AN: I've been home sick for awhile now and decided to remember the city I was born and raised in with a little Eric/Sookie fic. Hope you like it :)

Lafayette in this fic is D'Angelo circa 2000, not Nelsan Ellis. Or, you know, you can picture him as whoever you want.

Pics in profile. Warning: NSFW ;)

You remind me of a girl, that I once knew.

See her face whenever I, I look at you.

You won't believe all of the things she put me through.

This is why I just can't get with you.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Chapter 1

"No, no, no, no, nooo!" I groaned, staring at the time displayed on my cell phone.

I jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. After rushing through my morning routine, I threw on a bra then pulled on a pair of black high-waisted skinny jeans, a black cropped top, a cream oversized cardigan, socks and my strappy black combat boots. Swiping my cell and metrocard into the Sukey hobo that I got for a steal at Gucci's annual fall/winter sale last November, I grabbed that, my portfolio and a bottle of water from the fridge and rushed out the door.

Mornings like these have become the norm in my life. Between my part time job at a diner and being a senior at FIT working on my BFA in Fashion Design with a specialization in Special Occasion, my entire existence depended on coffee and Redbull. If you spoke to anyone whose ever attended my school, they'd tell you that the graduating classes in Fashion Design were pretty much zombified during the homestretch.

See, every spring, the powers that be would put together a runway show where the best creations in each of the fashion design specializations (children's wear, special occasion, intimate apparel, knitwear, and sportswear) were presented. The school invited a panel of influential men and women in the industry such as the fashion and creative directors of major fashion houses, magazines, and luxury department stores, as judges for the show.

What was even more impressive, to me at least because this was where I learned helpful tips and gained affirmation on my strengths and weaknesses, were the world famous designers that mentored and critiqued our work during early production. Some notable names we've had traipsing through our halls have included Carolina Hererra (who was an alumni), Diane von Furstenberg, Anna Sui, Calvin Klein (also an alumni), and rag&bone, to name a few.

Pamela Ravenscroft was the mentor for this year's special occasion class, and we couldn't have been assigned a better mentor. She was to the point and spared no punches, but that was the only way to get better in the craft and I really took everything she said to heart. I must've made an impression on Ms. Ravenscroft, because I was offered an intern position on her bridal design team on her last day as a critic. The wisdom she and Ms. Broadway, the head designer at Ravenscroft's bridal department, imparted on me over the past few weeks would stay with me throughout my entire professional career, and I was sad my internship was coming to an end.

The annual show was the culmination of four years of blood, sweat, and tears for us design majors. We'd slave away on our sewing machines and dress forms for hours on end, almost always working through the night and well into morning. We spent months on draping, patterning, dyeing, fitting, etc, hoping our creations would be deemed the best of the best during Judging Day (or Judgement Day as some called it). But before that, there was pre-judging day where one critic would look over every piece of work and disqualify some for even Judging. Then, on Judgement Day, everyone in Fashion Design who had a completed work waited for their specialization to receive the go ahead. We then dressed our dress forms and rolled them downstairs to the Great Hall where the judges were gathered. There were about ninety works in total, and after hours of deliberation from the judges, a little more than half made it to the BFA fashion show.

My second gown was fortunate enough to have been among the nine in special occasion selected for the big day.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I muttered, as I pushed my way off the D train at the 34th Street station and hurried up the stairs. I had three minutes to get to my nine-ten class; there was no way I was going to make it.

Maybe I'd luck out and find the room empty because Professor Fowler had gone into early labor last night. Wow, that was low even for me.

I hitched my bag higher and raced through the streets, counting each block as I passed them.

"West 27th, finally." I breathed, and made a right on the corner of the block for my school.

The door to my Hollywood: A History class was closed. I peaked through the glass panel and saw Professor Fowler toying with a projector at the front of the classroom. Awesome, another movie. Opening the door as quietly as I could, I snuck in with my ninja skills and crept towards the back of the room where the hottest guy in FIT was waiting for me.

"So nice of you to finally join us, Ms. Stackhouse."

I slumped down in a chair in defeat. The woman was either psychic or had eyes in the back of her head.

"The train got held up by some idiot cursing out the conductor."

Not exactly a lie, per se. There had to have been a train somewhere in the world that was running behind schedule due to someone's anger management problem. It just wasn't mine.

