The Zebra Striped Shirt

THE ZEBRA STRIPED SHIRT by CAMERON VALE Jon Ellerman is Master of all he surveys: a successful businessman and millionaire. The one thing he hasn’t learnt to control yet is himself.

Bored on a routine European business trip, he unexpectedly finds himself on a collision course with Danny – the wild, uncontrollable enfant terrible of the Parisian fashion world.

As the fire of attraction is lit, who will step in to stop everything spiralling out of control? If Jon cannot master himself, or Danny, who will?

1. THE ZEBRA-STRIPED SHIRT Left, right, left…

Jon traces an idle finger across the mist of condensation left by his breath on the windowpane, then takes another straight swig from his crystal whisky decanter, gazing glumly through the limousine window at the passing raindrenched streets.

Today is Thursday… so it must be Paris, right? This Grand Tour bollocks is doing my head in. What’s the point of cramming so many cities into the space of three weeks when they all start to look the bloody same after a while? Thank God it’s nearly over…

Resting his forehead against the glass, Jon lets his eyes deliberately defocus—blurring the passing people and buildings, phasing out the claustrophobic clutter and rush of European city life. Cutting out the cold cacophony that has been assaulting his senses since he arrived from the warm, laid-back environs of San Francisco, two and a half weeks ago.

Right, left…

His fingertip automatically moves to form a five-pointed star that he then seals with a circle. A secret sigil of protection invented in childhood, one creative magical solution among many. Tuning out the world just as he used to as a boy, extinguishing what was then unknown, misunderstood, and frightening but is now simply all-too-familiar and wearying.

Jon sighs and takes another long slug of alcohol, guiltily enjoying the slow burning progress of the whisky in his throat and chest, and pushes away the uncomfortable feeling that his drinking has recently been slipping gradually out of his control. Registering the car beginning to slow, he hurriedly erases the star on the window with a swipe of his hand, then shoves the decanter back into the drinks cabinet and pops a mint into his mouth as the limo glides silently up to the ornate front doors of The House of LaRoche.

Come on, Jon, you miserable git. Snap out of it. You’re just bored. Only three days to go, and you’ll be home by the ocean, where the sky is bigger, and it seldom rains, and you can breathe again. At least the shopping’s always good in Paris. Better try to make some effort to appear respectable for the fashionistas…

As Jon steps out of the car, a young, elegant man comes fluttering down the carved stone stairway to greet him.

“Monsieur Ellerman, we are honoured you visit us in person today.

Please, Monsieur LaRoche is waiting for you inside. Come.”

Slipping into business mode, his mask of calm assurance firmly back in place, Jon follows the youth inside, surreptitiously admiring his eloquently long

legs and the sharp cut of his suit. Making a mental note to acquire half a dozen similar suits in various colours if he gets the chance, he eventually finds himself led into a mirrored antechamber, lit on all sides by exquisite, stellar-sparkling chandeliers.

“Monsieur Ellerman, please be so kind as to wait here a moment.

Monsieur LaRoche is putting the finishing touches to the models. He will be with you shortly.”

Jon smiles inwardly as the elegant youth practically bows his way out of the room backwards.

Amazing what a bit of cash can do for you. That little floozy wouldn’t spit on me if I were on fire, if I were skint… Nice legs, mind. Must get his phone number before I leave. Could do with a little local colour tonight. Get me out of this funk I’m in.

Once the door clicks shut and Jon finds himself alone again, he stands for a moment, regarding his reflection in the mirrored wall. A man in his late thirties stares back from the looking-glass world, echoing his tense posture, revealing his confused features. The same long, masculine, aristocratic nose and full, feminine, sensual lips competing for gender precedence on a twinned, tanned face. Shoulder-length, dark brown hair reflects glossy, autumnal light in the chandeliers' glow. Outwardly, a man of success, certainly—beautifully dressed, carefully manicured. Jon can see the evidence for himself that he must be the master of all he surveys…

If only I could feel it.

As he moves away and settles into an overstuffed armchair to wait, a muffled commotion erupts from behind the mirrored door to his left, pulling him out his reverie. Jon strains his ears to hear what’s going on, wishing his excellent formal business French was adequate to the task of deciphering multiple, colloquial voices overlapping to and fro. Finally, a shrill and surprising London accent cuts cleanly through the kerfuffle like scissors through silk.

“Fuck off, mate! I ain’t wearing that! Yer ’avin’ a laugh, ain’tcha?”

