Cover

Praise

Advance Praise for Someone Had to Do It

“A disturbing peek into the world of privilege. Someone Had to Do It is a tense page-turner that had me yelling out loud at the characters.”

—Lucinda Berry, bestselling author of The Secrets of Us

“A juicy, brilliant treat of a thriller that combines sexy fashion-world glamour with salient points about privilege, racism, and the corrosive effects of extreme wealth. Somehow, Someone Had to Do It manages to be both a scathing critique of our late-stage capitalist hellscape, and the perfect mental escape from it. I couldn’t put it down!”

—Layne Fargo, author of They Never Learn

“Someone Had to Do It has everything. A dark and riveting page turner that has the allure of pulling off the perfect crime with an intelligent twist.”

—Nadine Matheson, author of The Jigsaw Man

Dedication

Mom and Dad, Hope this makes you proud. (Not the sex scenes, but you know what we mean.)

About the Authors

Amber and Danielle Brown both graduated from Rider University, where they studied communications/journalism and sat on the editorial staff for the On Fire!! literary journal. They then pursued a career in fashion and spent five years in NYC working their way up, eventually managing their own popular fashion and lifestyle blog. Amber is also a screenwriter, so they live in LA, which works out perfectly because Danielle can spoil her plant babies with copious amounts of sunshine.

PROLOGUE

BRANDI

A stranger’s hands have been all over me. Their touch invasive, like my body held no value to them at all, filthy and unworthy of decency and respect, and I had to take it all silently, standing there like a piece of cattle.

The last trace of Nate’s cologne has been contaminated by a suffocating stench I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fully scrub from my skin. But I keep thinking about another man’s scent.

It wasn’t just that he smelled expensive; he had a kingly scent, like I should curtsy in his presence. His smile was as intimidating as it was inviting. At the party, which feels like forever ago now, he somehow made me feel like the only one in a room of hundreds, radiating power and vitality like no one I’ve ever met. It was impossible not to get fully swept up in his magnetism once we locked eyes.

And then he was dead.

1

BRANDI

I had a ton of illusions, vivid fantasies of what it would be like to score a coveted internship at Van Doren. Deluded old me thought I would be strutting around the stunning tri-story headquarters in single-soled heels, flitting from design concept meetings to on-location photo shoots, living my best fashion-girl life. Instead, I’m in the back corner of the two-thousand-square-foot ready-to-wear samples closet scrubbing fresh vomit from a slinky gown worth double my rent during my lunch hour.

Italian Vogue’s current cover girl borrowed the hand-sewn dress for a red-carpet event last night, and apparently getting it back on a rack without ruining it was too much for one of the other interns to handle. She was so hungover when she came to the office this morning that she vomited all over the dress before making it out of the elevator. But of course this dress needs to be ready for another model to wear to some big extravaganza tonight, and since I’m the designated fuckover intern, I have to clean it by hand because the satin-blend fabric is too delicate to be dry-cleaned.

This is what it takes.

I chant this to remind myself why I’m here as the lactic acid builds up in my biceps. Working for Van Doren has been on my proverbial vision board ever since I reluctantly gave up the idea, in middle school, that I could be Beyoncé. It’s a storm of hauling hundreds of pounds of runway samples around the city and sitting in on meetings with the sketch artists. A glorious, next-to-holy experience when I’m on duty at photo shoots and one of the stylists sends me to fetch another blazer, not a specific blazer, which means I get to use my own vestiary inclinations to make the selection. Which has only happened once, but still.

Just as I get the stain faded by at least seventy percent, I hear the sharp staccato of someone in stilettos approaching. I turn around and see Lexi. Lexi with her bimonthly touched-up white-blond hair and generous lip filler that she’ll never admit to having injected. When she steps closer in her head-to-toe Reformation, I am grateful that I remembered to put on a few sprays of my Gypsy Water perfume. The one that smells like rich people. But the way she’s staring at me right now, it’s clear that no matter how much I try, I am still not on her level. I do not fit in here. She does not see me as her equal, despite the fact that we are both unpaid, unknown, disposable interns. It’s become glaringly obvious that at Van Doren, it’s not actually about what you contribute, but more about how blue your blood is. Lexi doesn’t even know my name, though I’ve been here a solid nine weeks and I’m pretty sure I’ve told her at least a dozen times.

I’m already on edge because of my assignment, so I jump in before she can ask in her monotone voice. “Brandi.”

“Right,” she says, like she does every time yet still forgets. “Chloé wants the Instagram analytics report for last week. She said she asked you to put it together an hour ago.”

Which is true, but completely unfair since Jenna from marketing also asked me to run to Starbucks to buy thirty-one-ounce cups of liquid crack for her and her entire department for a 9:00 a.m. meeting, an effort that took three trips total, and technically I’m still working on the data sheets I promised Eric from product development. Not to mention the obvious: getting rid of the puke from the dress.

“I’m still working on it,” I tell her.

Lexi stares at me, her overly filled brows lifted, as if she’s waiting for the rest of my excuse. I understand her, but also I’m wondering how she still hasn’t realized this is not a case of Resting Bitch Face I have going on, that I am actually intolerant of her nagging.

Normally, I am not this terse. But nothing about today has been normal. Since this week is my period week, I’m retaining water in the most unflattering of places and the pencil dress I’m wearing has been cutting off the circulation in my thighs for the past couple of hours, and being that I’ve spent most of my break destroying the evidence of someone else’s bad decisions, it is not my fault that I’m not handling this particularly well.