"Spare me the fiction, I don't care why you're late." She said, in her pseudo posh accent that sounded exactly like what it was - an American pretending to be English - before ignoring me to resume tinkering with the projector.

Phony bitch. I had it on good authority that she was born and raised in Brooklyn. Her great aunt, Maxine Fortenberry, lived on my block and always asked about her. I shook off her pompous, too good for Brooklyn, ass and turned to the beautiful man in the seat behind mine. "Morning, Laf."

He did a double take. "You look like Kung Fu Panda coming off a four day bender. Tell me you packed your concealer."

I rolled my eyes at the drama queen and snatched the mirror from his desk. Vain, who me? My eyes looked perfectly fine to me. Okay, maybe my bags were a teeny bit heavier than usual, and I could've benefited from an eye drop or two for the redness but overall, they didn't look too bad.

"We can't all wake up and roll out of bed looking as airbrushed as you do; the universe would implode. Besides, I spent all night taking in the gown and rushing back to Brooklyn for my graveyard shift at Merlotte's. The model at yesterday's fitting was even skinnier than the one during the first fitting."

"The show isn't until next Wednesday, so why are you stressing that fabulous behind of yours out?"

"I just wanted to get it out of the way," I grinned, "more time to play."

"Now you're speaking my language. Party tomorrow night?"

"Can't, got the early shift on Saturday. I'm down for Saturday night though."

He pulled out his iPhone and hummed and hawed while scrolling through his planner. I knew for a fact that his schedule wasn't that packed.

With a put-upon sigh, he tucked his phone into his coat pocket, and said, "I'll have to move my date with Quinn to next Friday, but I know you'll make it worth my while."

I grinned. "First round's on me, got it. So, any idea what we're watching today?"

Professor Fowler's grating voice responded, "Gone with the Wind, Ms. Stackhouse, the highest grossing film of all time; it took in over $3.3 billion. We'll be watching Cutthroat Island which suffered a $137 million loss, on Monday. Both figures adjusted for inflation, of course. The juxtaposition of success and failure in Hollywood, I'm sure you'll have plenty to write about in your final paper. Anything else you'd like to know? Because we can all wait for you to finish your conversation with Mr. Reynolds; clearly, your time is much more valuable than ours."

I felt heat creeping up into my cheeks as I turned back around to face Professor Fowler. "Nope, I'm good for now, thanks."

"Hormonal cow," Lafayette whispered.

I choked on my spit and spent the next half a minute coughing and wheezing for air. Lafayette, meanwhile, almost fell out of his chair laughing at me.

Professor Fowler was not amused.

God, I hated liberal arts classes. I mean, I got that the Math, Science, and English classes - hell even the foreign language ones - were useful but this sorry excuse for an American History class was just a waste of time that I couldn't afford to waste. I had a gown to do final preparations on, a Chinese oral final exam to study for, an internship at Ravenscroft to complete, my job at the diner, and an outfit to plan for my walk down the runway at the end of the show.

The only thing I looked forward to was the last so I began mentally sorting through the clothes I had in my closet. Before I knew it, three hours had passed. The film was still playing, so I guessed we'd be finishing it on Monday.

"You have time for a quick lunch or you heading back to Brooklyn?" Lafayette asked while stretching lazily in his seat.

"Don't have a shift today," I stood and gathered my bags, "I need an ensemble for D-Day."

He stood, and I took the time to appreciate his outfit; black beanie, plastic black rimmed aviator eyeglasses, and a huge diamond stud in one ear. His Balmain blazer with gold accents and a giant gold emblem on the chest was new, but he'd worn variations of the black hoodie he had on under the jacket, the black fitted jeans, and the black high top sneakers before. The Lockit Taurillon Voyage was a recent addition, it had just made its debut at the Louis Vuitton fall/winter show three months ago and wasn't even available in stores in the U.S. yet. It was a peace offering from his mom.

Lafayette grinned, linked our hands together and began leading me out of the room. "I know just the place. Come on, lunch is on me."

"Ooh, free lunch! What are we having?" I hip checked him on our way down the hall and added, "I'm suddenly in the mood for Wagyu steak and caviar rolls."

"Silly girl, Wagyu and caviar are what rich fifty year old men buy their pretty little mistresses."

