Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(3)
“I’m serious,” I tell them. “I love dick, true, but I feel like I need . . . I don’t know, a break.”
How do I explain how complex sex is for me? I’ve always compartmentalized it into a purely physical connection. I scratched the itch on my terms, letting men into my body, but allowing no real intimacy. Lately, though, not only has it left me unsatisfied, but it’s left me depressed. Empty. Bleak. Something in me wants more than what I’ve had, but true intimacy is a risk I’m not willing to take.
Not to mention the fear. The last time I had sex . . .
How do I explain to my friends what I don’t fully understand myself? Nothing I’ve been feeling makes sense. And telling them now would be like starting in the middle of a story they’ve never heard before. Maybe I could at least try talking to them about it.
“Whoa.” Billie stares at her phone with her mouth hanging open. “Did we know there’s a Hi, Felicia bitmoji?”
Okay. Maybe not talk to my friends about this.
“Sorry,” she says, sidestepping a construction worker. “What were you saying about swearing off dick, Lo?”
“I think I want to take a sex break.”
Both of them stare at me as we approach the entrance to JPL Maison, the design studio where we work.
“I don’t understand the words that are coming out of your mouth,” Yari finally replies.
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “It feels . . . empty.”
“Then find a bigger dick,” Billie says. “One that’ll fill you up.”
The three of us share a grin in the lobby of the renovated loft which houses our offices.
“I’m serious. I think this”—I gesture to my pelvic area—“needs to be man-free for a while.”
“Remember that time I tried to quit smoking and gnawed through the strap of my purse?” Billie asks. “I feel like that’s how you’ll be if you don’t come on a regular basis. You might also gain ten pounds. I did.”
“Who said anything about not coming?” I ignore Yari’s snort. “I have a diverse and quite capable fleet of vibrators.”
The garage door of the elevator lifts, and we walk onto a floor displaying bolts of vibrant fabric, several tables with seamstresses and sewing machines, and rack after rack of expensive clothing in various stages of completion.
“What about Chase?” Yari says of our boss’s favorite photographer and my latest fuckboi. “He won’t be happy about your little sex break.”
“Already told him, and you’re right. He wasn’t happy.” I snort. “What can I say? I got a golden pussy. It’s a curse.”
They laugh as I knew they would, distracted by the sass I use to cover my confusion. It was that last time having sex with Chase that pushed me to this decision.
“But Chase knows he’s got about as much say over my body as he has over the price of tea in Chinatown,” I continue. “He’ll be fine.”
We climb the iron stairwell to the top floor housing our offices and the conference room. I take my spot at the long table, a slab of repurposed slate unearthed from an old quarry. In every meeting, I sit immediately to the right of Jean Pierre Louis, founding designer of JPL Maison.
Two paths couldn’t have been more unlikely to cross than mine and my boss’s. I stepped in to style a shoot for a friend at the last minute in Atlanta. I wasn’t even officially working in fashion. It was a side hustle to help get me through college. My major at Spelman was business, but I often considered opening my own store or doing something in fashion later.
JP and I hit it off right away. I was the only one who understood his tirade of French when he saw the “blasphemy” of his creation being so poorly styled. I stepped in, fixed the hot mess the stylist had made, and soothed the savage beast with the Louisiana French MiMi taught me. Apparently, it was good enough, because by the end of the day he was telling me dirty jokes in French and offering me a job.
We’ve only gotten closer over the last two years. He recommended that I enroll at FIT, which is not far from the studio. It kicked my ass, getting my associates degree in fashion design while working full-time and often overtime at the atelier, but it was worth it. I’ve been at JP’s right in every meeting for a long time now.
“Wearable wonder,” JP says without preamble, his French accent thick. “That is our theme for this season.”
He gestures for everyone at the table to gather ’round him and his sketch pad. He could design digitally and share it so we all looked on our iPads, but JP is surprisingly old school. His fingers are often smudged with charcoal from his pencils, and the notepad perennially tucked under his arm is always full.
“Feast your eyes,” he says with a dramatic flourish, “on spring.”
Sketch after sketch comes alive with the vivid colors he’s used to articulate the clothes on paper. There are easily a hundred sketches, but only a portion of them will actually make it to the runway for Fashion Week in September.
“All of you know what a purist I am,” JP says. “But, like we always say, fashion is first art, then commerce. And commerce is where Paul comes in.”
Our collective attention turns to Paul, JPL CEO and Billie’s boss/adulterous love interest.
Yari elbows me and we silently mouth bastard to each other.