Jon chuckles at the comical incongruity of the grating Cockney barrowboy voice exploding in such achingly chic surroundings.

Oh, dear… the models are growing restless. This might be more fun than I thought.

He listens for a moment in growing amusement as a chorus of hushed, French voices supplicate the errant clotheshorse into submission. Eventually, a mirrored door swings open, and a clearly flustered designer steps through, gamely trying to conceal his obvious breathlessness in perfectly accented English.

“Monsieur Ellerman. Delighted. Welcome to The House of LaRoche.

Please, call me Eddy.”

Jon takes in the remnants of panic in the older man’s large, sensitive eyes, the strained pallor of stress on his still boyishly handsome face, and proffers a sympathetic hand.

“Jon. Good to meet you in person at last, Eddy. You having a bit of trouble back there?”

Eddy shakes Jon’s hand limply and rolls his eyes, evidently horrified that his new client has heard everything.

“Forgive me. We have one special model, my current muse, if you will.

He’s delightful most of the time, but a little, how do you say it… skittish, no?”

Jon can’t help but grin at the carefully chosen description.

“You make him sound like a young colt instead of a young man.”

Eddy returns Jon’s smile knowingly, an elegant finger scything forth in affirmation.

“A colt. Yes, this is the perfect analogy. He is very spirited, untamed, difficult to control. Also, wild and beautiful and, such a rare thing in these times, honest as only children and animals can be. He is my new face of LaRoche, make no mistake. But first, we have to… saddle him, no?”

Jon drops his gaze, trying to hide the blush forming on his cheek at the Frenchman’s unwitting innuendo, and mumbles, “Well, I look forward to meeting him. He sounds like something special.”

Eddy takes Jon’s arm and steers him towards the mirrored door.

“Oh, he is, my dear Jon. Most inspiring. You will see. But I must confess I was surprised when we first talked on the telephone that you are English. I expected an American, since your company is registered in San Francisco.”

Jon allows himself to be guided through a bewildering maze of softly lit corridors by the elegantly thin designer.

“No, I was born in England. I emigrated several years ago. My partner Stan is the American half of the business. He’s textile sourcing today, so he sends his apologies that he couldn’t make it. But, he’s keen to meet you. We’re immensely flattered you’ve become a customer. When our mutual friend in St. Petersburg passed on your number, we couldn’t believe it, at first. Stan would love to talk design with you sometime in the next couple of days, if you can spare him the time. We fly back Sunday.”

Eddy smiles conspiratorially. “My dear Jon, I would be delighted. It is always good to meet a fellow artist. I find his creations most stimulating, I must confess. Your partner has a very inventive mind. This is something a fellow designer can appreciate. I look forward to showing you my new collection today. Please tell your partner I would like to meet him very much.”

Jon settles himself on the leather sofa of the viewing room, oblivious to the various black-clad, polo-necked assistants fussing around him bearing champagne and canapés like some bizarre, designer care package SWAT team.

Wonder what this new muse with the foul mouth looks like? Sounded common as muck to me. A right old Billingsgate fishwife. Odd choice for a

designer as aesthetically sensitive as Eddy LaRoche. Possible that something’s been lost in translation, but I can’t believe his inspirational muse is so special when he comes fitted with a voice like that…

As the first model appears through the velvet curtain at the end of the room and prowls towards him, Jon automatically tunes out Eddy’s whispered, obsequious descriptions of cut and cloth.

Jon doesn’t need to be sold anything. He has an eye for detail and has always prided himself on knowing what suits him. Years spent listening to his partner Stan explaining his designs have left him with an analytical knowledge of cut and construction. Instead, he lets his eyes drift leisurely across the blonde boy’s angular face and down his lithe body, noting the little flourishes here and there on the clothing, enjoying the feeling of power he always gets at these private viewings.

God, I love this. One of the true perks of having money. Where else can you ogle pretty boys for free and walk away with some lovely schmutter at the same time? Nice eyes… love the stitching detail on that collar… cute arse… trousers too fussy… next!

As boy after boy emerges from behind the drapes, Jon begins to automatically compile two mental lists in his head. The first reads: Suits numbers 4 and 7, jacket number 3 with some minor adjustments, and shirt number 8 in as many colours as possible. The second reads: Brunette number 2, blonde number 6, and stick number 7 on the B-list for now, in case that hair colour’s as fake as it looks.