"Oh? Then what do handsome gay men buy their famished besties?"

Lafayette stopped abruptly, then turned to face me and said, "hot dogs," with a straight face.

We burst into laughter in the middle of the street and only began moving when a taxi honked at us. We walked to the 28th Street station and took the N train down to Canal Street. Three and a half blocks later, I found myself standing outside a literal hole in the wall. The doorway was so small I would've missed it if Laf hadn't stopped me.

"Wah Mei Fast Food," I read off a sign as we walked in.

The restaurant was unimpressive. It was so small that I didn't think it was even legally allowed to be called a restaurant. A thin piece of plywood was nailed against the left wall as a counter and there were three wooden stools under it. There was barely enough room for one person to walk comfortably. An open kitchen with deep fryers in plain view was on the right side of the tiny takeout joint, and a cash register was on the counter by the entrance. The place reeked of grease that I knew I'd be washing out of my hair and clothes when I got home, and I couldn't wait to try the food.

It was an unspoken rule among native New Yorkers that the shittier looking the place, the more authentic an ethnic meal you'd get. Lafayette was as big of a foodie as I was, so I had no worries that he'd lead me astray.

A tiny - and she was tiny, I'm not being facetious. Petite just didn't seem to encompass how small she was - woman, barely five feet tall, stood behind the kitchen counter.

"Two pork chops with eggs over rice, extra sauce please." Laf ordered without asking me what I wanted. I didn't mind, I knew I was in good hands.

"To go?" She asked.

"To stay."

"Why you not eat next door, huh?" The woman admonished.

"Oh please, you know you make it better here than whoever's in the kitchen at the restaurant."

"Same thing." She said, shaking her head while trying to suppress a smile.

"Might be the same company, but you always fry the pork chops to perfection. The chef next door over cooks his."

"I tell him same thing, he never listen." She said, handing Laf his change.

After grabbing a stool to wait for our food, Lafayette told me to sit tight, then left. He came back five minutes later with two delicious looking drinks in slushy cups.

"Pineapple icee or red bean and milk?" He asked.

"Red bean, thanks."

I took a sip through the fattest straw ever made and closed my eyes in bliss. After chewing and swallowing the sweet beans, I opened my eyes and moaned, "my taste buds thank you, oh knowledgable one."

The cook dropped our plates in front of us and said, "you thank him again after you eat my food."

"Oh, I'm sure of it. Thank you." I replied with a smile and dug right in.

Thinly sliced napa cabbages marinated in a thick brown sauce ladled over white rice. A thick, juicy pork chop and a marbled hard boiled egg sat on top. I knew from dinners over at my other best friend, Jade's house that they were called Tea Eggs; hard boiled eggs that were cracked and reboiled in a tea and soy sauce concoction. They were delicious. In fact, the whole meal was. As Lafayette had said, the pork chops were fried to perfection but the secret that transformed the meal from simply good to worth trooping an hour from Brooklyn into Chinatown for (which I already foresaw happening in my future), was the sauce. I didn't even bother analyzing the ingredients, I doubted I'd even know what most of them were even if I tried.

After devouring most of my plate, I looked over at Lafayette who'd already finished his lunch and was looking at me expectantly. "This is, hands down, top five Chinese in the city."

"Taiwanese,"

"What?" I asked, confused.

"This is Taiwanese, not Chinese food." He whispered. "Don't let them hear you calling them Chinese either, they get really touchy about it."

I looked over at the cook who was bagging a delivery order. "She looks Chinese to me."

Lafayette raised an eyebrow.

"What, she does!" I mumbled.

"That's because ethnically, they are. Only 2% of the population in Taiwan are aboriginals, the rest came from China after the Second World War. They want secession from the motherland and there's a huge mess with China threatening military action if they try."

I looked at him skeptically. Military action? That sounded like something I should've heard about on the news. I wouldn't have been surprised if he pulled everything he just said out of his ass, he had a flair for drama, after all. "And you know this how?"

"Brandon gave me the footnotes version before meeting his parents."

I nodded. That, I could believe. Brandon was the one that got away. We never spoke of him unless absolutely necessary. They were together for two years but broke up because Lafayette's in the closet status put a strain on their relationship.

