So Wrong

By January Rowe

Design assistant Kendra is thrilled when she snags a side gig creating concert outfits for Ford, a mysterious singer. Though intrigued by his sweet nature, she knows she must resist. A relationship just isn’t part of her five year plan. She has important goals, and zero time for a romance with a flighty, flakey performer.

He is so wrong. Why does he feel so right?

Laid back, semi-slob Ford can’t figure out why he’s spending every waking moment thinking about Kendra. The designer is not his type: too driven, too ambitious. Besides, fashion is only for snooty, superficial people.

She is so wrong. Why does she feel so right?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight
• Release date: Dec 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9780369504944

Book preview

Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2021 January Rowe

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0494-4

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Jessica Ruth

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

For Charles

SO WRONG

January Rowe

Copyright © 2021

Chapter One

Ford attempted to stretch out the stiffness in his neck and shoulders while he drove. The sign on I-40, just past Barstow, announced Next Services 140 Miles. The megalopolis of Los Angeles had trailed off into the desert quickly. In a couple of hours he’d be back home in Needles, talking to his dad. Then he could finally breathe. He floored the engine.

It took exactly an hour and forty minutes to get to Needles. His dad’s place, and his childhood home, was a small, one-story stucco house on an acre of land. Ford parked his square Honda in the driveway behind his father’s classic mint-colored Chevy 3100 pickup. His father had never liked his Honda. Never would. The Element wasn’t vintage; and worst of all, it wasn’t even American. But it was perfect for dragging around his music equipment.

Ford’s cell chirped. Yet another call. He’d been flooded with calls the entire drive, and he’d ignored them all. Finally looking at his call log, he noticed all the calls were from his manager, Martin Strayer. Ford listened to the last message. Martin asked him to come into the office on Monday to pick an assistant from one of three possible hires. Ford laughed. He needed an assistant to choose an assistant. He’d listen to the rest of Martin’s messages later.

His life might be hectic, but at least he was making music, and that’s what really counted.

Leaving his phone in his car, he hopped out. Heat blasted him. September, and it was still in the nineties. Gotta love desert living. Raking his unruly brown hair back from his eyes, he headed into his dad’s four-car detached garage.

His father made his living doing body work and spent his weekends restoring classic cars. His body shop, on old Highway 66, was famous in three states. The man loved cars—American cars, anyway. Ford’s friends used to tease him, saying his dad had named him after the car.

But Ford was just his nickname. His real name was Stanford, chosen by his mother. She’d thought Stanford sounded upper class and might be her boy’s ticket out of small-town Needles. Ford’s mother had bounced the place when he was a baby. She’d up and left, never to be heard from again.

His dad’s garage was bigger than the house, smelling of paint and rust, crammed with old cars in various states of repair. His father was sanding his latest prize, a 1971 Cutlass Supreme.

Dad! Ford yelled over the din.

His father looked up and turned off the sander. Hey. He directed Ford to another sander. Make yourself useful. Knock off some of that rust on the passenger door, will you?

They both bent to their work, the noise making conversation impossible. As a teenager, he’d spent many evenings and weekends helping his dad on restoration projects. He’d even helped to fix up that pristine truck now parked in the driveway. He wasn’t as passionate about cars as his dad, but he did understand constructing something to be proud of. Making music provided the same reward.

Now it felt good to grind and sand, strangely peaceful, despite the noise. The work was a potent antidote to the drama and turmoil of the music business.

After about an hour of sanding, they headed into the wood-paneled living room to sit on the saggy old couch and drink a couple of beers.

So, his dad said. No Julia?

Ford had completely forgotten that he’d brought Julia with him the last time. Julia was soft and pretty and a talented sax player to boot. But she’d been hell-bent on putting her stamp on him. As in marriage. She’d begged to meet his dad, hoping it would be a stepping-stone to a future together. They did end up having a future. Of a kind. After continuing to be lovers for many months, they ultimately became good friends.

He stayed friends with all of his former girlfriends. It was a point of pride.

Nope, Ford replied. No Julia.

Well, good. Play the field. Have fun.

His father had been saying that for at least ten years. The subtext was this: don’t get your heart broken.

You’re preaching to the choir, Dad.

A man of quiet terseness, his father rarely revealed his emotions, unless it concerned cars. But once, years ago, the man’s mask had slipped when Ford told his father he planned to take the same girl to prom that he’d taken to the homecoming dance. A look of panic and horror had crossed his dad’s face, followed by an attempt to cover it up with a nonchalant nod. His father’s response had rattled Ford back then. What was wrong with asking Rachel to the prom? He liked her. So he took her to prom and had a fantastic time.

I’m done with the 64 1/2, his dad said.

I thought I saw the ’Stang under the tarp. Is that color original to 64 1/2?

You bet. Authentic. I’m planning to take it over to the Long Beach Car Show.

Nice. When’s the show? Ford asked.

His father’s intense blue eyes, so much like his own, twinkled. Next month. Maybe you can make it?

Maybe. I hope so. I’ll be getting ready to go on tour about then. I’ll try to sneak away.

How’s the tour prep going?

It’s a pain. A lot of rehearsing. Meetings. Getting the sound and lighting squared away. Working on stage design. The label even told me I’m supposed to look a certain way when I perform.

They want you to clean up, huh? His father brushed his own close-cropped head. I know a good barber.

Laughing, Ford said, They don’t want me to get a haircut, Dad. They expect me to wear outfits more in line with my ‘Canonical Self’ stage name. Match up more to my music, I guess.

What kind of clothes go with your songs?

Ford shrugged and took a swig of beer. I don’t know what kind of outfit goes with Alt R & B. A sensitive robot getup? A slick, shiny suit? Something dramatic, like a cape? Hmmm. A cape would be interesting. Maybe a kilt? I’d say no to that. Eh, whatever the designer comes up with, I suppose.