In the midst of these mental gymnastics, Jon completely forgets his earlier conversation with Eddy until, suddenly, the velvet drapes part roughly with a loud ripping sound to reveal the most extraordinary vision.

Standing across the room, glaring directly at him with hand on hip, is the tallest, thinnest, big-eyed, wild-haired street urchin Jon has ever seen.

Involuntarily, Jon catches his breath, then casts his eyes over the outfit, the likes of which he’s only witnessed before on pre-pubescent girls loitering bored outside Top Shop in London, or clustering excitedly outside gig venues in San Francisco. The lanky vision now, quite openly curling his cherry-red lip derisively in Jon’s direction, is wearing the tiniest, flimsiest, zebra print shirt.

One brave, minuscule button strains, perilously close to breaking point, on his smooth, hairless chest, pierced nipples and copious tattoo-work clearly visible through the gauzy material.

Jon jumps at the sudden, light touch of Eddy’s hand on his knee.

“This is Danny, the young man I was telling you about. Behold the new face of LaRoche.”

Eddy beckons Danny forward with an elegantly manicured hand, and the new face of LaRoche rolls his eyes with quite obvious contemptuous ennui, then starts to sashay forward. Long legs snapping into a precision-straight line, skinny jeans-clad hips shooting out at impossible angles. Sardonic, intelligent

eyes fix firmly on Jon like some heat-seeking missile. It’s only when Danny comes to a halt a couple of feet away that Jon realises he’s stopped breathing.

The force field of charisma emanating from the six-foot-plus vision staring down at him knocks the wind from his chest and immediately makes the surrounding room seem darker. Stuttered words escape his mouth, along with his hitched breath, before he can claw them back.

“I’m J-Jon. How are you?”

Danny smirks down at Jon’s stunned face, eyes dancing with apparent amusement, voice teasing but much less strident; more honeyed than the outburst Jon overheard earlier.

“Bored fuckless most of the time, J-Jon. But, cheers for asking.”

Jon tunes Eddy’s wittering in his right ear down even further and allows himself a good slow look at both boy and outfit, momentarily dazzled by the shocking contrast of his milk-white skin and jet black hair, echoed by the gaudy zebra stripes of the shirt. The vibrant red of his lips and the large ruby ring on his finger appear dangerously vivid against such a background of monochrome extremes.

Beautiful, piercing eyes. Sinful mouth. Challenging demeanour. The shirt’s camp as fuck, but he makes it look dangerously desirable. A slightly rounded belly? Unusual for a model. Suits him, though. A little island of softness in all that hard angularity. Dear God, that shirt material looks deliciously rippable. Nice touch not bothering to do up the flies on the jeans, or the belt…

Jon suddenly realises he’s been staring at the bulge in Danny’s circulation-strangling trousers for longer than is strictly polite, clears his throat, and looks up. In immediate response, Danny takes another step closer and thrusts his hips forward, leaving his unzipped fly only inches away from Jon’s rapidly reddening face. Brown eyes glittering black in uncensored amusement, enlarged pupils eating hungrily into the soft earth of his irises, he murmurs pointedly, “Seen something you like yet, love?”

Jon automatically crosses his legs to disguise the embarrassment of his inconveniently hardening erection. The spark of challenge in Danny’s eyes makes his heart race, even as the words are instinctively forming on his lips to meet that challenge and slap it down a little.

“Yeah, you could say that. There’s one or two things on view I wouldn’t mind having for myself, since you ask.”

Grinning, Danny leans down, eyes suddenly wide with mock innocence, his voice a husky murmur.

“Then you better have the view from behind, hadn’t ya? See what you could be buying with all that lovely loot of yours.”

Danny slowly pirouettes around and thrusts his behind backward towards Jon’s face, then shoots a sardonic look over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.

“Fond of wildlife, are ya?”

Jon struggles with the urge to pull that lovely little bottom down into his lap, the confusion of instant arousal slowly beginning to unravel his previous buyer’s confidence. A strange feeling of vertigo pulls him further off balance inside.

“Pardon?”

“The zebra print, mate. You are looking at the shirt, I take it?”

Trying to ignore the disconcerting magnetic pull clenching in his stomach, Jon reluctantly drags his eyes away from Danny’s arse and up to the black and white stripes stretched impossibly tight across his broad, muscular back.