Lafayette's father was a federal judge as old school as they came. Growing up, they had a don't ask don't tell policy in their home and like a good little boy, Lafayette pursued his father's wishes of an Ivy League education and attended Princeton. It was there that he met and fell in love Brandon. I didn't know much about their time together, or much of Lafayette's life at Princeton, but whatever happened between them was enough to make Lafayette rebel against his father and quit the school. He spent a year traveling the world after dropping out, and eventually settled down in New York where he decided to attend FIT for interior design.

We met on our first day as freshmans when I accidentally hit on him. Alright, so there was nothing accidental about it but in my defense, he was hot. D'Angelo in the How Does it Feel video, hot. Melt your panties with a smirk, hot. Forget that FIT's male population was mostly gays, hot. Then he gently told me that as breathtakingly beautiful (his words, not mine) as I was, I lacked the proper equipment he needed. Call me crazy, but we've been joined at the hip ever since.

We threw out our own trash and walked out of the restaurant.

"Where to?" I asked, stuffed to the gills.

"My cousin Tara owns a boutique in SoHo." At my hesitant look, he tugged on my hair lightly. "She'll hook you up, don't worry."

Family discounts meant I might be able to afford a new pair of shoes too. I smiled gratefully at my best friend and linked my hands in his. "You're my favorite guy in the world, you know that right?"

He squeezed my hand, "Remember that ten years from now when I need front row seats during Fashion Week."

We made our way down Grand Street and continued a few blocks until we hit Mercer. Tara's Togs was right on the corner, next to a Babeland.

Lafayette held the door open for me and as I made my way inside, a perky brunette bounced over and greeted us.

"Welcome to Tara's Togs! Our summer collection just came in, would you like me to show you?"

A stunning woman with a sleek ponytail strode over to us. Her long sleeved white leather dress hugged her thin frame and contrasted her dark skin fabulously, but my eyes couldn't help but wander down to her shoes. It was all too easy to ruin an otherwise lovely all white outfit by donning a pair of shoes in the same color. Her red pointed toe pumps that matched her scarlett red lips indicated she was of a similar mind.

"It's alright, Maudette, I've got this."

Maudette nodded at her before walking over to another customer browsing through a rack of skirts.

"Long time no see, cousin. I was beginning to forget we lived in the same city." Tara said coolly.

Lafayette pulled her into a half hug and kissed her cheek. "You know why. Now stop airing our dirty laundry in front of Sookie."

She returned the cheek kiss. "I tend to forget my manners around you too, it seems." She said, before turning to me and extending her hand. "Nice to meet you Sookie, I'm Tara."

Shaking her hand, I replied, "Likewise." Then I took a quick look around, "I love what you've done with the place."

Dark hardwood floors, black crown molding against ivory wooden walls. A beige sheepskin rug or two scattered here and there. Mirrored walls lined the back of the store. A black button tufted leather sofa sat in the center of the room. A glass jewelry table stood opposite the sofa and a tall cylindrical vase containing a single long stemmed red rose submerged in water was the table's centerpiece. Racks of clothing, separated by type and color, lined the walls interspaced with shelves of handbags and shoes. It had an understated elegance that I'm sure Lafayette would appreciate more than I did. I was all about the clothes and accessories; architecture and decor, that was Lafayette's forte.

"My girl needs something to wear for her first end of the show bow." Lafayette declared proudly.

Tara looked me over with new eyes and I seemed to have gone up in her estimation.

As if I cared.

"Two piece or dress?"

I'd been mulling over that question all week and was pretty sure I wanted a jumpsuit. It could be professional and was definitely fun enough for our celebration afterwards - it was also eye catching enough to make me memorable to prospective employers, or so I hoped. My only qualm was my body shape; I had a relatively small upper frame but large breasts, and fitted blouses were next to impossible to pull off without appearing over sexualized. And, although I had a skinny waist, my wide hips turned finding the right pair of pants into an epic quest that I almost always ended up tailoring the purchases when I got them home.

"Jumpsuit," I replied with a hint of challenge. My defensive posture said it all, 'tell me my body is all wrong for it, I dare you.'

She raised a brow in response and with a small smile, she looked me in the eyes and said, "I have just the thing for you."

Lafayette threw his arm over my shoulders and chuckled into my hair as we made our way to the back of the store. "Confrontational bitch."

I shrugged. What could I say? It was true.

