“So anyway, MIT didn’t pan out. And I couldn’t be around Steve—not with the lifestyle I knew I was heading into so I could stay on my papa’s good side at least for a little longer. Not exactly a healthy situation, and definitely less than legal.”
I frowned. “Steve never mentioned any of this.”
“I’m not sure he knew exactly how bright my flame burned for him, ya know?” Frankie winked. “Anyway, as if he was gonna tell his five-year-old sister he was best friends with the gay son of the local mob boss.” His voice lightened with humor. “And that’s enough with the reminiscing. Time to get down to business.”
Frankie effectively ended the personal conversation, and I commenced explaining my photo shoot and editorial pitch revolving around a uniquely themed wedding.
“I was scanning the Style section of your local newspaper, The Post and Courier, when I came across your name linked with”—I flipped through my notes—“Coletrane Sawyer and his marriage to the socialite and philanthropist Sinclair Chatham. So I did a little more digging.”
“I know all about the digging,” Frankie muttered, a wicked half-smile on his face.
I probably didn’t want to pursue that line of questioning, so I hastened on. “And I found out he’s connected to the motorcycle club, Presidents of Retribution. I just thought it was fascinating—and I believe the fashion world would as well—this mesh between the gritty street style of an MC and the highest standard of bespoke tailoring.”
“Ya done did your footwork, Jaworski.” He dipped his head in my direction. “Good deal.”
“Motorcycles are so today. My editor loved this idea, and she doesn’t love anything.”
“I hear that.”
“I hoped it was something you could get behind.” I eased back on the sofa as the last knots of tension melted from my shoulders.
“As you know I only do menswear,” Frankie informed me. “But we have to decide the bridal gowns early on because they’ll set the overall tone we’re goin’ for.”
“I suggest Vivienne Westwood. She’s edgy and unconventional but still exudes elegance. I think her touch will complement the biker chic we want to project.”
“Yeah.” Frankie stroked his chin. “Maybe. What about John Galliano?”
“He’s out of the picture after the last fiasco he was in.”
“Nicholas Ghesquiere?”
“He’s with Louis Vuitton now,” I said. “Perhaps we can ask?”
“Nah. Let’s stick with Westwood,” Frankie decided. “That way we can plan on the guys. And first things first, I ain’t hiring any male models. You can get the female ones if you want. But I want the dudes from Retribution MC to model the suits. And Josh Stone. Local mechanic. Hottest fucking stud.”
I started to shake my head, but Frankie stopped me immediately. “It’s the Retribution guys, or the deal is off,” he said with finality in his voice.
“Can I at least see them before I totally agree? I have to sell this idea to my editor, you know.”
Frankie picked up a remote lying on the coffee table. After he pressed a series of buttons, a part of the wall slid open to reveal a 60-inch flat screen TV. Taking his iPhone from his pocket, Frankie went to his One Drive and started clicking on photos.
“That’s Josh Stone. Nicky Love you already know.” Frankie identified the men as they appeared on screen. “Then the Retribution members. VP Brodie, Prez Boomer, those two are Nicky Love’s brothers-in-law. And Hunter, Kinkaid, Bo, Coletrane, Handsome, Tail.”
He rattled off more names, but I got lost. The men were so good looking; quite frankly, they put many male models to shame.
Frankie noted my reaction. “That ass on Josh Stone. M’I right?”
I fanned myself with my sketchbook, completely lost within the carousel of pics rotating on the TV. In full color.
“Hey, Jaworski.” He snapped his fingers. “D’I put you in a sexy-dude-induced coma or what?”
I softly cleared my throat and dragged my gaze from their images. “They’ve got the job. We need them to sign off on it though.”
“No worries. I’ve helped save a few of their asses, so they owe me. We got this in the bag.”
“I want them to wear all leather, including the groom, but his will be white or at least beige. The groomsmen can wear black.”
Frankie nodded. “That’s doable. But, all the brides get motorcycle escorts. Six of ’em, three on each side. They’ll be in leather too.”
I hesitantly agreed. “But not black leather—let’s stay within the color scheme of the wedding. As long as they have the MC club logo on the back of their jackets.”
“Are you trying to get in good with big man Boomer? He’ll frickin’ love that idea.”
“I don’t even know Boomer.” I sighed.
What I wouldn’t give to know Boomer Steele.
Frankie chuckled from low in his chest.
I snapped back to attention. “I was just thinking it’s the only time the MC can show their colors without clashing with whatever the theme of the wedding will be. And if it makes their president happy, added bonus.”
