CHAPTER 1
The name is Black… Drake Black. Ok, maybe it isn't, but since that's what I'm called now, you guys will just have to make do with it. (Note to self: James Bond is not my style). Brief bio-data would state I'm 31, single, good-looking, rich enough to live a suitable life, bisexual as they come (emphasis on the sexual, dear reader, I am a lean mean loving machine) and I work as an exclusive marketing executive (read buyer) for Armani. It's a natural choice of profession since I know more about clothes than behoves most men, have impeccable taste, and love beautiful people (Well more often than not anyway). In short I have a good life… no wait, make that a great life. Well at least I had one till today!
My day started out normally. I woke up next to a gorgeous red-head (female, if you really care) supermodel, with a body to kill for, and an IQ that would put a dodo to shame. I had just finished a fabulous account (don't mind if I say so myself) for the incredibly charismatic Harrison (Mr. Ford to the rest of you) and I was just waiting to get to work to receive the kudos. I had just bought myself a nice new sleek Jaguar, color: sophisticated silver gray (it brings out my eyes), and in short all was right with the world. In fact I was actually whistling show tunes (woe is me) when I waltzed into my office, and swept my secretary into a quick doo-wop. Then the axe fell.
Jenna, my personal assistant (yes, yes, I do have one of those) is a doll. She is fifty five and pretty as a picture, all big liquid brown eyes that would melt the hardest heart, and gray hair, and the cutest pink cheeks. She keeps the pictures of her grandchildren on her table, and bakes cookies that taste so good that they should be illegal. When you look at her the words that come to your mind are "Oh what a sweet, harmless granny". Big, big mistake! Jenna has the face of an innocent, a heart of gold, and a mind like a steel trap. Get on her wrong side and she will have you rolled up, packaged and ready to post before you can say Sorry (Don't ask me how I know. Let it suffice that it was not pretty). She pulled herself away from my embrace, straightened her dress (Laura Ashley, I can tell a mile off) and snapped "Miss Johnson wants to see you in her office."
Great! Miss Johnson or the Bitch of Endor, as she is usually referred to in the office, has to be the most heartless, cold, unemotional cow to grace this fine world of ours (Trust me. I should know because I have met my share, and then some, of Ice Queens and bastards. I've even lived with them). To add to her other endearing qualities, she is also a remorseless control freak, a bullying perfectionist, and plays by the rulebook as if it were the bloody bible. Now I'll be honest with you, I'm not your most pro-establishment kind of guy, and dictatorship does not work for me. I see her as a cross between Hitler and Satan, with the worst qualities of both, and lacking their charisma, and try to upstage her whenever I can. She sees me as a rebel, and a troublemaker and tries to suppress me every opportunity she gets. She hasn't succeeded yet, because let's be brutally honest here, I am the best she got. But she knows and I know that the first chance she gets I'll be out on my admirable proportioned arse, and she'll be laughing all the way to the interviews to fill my post. All said and done, we share a most cordial relationship.
So I trooped off, and knocked on the old hags door, and was rewarded (sic) with an order to enter. The conversation went something like this.
Old Bitch (OB): Ah, Mr. Black, you've finally deigned to honor us with your presence
Yours Truly (YT): Why Ms Johnson, had I known you were so eager, I wouldn't have lingered over my morning paper.
OB: Well… why don't you sit down?
YT (in appropriately shocked tones): In your presence. Oh no, Ms. Johnson, mummy told me always to stand when appearing before a superior (snide as that sounds, that's exactly what I was taught).
OB (through gritted teeth): Very well then, firstly I would like to congratulate you on a job very well done. I was informed that Mr. Ford was very pleased with the account.
YT: Yes, Harrison told me that when I had dinner with him last week (chew on that, you hellcat).
OB: Yes, actually the reason I've called you today is because of this skill you have of getting along with your customers. We have a rather tough subject on hand, very difficult to please. We have put a couple of people on his account before, but he's never been satisfied. We are hoping that you can do the trick. Let me just say, that we cannot overstate the importance of this account. It is of primary importance.
YT: Very well. If I could just ask, what's with the 'we'? Is it a Queenly 'we are not amused' use of the pronoun, or does it go deeper?
OB: Oh no, you see our superiors are very keen to retain this gentleman, and you are more or less our last hope. If you fail, then he leaves our company, and so do you. So I wouldn't put a foot out of line if I were you, Mr. Black."
YT: Yes Ma'am, no Ma'am, three bags full Ma'am. If that's all you have to say, then I'll just be moseying along. And by the way, what's the name of this exalted customer. I'll need to look him up, if I'm to serve him."