Demanding specific concert attire was just another way that the industry was trying to control the image of Canonical Self. Canonical Self Incorporated was what he called it.

A designer even? his dad said. That’s fancy. What does Alt R & B stand for again?

Alternative rhythm and blues. Anyway, I’m not thrilled about wearing a stupid costume, but I suppose I can put up with it as long as I can move and work my board. A cape probably wouldn’t be great for that. Maybe a very short cape. Which would look stupid. But the hardest things I’ve had to do so far are the interviews. I hate them. The label even hired a publicist to drum them up.

His first interview had been disastrous. He’d described his childhood during that one—and accidentally mentioned his mother’s disappearing act. Why had he talked about her? She wasn’t relevant to his life or his music. After that article appeared, random women started writing to his recording label, claiming to be his mother. Why would those women think he needed a mother now, after all those years without one? Bizarre. His manager handled the inquiries, thank goodness.

What’s so bad about interviews? his father asked.

The press is too nosy, Ford replied. No way would he tell his father about the consequences of his first interview. "They’re always trying to figure out who I am. When I give them the real me, it’s not good enough, so they turn Canonical Self into someone they want him to be. One time they actually asked me why I was so ‘distancing and mysterious’. The hell, I’m mysterious! I regret ever talking to them. Either I give them too little information or too much. No matter what, I’ve messed up."

One question discomfited him most of all: why didn’t he sing love songs? Every interviewer wanted an answer to that question, and he always responded with a snooty artiste comment about creative freedom and writing songs about things that moved him at the moment. It was bullshit, but it got the interviewer off his back. Until the next one.

****

Kendra shifted and smoothed the sample dress over the bust form. Sewing the multitude of fussy, feminine tucks in the coarse muslin fabric had been a bear. But finally she’d finished it. As one of a half-dozen design room assistants at the Laurel Reneau design house, she worked in an airy industrial space smelling of coffee and machine oil. Soft classical music played in the background as sewing machines hummed. The rows of sewing machines, ironing boards, and cutting tables were end-capped by female bust forms. The outside wall was lined with racks of paper patterns, hung like clothing. Large windows added to the lighting from the fluorescent lights above.

Taking a step back from the bust form, she noted the armholes in the sample dress were a bit too large. She’d have to tweak the paper pattern and sew a second sample.

When the perfected dress ultimately reached the retail world, it would likely be constructed of a nearly sheer voile in a shade of pink. Pink was the designer’s favorite color. All of Laurel Reneau’s Signature Collection designs were flirty, romantic, and generally pink.

Kendra considered herself lucky to have the job. Even so, she had ambitions beyond being a technical pattern maker. She was well on her way to getting promoted to designer. In fact, one of her collaborative designs, a blazer with a lace overlay and sharp waistline, would be picked up by the design house. The blazer would soon be in all 737 retailers that sold Laurel Reneau’s Signature Collection.

Someday Kendra planned to leave the ubergirly Laurel Reneau design house to launch her own line of menswear. But that would be years away. With a firm nod, she returned to her cutting table to redraft the flat pattern.

At about one, she left the studio to take a lunch break. Every once in awhile she needed to be away from the racket. Leaning against the outside wall of the design house, she munched on a snack bar. Laurel Reneau discouraged employees from taking personal calls at work, so she took a look at her phone now. An odd scowling octopus emoji from her roommate, a What’s up? text from one of her sisters, and a voicemail from an assistant to Martin Strayer of the Martin Strayer Agency. The assistant asked Kendra to please call back at her earliest convenience.

Kendra had no idea who Martin Strayer, or his agency, was. In case the company was associated with Laurel Reneau, she returned the call right then and there. Martin Strayer’s assistant transferred her to Martin.

Thanks for calling me back so soon, Kendra, he said. I’d like to discuss some contract design work with you.

Contract design work? Was that the latest euphemism for industrial espionage? She winced. She wasn’t good at confrontation or even hanging up on people.

Martin Strayer must have taken Kendra’s silence as an invitation to continue: One of my clients is an up-and-coming musician. His name is Canonical Self. Maybe you’ve heard of him?

She made a non-committal sound, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear.

No matter, he said. CS is about to go on tour, and I think he’s way underdressed. That’s where you come in.

So, not industrial espionage. Still, an offer out of the blue made her anxious. She just didn’t believe in serendipity. Serendipity meant no control. And she had to have control.

She lived by her five-year plan. She expected to work another six months as a design room assistant at Laurel Reneau. Then she would get a promotion to senior designer. She’d work as senior designer for another two years. And then she’d launch her own menswear line. Side work for a musician would be a time-sucking detour, derailing her carefully planned future.

He forged ahead. Your designs would dovetail perfectly with CS’s music. Perfectly. Are you interested?

I work for a women’s designer. You know that, right?

I do know that. Thurston Rollo recommended you highly. According to him… Hold on, let me get my notes. Okay. This is how he describes your work: Kendra’s minimalist designs play purity of cut against color. Her leaps of imagination turn craft into art. She would be perfect for CS.

Incredibly flattering!

She’d met Rollo during her first internship. He was now designing funky menswear for Lanvin. Praise from Rollo meant something.

She might be a planner, but she was also human. Listening to Strayer describe her personal design aesthetic like it was important made her feel all warm inside.

Tell me more about the design job.

****

Kendra’s gray tabby greeted her at the door, twining around her ankles.

Missed me, Jasper? she asked as she scratched his rump.

He meowed.

Hey, Kendra, come have some pizza, Kendra’s roommate called out.

Kendra strolled into the living room where Sienna, her lactose-intolerant roommate, sat at the IKEA dining table.