The kind of back you could cling to in a storm. The kind of back you could sink your teeth into…

Again, the treacherous, murmured words escape his lips before he can censor them or pull them back.

“Yeah, s’lovely. Quite lovely.”

Turning around again, Danny runs a coolly penetrating gaze slowly up and down Jon in open appraisal, giving Jon the odd feeling that the tables have suddenly turned and he is the one on show, a power reversal so sudden it makes him feel giddy. Danny holds Jon's gaze for an endless, timeless moment, his expression oddly masked and unreadable, then jerks his tousled head in the stillbabbling Eddy’s direction, breaking the spell.

“Yeah, well what he won’t tell you is, it’s flimsy as fuck.”

Danny’s mask suddenly drops as he winks and grins.

“You could rip it off my back in seconds.”

Jon smiles at Danny’s unguardedly open flirtation and momentarily, without thinking, allows himself to dive a little deeper into melted-chocolate eyes. Eyes that seem to hold the fragility of innocence and the crushing weight of sin in equal measure. Eyes now looking down at him with an expression that seems to spiral into endless complexity, the longer he stares at them.

Eventually, Jon murmurs, “I imagine I could, yeah.”

Cheeky grin widening, Danny hooks his thumb under the straining button of the shirt, pulling the transparent stripes even tighter across his nipples.

“And get him to double stitch the button, ’cos this fucker will snap off at the slightest touch.”

With a sudden flick of his thumb, Danny pops the button, bouncing it off Jon’s nose, making him jump in surprise.

“See what I mean?”

In a trance, Jon rubs his nose reflexively, picks the stray button off the floor, and hands it back to Danny, allowing his fingertips to linger caressingly on Danny’s palm. The sudden touch of flesh upon flesh sends pinwheels of electricity shooting up his arm headed straight for his heart and his groin. With what’s left of his brain, Jon manages to murmur, “You’ve got an unusual sales

technique, I have to say, but I think you’ve demonstrated admirably the benefits of owning that shirt.”

Danny tosses the tiny button high into the air, catches it in his mouth, and, to Jon’s utter amazement, swallows it.

“Honesty’s the best policy, I always say. Or, maybe this shirt just brings out the animal in me.”

Jon laughs in shock and shakes his head, the prospect of staying in Paris for a few more days rapidly brightening by the minute at the almost palpable synapse-snap of energy and tension running between them. Waving aside Eddy’s hand-wringing apologies, he keeps his eyes firmly focused on Danny.

“Oh, I do hope so.”

In response, Danny slips the shirt down on his shoulders and throws Jon a sideways, coquettish smirk, his voice softer than his words.

“So, c’mon then, Moneybags. Time’s dragging on. Quit playing hard to get. You buying, or what?”

Recovering his composure and suddenly reminded that he, as the buyer, is the one in a position of power here, Jon settles back into the sofa with his arms behind his head and deliberately takes his time running his eyes over Danny from top to toe and back again.

“Yeah. I’m buying.”

Danny immediately snaps out of his pose, slips the shirt off and throws it casually over his shoulder, his whole body relaxing from hard angularity to a softer, more natural stance. His next words emerge dismissive and perfunctory, all seductiveness gone.

“Thank fuck for that. I’ll go and get changed, then.”

Danny spins on his heel and prowls back towards the dressing room without looking back, one arm shooting into the air to casually wave goodbye to Jon with the flimsy shirt. Unthinking and again uncensored, Jon calls out after the rapidly retreating figure.

“No. Keep it on. I like you in it.”

Danny immediately stops in his tracks and looks over his shoulder, eyebrow arched, the flirtatious grin returning to his face.

“Saucy fucker! Café Des Bonnes Artistes, 16 Rue Fontaine, 8 o’clock.

Don’t be late. Can’t abide bad manners. Just ’cos you’re loaded, doesn’t mean you can fuck me about, okay?”

Jon watches in delight as Danny slowly saunters to the end of the room, then disappears behind the curtain. A beat of stunned silence follows as the energy crackle in the room suddenly dissipates before Danny’s head emerges from behind the drapes with a grin and a wink.

“You can uncross yer legs, now, Mr. Ellerman.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Cameron Vale is one of the pen names used by a London-based polymath and autodidact who has thoroughly researched all the best ways to fall asleep on a keyboard.

She is the author of The Tradesman's Entrance, a hilarious, gay romantic comedy, also available from Vagabondage Press.

You can find her online at: www.cameronvaleworld.wordpress.com