OB: Oh I believe he is quite famous in his own right. You may just have heard of him. His name is James Evans. Thank you, Mr. Black
Now that really took the cake! Everybody, no matter how illiterate, has heard of James Evans (Unless they'd been on the moon or something, and even then they'd have an idea). To imply that I may not have heard of him was just plain insulting. James Evans was the critics blue eyed boy, the publics darling and the medias bugbear. Novelist, poet, filmmaker par excellence, this prodigy had three Oscars (best film, best screenplay and best director) under his belt, as well as a Pulitzer Prize all at the age of 30 (This man made me feel like an underachiever who had done nothing with his life). He had been dubbed 'Best Filmmaker of the Year' by Time Magazine, and had been labeled 'The Most Intriguing Celebrity' by People Magazine. I think People Magazine got it just right. Intriguing didn't begin to describe James Evans. Actually nothing began to describe James Evans because nobody knew anything about him.
Seriously though, this man made J.D. Salinger look like a streaking exhibitionist. He refused to be photographed, gave extremely exclusive and private interviews (usually through video-conference), never accepted any award in public, and as a close journalist friend said once in despair "Had no past or present. Just appeared out of nowhere about 9 years ago, and walked away with all the trophies". He was the ultimate recluse, secretive to a fault, and monkish to a point of unnaturalness. Naturally this made the media slaver, and I've heard some strange hypotheses. I think my favorite was the one where he was a reincarnation of Elvis Presley (Will the Elvis stories never stop). But really who can blame the reporters? I mean, I am no more curious than the next person, and this man brought out the snoop in me. I can think of only one other person who has ever had to face so much unwanted media attention, and he… oh never mind! 'That was in another country and anyway the wench is dead' (Note: Erudite is not my style either).
But to return to Evans, only a select coterie knows what he looks like (The media imagines him to be the Phantom of the Opera, I think) and they are sworn to strict secrecy. Nobody, and I mean nobody, knows where he lives (And I really don't think it's Bluebeards Palace) and no one has any idea about what he likes to wear. Well, no one till now. If I wasn't such a sophisticate (yes that is my style), I'd probably be jumping with glee. To be James Evans personal advisor! Now that's a dream come true. Before someone points it out to me, I know that I'm behaving like a 13 year old girl, reeling off facts about her idol, swooning over meeting him. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. But the fact is that I'm a huge fan of James Evans's work. I've read all his books – 2 novels, a book of short stories and a volume of poetry, lovely fanciful stuff with a vein of such sorrow that it makes the heart bleed. I gifted the poems to one of my girlfriends once (I think it was the literature teacher), and she said that they took you through hell in one line, and heaven in the other. I think that was the neatest sum up of Evans's work that I've ever heard. Any man, who can write like that, has to be worth knowing.
The appointment was for five o'clock and like a true professional I was there at four thirty, dressed to kill. After all I was there to sell clothes to the man, I had to look like I knew something about it myself, right? I quickly surveyed myself in the mirror and was fairly pleased with what it showed me. Tall I am not, and now have given up hoping to be, touching a mere 5'10 in my socks, but I have a physique that compensates for my lack of inches. Slim yes, but athletically slim! I do my fifty laps of the pool every day with assiduous energy, and follow it up with an hour of cardio and weights. My hair is, and always has been, short, and slicked back, with gel (I hate hair in my eyes, it detracts from my carefully shaped eyebrows), the color of silver sand. My eyes are gray, blue-gray really, the color of wet slate. If I say it myself, my features are good, regular, shapely. Item: nose – high-bridged, cheekbones – high, face – pointed. Not bad. My pinstripe suit, a discreet dark blue fell impeccably, my white silk shirt didn't have a crease, my silk sky blue tie was faultless, and the black shoes were polished to perfection. Overall, I was quite presentable (OK who am I kidding, I looked amazing). I was dressed to impress.
As the clock chimed five, I was outside the door (Trust me these little touches make all the difference) poised to knock. I followed through, and then went in. The room was so dark; it took my eyes a while to adjust to the dimness. The curtains were pulled, the lights dulled to a faint glow and in the darkest corner of the room was an armchair, in which sat a figure, its face masked in the shadows. I cleared my throat (yes, yes I am clichéd and ostentatious), and made my little speech (I use it every time and it never fails). "How do you do Mr. Evans? My name is Drake Black, and I'll be your ensemble advisor. It's a pleasure to meet you." (Just the right blend of obsequious and plain polite, don't you think?)
The figure seemed to be jolted out of a reverie, and uncoiled itself sinuously out of the armchair. I noticed he was at least five inches taller than me, if not more (I hate tall people). He spoke and the voice washed over me like a stream of melted bitter chocolate, deep, rich, sensual. "How do you do, Mr. Black? The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. Why don't you sit down, and we can get to work. Let me warn you though, I hate shopping, don't know how to dress, and will be a most recalcitrant customer. I hope you can bear with me."
