was supposed to spin and strike a very Michael Jackson-like pose, arm in the air, hand to groin and scream “OW!” into the headset microphone running discreetly from his ear.
Instead he was walk-dancing to the edge of the stage.
“...the doctor says it'll be one of each, we're so excited...”
“You just have to come to the baby shower at the Waldorf!” Alyce chimed with a giggle.
Taryll was staring at TJ.
Avery went to call his name, but it was too late.
“OW!”
The three women shrieked and Taj jumped aside startled, as Taryll kicked, his foot connecting with TJ's shoulder, the youngest of the Jackson siblings leaving the ground, sailing a good ten feet through the air landing in a heap on the lighted dancefloor.
The song immediately came to a screeching halt, the sound of TJ snoring echoing through the venue
“TJ!” Gabriella had her hands in her bob in disbelief, before waddling to his aid.
“Papi? Papi! TJ! Speak to me!”
“Whenever he comes to...” Taryll huffed breathlessly, “...you can tell him I accept his apology now.”
“Holy Hell.” Taj was shaking his head, cruel smile on his lips.
“I'll be in my dressing room till showtime. Someone get him up, the doors just opened. I don't want my fans stepping on him.”
With that, Taryll Jackson jumped down from the stage, took Avery by the hand and swept her away.
The last thing Avery heard, aside from hers and Taryll's raucous laughter, was TJ Jackson cursing a blue streak and demanding a glass of bourbon.