Tara disappeared behind a door and came back out shortly with a white jumpsuit in her hands. Oh, she was catty, alright. White looked great on me in the summer months but during the cooler months, like April when I was still pasty as hell, it washed me out.

I felt the amusement pouring off of Lafayette in waves. Traitorous bitch.

Instead of asking for another color, my stubborn streak made me thank her and take the one-piece to a fitting room to try on. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and sighed. It was a tuxedo inspired sleeveless jumpsuit with satin lapels and cummerbund. The cut was more than enough to satisfy my sense of vanity but was utilitarian enough not to scream "look at me". In other words, perfect for the show.

It truly was an amazing piece but as I suspected, the color overwhelmed my skin tone. I wasn't vain enough to drop in for a session or two at a tanning salon, but I did look ghastly. Lafayette knocked on my door, demanding entrance, so I let him in and waited for his veto.

"She'll take it," he shouted to Tara.

"Laf, I look like I'm on my death bed!"

"Nothing a little bronzer and the right lipstick won't fix. I'll drop by early with Andre, he'll take care of it."

I nibbled my lips and stared at my reflection again. Andre was a professional makeup artist who worked in TV and theater, and the occasional film or two. I was pretty sure making me look presentable wouldn't be outside his realm of expertise.

A smile began forming on my lips and I nodded. "This is it."

True to his word, Tara sold the jumpsuit to me at a more than generous markdown but in the end, I decided against splurging on new accessories. Getting a job after graduation wasn't a given, and I needed to keep an eye on my spending. It wouldn't be too hard since I rarely shopped for fun; my big ticket items were key pieces that I saved for and the basics in my wardrobe were mostly from Woodbury or Tanger, outlet stores that carried last season's cast offs.

After thanking Tara, Lafayette and I took a stroll through SoHo, stopping every now and then at a men's boutique for him. By the time we parted ways, both his hands were full of shopping bags and our feet were sore from all the walking.

I went home to an empty house. After my parents died in a car accident when I was two and my brother fifteen, our paternal grandmother moved in and raised us on her own. Both my parents were only children, so other than Gran and Jason, we were all each other had until Jason got married to a wonderful woman named Dawn and had three beautiful children. Jason was a political analyst but received a once in a lifetime offer in Washington and relocated to DC three years ago. Gran tried to split her time between New York and Washington, but now that she was getting older, and air travel's become more of a hassle than a convenience, I told her to stay with her great grandbabies and made sure to visit my family as often as my schedule and bank account allowed. I knew I should've been looking for a subletter - the house was paid off decades ago so the extra income wasn't needed, just welcomed - but I'd been swamped all year. I'd have more time now that the semester was coming to an end and made a mental note to get it done.

I was getting ready for bed when the doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting any visitors and everyone I knew knew better than to drop by unannounced. Grabbing a baseball bat, I slipped my cell phone into my pajama pant pocket, threw on a thin cardigan and went downstairs. I left the lights off and silently made my way over to the front door. I squinted one eye and looked through the peephole. A suspicious looking man with dark hair stood alone in the dark. The street light cast an eerie glow to his features and made his sideburns appear sinister.

"Can I help you?" I asked through the door.

"My car died and my cell phone ran out of battery. I was hoping you'd let me use your phone to call AA?"

And I'm the motherfucking mayor of Whoville.

Not wanting to let the fucker off the hook so he could go and rob or rape someone defenseless like Mrs. Fortenberry down the street, I turned my phone to silent and quickly fired off a text to my neighbor, and ex, the cop. Within seconds, he responded with, "two mins".

"I don't know if that's such a good idea... I'm home alone." I said, putting as much fear in my voice as possible. He needed to think I was a good target and I needed to keep him talking long enough for his creeper ass to be taken down.

"My two small children are waiting for me at home and my wife's pregnant with our third. She must be worried sick by now. Please, I need to call home and let them know I'm alright." He sounded genuinely worried.

Now I was having second thoughts. Was this really an act or was the guy just having a really shitty night?

Making sure I had a good grip on the bat with my right hand, I left the security chain on and turned each lock slowly with my left. By the time I cracked the door open, I'd heard an "NYPD, freeze!", a loud "oomph" and the sound of something heavy hitting the landing.

I guessed his night just got worse.