Why did this man need to be a recluse? He obviously had enough charm to seduce the birds off the trees (watch Snow White, you'll know what I mean), and didn't seem to be deformed. Well maybe he was horribly and irreversibly scarred (Though plastic surgery can do marvels, remember Vanilla Sky). Anyway, I moved forward to take the proffered hand, and he shifted from the shadows to the light and came into full view. I was about to shake his hand, when my eyes fell on his face, and I was hit with two high voltage shocks.
The first, and by far the more minor one was that this was the most incredibly good-looking person, male or female, that I had ever seen.
The second and major shock was summed up through one succinct exclamation "Potter!"
At least I had the satisfaction of seeing the hand fall!
Life is a fucking bitch, most so when she is screwing around with irony. For some reason, known only to the Fates, whenever I have a pivotal encounter with Harry Potter, it is always in a clothing store (Though lightning and raving fans will probably strike me down if I ever call Armani that again). I still remember that day in July at Madame Malkins, when a scrawny eleven year old, with a grubby face, broken glasses, horrendous hair and appalling hand-me-down rags, stood next to me being fitted for robes. This, of course, is a far, far cry from the man who is facing me now. To go back to the sheer unfairness of Life, nobody who looked like that then has a right to grow up to look like this.
I haven't seen Harry (when the hell did I start calling him that?) for 12 years now. He graduated, I didn't; he killed Voldemort, I ran away to the muggle world; he was the hero of the Wizarding World, I was a nameless fugitive (I think you get the picture). But lets be very clear, not even twelve hundred years would have prepared me for what I was looking at. I mean, the last time I saw him, he was 18, cute in a disheveled sort of way, taller yes, but still skinny, nice face, but deplorable spectacles, hair that begged for oil, conditioner and a hard brush. You get the picture, sweet guy, but no film star; boy next door, but no Greek God. But what I was looking at now was a veritable Adonis. The man before me was about 6'2 (probably more, did I mention I don't like tall people) with the muscular body of a trained fighter, and the lithe grace of a Royal Bengal Tiger. The hair (last seen as a wild mop; I cannot stress this enough) was now smooth and wavy, skimming the shoulders in a stylish cut. The face was breathtakingly, impossible handsome, fine-boned and masculine, with sensitive perfect features. The glasses had (thank goodness) been replaced (presumably by contacts) leaving those glorious luminous jade eyes uncovered. He was dressed with casual style (what did the man mean, he didn't know how to dress. I've never heard more rubbish in my life, and I bullshit for a living) in a white linen shirt, and gray tailored slacks. The (in)famous lightening bolt scar was just hidden by the wings of hair that shone blue when the light hit them. The skin was a perfect even honey gold (speaking from a never tan, no matter what I do, perspective). I mean, I associate (in all ways) with the beautiful people all the bloody time, and even compared to them, this man was perfect. I've heard of being dumbstruck by sheer beauty before, but I've got to admit that it's a first for me. I didn't realize that I had been staring with, what I presume was, a vacuous expression at him for about five minutes, until he spoke and startled me out of my trance.
"Well…well…well…if it isn't my old friend Malfoy!" There was that voice again, deepened now to a soft, musing purr, with a hint of sardonic amusement. "What on earth are you doing here?"
Now usually I can shoot off six brilliant blistering retorts on any given notice, but cut me a little slack, I was still in shock (I'm thinking I was lucky I could speak at all). I blurted out rather flatly, "Working."
"My, my, aren't we good at stating the obvious. Yes, I can see you're working. The question is why here, in this Muggle world that you so despised? Come now, aren't you besmirching the Malfoy name? No wait…you're not. It's Black now isn't it?" The statement was followed by a hollow, humorless chuckle.
The laugh jolted me out of the daze, even more than the words did. It suddenly brought me to the realization that his looks were not all that had changed about him. The Harry Potter that I had known was incapable of a laugh like that. Then I started noticing the other changes in him. Those magnificent eyes were like the jade I had compared them to, lifeless, stony, blank, without any kind of emotion. The lips were set straight and firm, not the kind to be teased into sudden laughter. The jaw was set squarely, and the cleft chin was stern. Then, even more disturbingly, I realized that on seeing him I had actually squeaked (oh the shame, I will never live it down), but his reaction had been so controlled and cool, that it was just not natural. All right, so this was a new reality, (Third shock in 15 minutes, not good for my heart…No, I mean my system) this Harry Potter was different, very different…I remembered the rumors about James Evans and shivered.
