CHAPTER 1: The Rich and Infamous

CHAYSE

So, you like all of us enough to bother reading the sequel, huh? That’s
rather flattering, indeed. I knew I could count on you guys.

Anyway, I guess I should tell you that this time around things are a bit
different. See, Kelly and Bonnie and the others read my last account, and
they figured that it was time to justify some of their actions. So, I did
some serious bribing and got them to join in on this one. Therefore, at the
beginning of each chapter, the top of the page will read whose "chronicle"
it is. See my name up there? It says "CHAYSE" in really big letters.
Up, up. . .you can’t miss it. Got it? Great, then let’s get started!

Well, it was three months after Bianca got arrested that I heard she got out
of rehab and she and Devin had gotten married. It was one of those huge, lavish
ceremonies where there are little guys in tuxedos holding trays laden with champagne
and cocktail weenies. The bride wore a "bejeweled splendor by Armani" (that’s how the
National Enquirer put it, anyway) and the groom looked "devilishly handsome in a custom-
made tuxedo with a ruby ascot" (also the good ole Nat’l Enq.). The bridesmaids, the
article boasted, wore pink crinoline-style dresses (gag) and the groomsmen apparently
couldn’t keep their eyes -- or their hands, for that matter -- off of them. Neither,
evidently, could the groom. Consequently, the loving couple was divorced after a month of
marriage and she eloped to Copenhagen with the wedding photographer while he drowned his
sorrows in several dozen piles of accounting logs and a half-gallon of Jim Beam.

Whew. How tiring it is to poke fun at the rich and infamous.

Around the same time, I cleared my credit card bills with a settlement that Dr.
Pederson gave us so that we wouldn’t sue. Actually, I wasn’t planning on filing suit, but
since he apologized to us for our "emotional strife and turmoil" and handed us a hefty
check, I didn’t complain. ‘Course, I wasn’t too sure if the whole thing was legal, but I
still didn’t complain. In any event, I did some great, high end jobs and scraped up
enough money to open up my own shop on Peachtree Boulevard. What did I call it, you
might ask? Well, Designs On You, of course!

Designs On You got off to an excellent start. I hired a man named Peter to be my
assistant and help consult people who want to have a specific design done. He hasn’t
designed anything quite yet; he’s my little apprentice, and I have to break him in yet.
Oh, yeah, he likes to be called PeeWee. Don’t ask.

Okay. So, let’s start two weeks after I hired PeeWee to work with me. I came
into work early, a big ole cup of Starbucks in one hand and the newspaper in the other.
PeeWee was waiting patiently outside the door like a puppy wanting to be let out. Only
PeeWee wanted to be let in. I guessed that he was so anxious to start work he got there
even earlier than me.

"Hiya, Chayse!" he said in his snappy way of speaking, "I’ve been here since
quarter after eight!"

I looked at him, blinked slowly, and said, "PeeWee, we don’t even open ‘til
nine."

"Oh, well, I know." He was skittering around so much he was making me
nervous. I opened the door and he scampered in, rushing over to his desk. "Oh, thank
God in Heaven above and thank the apostles and the angels and the--"

"What?" I asked, beginning to wonder if I’d hired a raving psychopath. It was
always the normal-looking ones that defected. I set down my things and leaned against
my desk.

"Oh. . ." PeeWee breathed, "I left my poster here over the weekend, and I was so
worried about it!"

"Poster? What poster?"

"This poster!" PeeWee squealed, flinging a poster high into the air. I narrowed
my eyes to look at it and couldn’t help but smile. It was a signed poster of Danielle
Steele. "I met Danielle at a book signing last week." He paused, admiring the picture,
then said with a nervous giggle, "Well, I mean, on my lunch break."

"You’re a Danielle Steele fan?" I asked mildly. I checked my appointments for
the day and watched the exuberant PeeWee out of the corner of my eye.

"You bet your bootsies I am!"

That’s when I began to wonder if PeeWee was gay. I guess I’d always suspected,
a little bit. He was attractive -- kind of short, with curly blond hair and expressive
green eyes, a kind face that smiled a lot. He dressed nicely and kind of swayed when he
walked. His voice was only slightly effeminate and he had confided to me during the
interview process that he was the captain of his cheerleading squad in high school. He
even got on the floor and validated his claim that he was still able to do the splits --
both ways. What I liked best about PeeWee was the fact that he seemed to love design and
color as much as I did.

"PeeWee," I said absent-mindedly as I wondered for the hundredth time if I
should hire a secretary to help keep me organized, "speaking of lunch, do you want to go
out with me today? I’m meeting my boyfriend, but you’re welcome to join us."

A big smile spread across PeeWee’s face at the invitation.

"Sure! I’d love to! Did I dress okay for the occasion?" he asked, turning slowly
in a circle for my inspection.

"Perfect," I said, nodding my approval. "Jeans are just fine for eating at a
construction site."