"So Malfoy" continued Harry, seating himself in the armchair, and disappearing in the shadows again, "Or should it be Black?"
"Since I will be interacting with you on a professional basis, I'd prefer Black, thank you." I said quietly, determined to match him for composure.
"Very well Black, and since, as you so graciously pointed out, we will be meeting on professional terms, you may call me Mr. Evans." Damn him! Potter scores!
"You never answered me, Black (he makes it sound obscene). What is it exactly that you're doing here?"
Potter unfortunately always brings out the child in me. "Picking your clothes for you, since you can't do it yourself!"
He didn't rise to the bait. "And I'm sure you'll do a good job of it. After all I am paying an exorbitant sum for your services."
Oh touché, Potter! Playing that card again! I decided to take the war into enemy territory. "So where's the Dream Team, Potter? All split up?" Well, color me a shade of Prussian blue if I'm stupid (of course not pink, it'll clash with my eyes), but I thought that should pull a thread, but nothing seemed to faze Potter.
"Hardly. You know what they say about two is company. Ron and Hermione got married ages ago. They probably have a gaggle of kids now. It is the Weasely tradition. Really I don't care very much. When you grow older, school friends become less important. I'm sure you have no idea where Crabbe and Goyle are?"
He's right of course, I have no idea, but those two were never my friends per se. Maybe bodyguards and definitely slavish followers, but never friends! Certainly not in the way the holy Trinity had been (Leader, follower, and the holy brain). Then, the first part of his sentence struck me. After all 'Two is company' is followed by 'Three is a crowd'. Suddenly my heart went thump (I told you the shocks were telling on my system, it never does that), and I found myself saying "Look, I've been completely isolated from the Wizarding World for 12 years now, and I wouldn't mind catching up with the latest news. So what do you say to getting a cup of coffee at this nice café down the road, and you can lay all the gossip on me (I didn't say lay, I didn't say lay!)"
"No, thank you Black, but I don't go out too often (Ok, understatement of the century) but I appreciate the offer, and I appreciate the effort even more."
Screw the effort, Potter…Evans…Greek God…whatever! I mean, I try and try and get rejected again. Where does he get off doing that twice? Memories of the humiliation on the train came flooding back. But I was an adult now, and so was Harry. So I guess that's the reason why I wasn't furious this time, just disappointed (query). Where did that come from? Remember Drake, Arch nemesis, worst enemy, sex icon. I should just stop thinking.
"Oh well, let just take a rain-check on the coffee, then, and talk clothes, ok" was my breezy rejoinder (Rule no. 1 of the salesman's handbook: if you can't say something nice, you'd better change the topic as soon as you can).
He replied calmly, "Look Black, I wanted to discuss this with your boss, but I just wasn't very comfortable with her (you and me, brother). You see, I am not really at ease with coming here for the advice. So if it wouldn't be inconvenient, you could come to my place and we could just work on the clothes there. I have my own tailor (Well he would, wouldn't he) and he could do the alterations."
Now let's be very clear, this is a purely business proposition and I knew it, but little bunnies inside me were hopping, and singing, "I'm going to his house, I'm going to his house." I had a feeling that not too many people refused Harry Potter/James Evans anything that he asked. He just had that aura about him. I collapsed like a house of cards in front of it, and I am known for my steely resilience. "Ok", I heard myself saying.
"Good, then I'll see you at around seven o' clock tomorrow." I nodded along like a retard. No 'are you free', no 'is it convenient', nothing! Just a curt order, and I, rebel bar none, went along like a child in a Disney parade. Of course, about five minutes later, the sheer idiocy of my behavior hit me like a ton of bricks, but by then he had sweetened the pill, with a casual, "And then you can stay for dinner (damn, there go the bunnies again, and the song is getting louder)."
Then with a easy wave of his hand, he strolled out and disappeared into a stylish red Ferrari, that made my Jag look like a poor cousin (Trust him to choose a Gryffindor color, and if anyone even mentions that my car is Slytherin silver, the result will not be pretty), with that graceful walk of his, and I stood there with a dropped jaw, and confused expression (Note: Confusion and sophistication are a bad mix. Not my style). This was definitely not my best day. Quite the contrary really! I was stuck acting valet to a brilliant, arrogant, dictatorial, desperately handsome man, who also happened to be my childhood enemy. Just peachy! If I didn't make it work, I'd be fired. Delightful! And to add to the general fun, butterflies in my stomach had joined the bunnies in my chest. Could life get any worse? Well, I had an uncanny feeling it could. I had a gut instinct that the shit was about to hit the ceiling…and I have unfortunately never been more right in my life.