“I’ll send it over as soon as I’m done,” I say to Lexi so she can leave. But she doesn’t.

“HR wants to see you,” she says with what looks like a smirk.

My mouth opens. I have no idea what HR could want, and although I’m still new to this employee thing, I know this can’t be good.

“Like, now,” Lexi barks and pivots away in her strappy, open-toe stilts.

I hang the sample next to the door, and before I leave the room I pause to briefly take in the rest of the dresses stuffed on the racks, each one in that chic, elevated aesthetic that is the cornerstone of Van Doren. This is my favorite part of the day, the chaotic nature of this room a little overwhelming but also inspiring, and I can’t wait for the day that this is my world, not just one I’m peeking my head into. A world in which I command respect.

I cross through the merchandising department, where everyone has their own private office with aerial views of Hell’s Kitchen, Soho and the Garment District, and then move through the maze of the sprawling suite in a mild sort of panic until I remind myself that I have done nothing wrong. Ever since spring semester ended, I’ve been putting in more hours than the sun. I slip in at six-thirty when the building is dark and vaguely ominous, my eyes still puffy with sleep, and when I finally drag myself into the elevator at the end of the day, it’s just as black and quiet outside. I religiously show up in current-season heels despite the blisters, albeit mass-produced renditions of the Fendi, Balenciaga and Bottega Venetas the other summer interns casually strut around in, and mostly stick to myself. I am careful about raising my voice, even if I vehemently disagree with my neurotic supervisor. I keep my tongue as puritanical as a nun’s, even when fucking incel or coddled narcissistic bitch are on the tip of it. I’m not rude or combative. I stay away from gossip. I complete all my tasks with time to spare, which is usually when I check Twitter and help out some of the other interns, even though I’d rather FaceTime Nate in the upstairs bathroom with the magical lighting. I even entertain the gang of sartorially inclined Amy Coopers in the making who insist on obnoxiously complaining to me about all of their first-world, one-percenter problems. I’ve done nothing but consistently given them reasons to think I am a capable, qualified, talented intern who would make an exceptional employee.

I have nothing to worry about.

When I knock on the door to Lauren’s office, she looks up from her desk and waves me in through the glass. I have a feeling this will not go my way when I see that my supervisor, Chloé, one of the more amiable assistants, is also here, fiddling with her six-carat engagement ring in the corner and avoiding eye contact.

“Have a seat, Brandi,” Lauren says, and I tell myself to ignore that her bright pink lipstick extends above her lip on one side.

There is no small talk. No hello or how’s it going? Under alternate circumstances, I would feel slighted, but because I’m growing more anxious by the second, I’m grateful for her smugness.

As I sit down, Chloé shifts in her chair, and I speak before she can. “I’m sorry. The Instagram report is at the top of my task list. I’ll definitely have it to you before I leave today. I just—”

“That’s not why you’re here, Brandi,” Lauren interjects.

“Oh.” I pause, and as she glances down at her notes, I try to make meaningful eye contact with my supervisor, but she is still actively dodging my eyes.

Lauren begins by throwing out a few compliments. My work ethic is admirable and I have great attention to detail, she says, and the whole time my heart is pounding so loud, I can barely make out most of her words. Chloé jumps in to effusively agree, then Lauren finally stops beating around the bush and looks me directly in the eyes.

“We just don’t feel like you’re fitting into the culture here at Van Doren.”

Every word feels like a backhanded slap across the face, the kind that twists your neck and makes the world go still and white for a few disconcerting moments, like an orgasm but not like an orgasm. It’s obvious what they mean, yet can’t quite bring themselves to say.

They just don’t like that I’m black.

They don’t like the way I wear my braids—long and unapologetic, grazing my hips like a Nubian mermaid.

They don’t like that I’m not the smile-and-nod type, willing to assimilate to their idea of what I should be, how I should act.

Culture.

That’s their code for we-can’t-handle-your-individuality-but-since-we-don’t-want-to-seem-racist-we’ll-invent-this-little-loophole.

Black plus exceptional equals threat.

“If we don’t see any improvement in the coming weeks, we’re going to have to let you go,” Lauren says with no irony, her mouth easing into a synthetic smile.

I blink. I cannot believe this is happening right now. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, my internship at Van Doren, the one fashion company whose ethics align with mine. I wasn’t just blowing smoke up Lauren’s ass when I interviewed for this job, though I was looking at her sideways, wondering why she had not a stitch of Van Doren on. I’d splurged on a single-shouldered jumpsuit from this year’s spring collection that I couldn’t really afford just to impress her, while she hadn’t even felt the need to represent the brand at all as she shot out all those futile questions interviewers love propelling at candidates, I’m convinced, just to see them squirm. Even minuscule amounts of power can be dangerous.

This is bullshit, being put on probation, and I’d give anything to have the balls to call them on it. As I sit here paralyzed, Lauren’s words reverberate in my head and I rebuke them, want to suffocate and bury them.

We’re going to have to let you go.

Her pert voice keeps echoing in my head, not just the words, but the detached, artificial concern in her tone, and every time it does I feel defenseless and betrayed all over again. That weird feeling you get when a nightmare becomes too hopeless to bear; that breathless moment right before you snap awake.

They both stare at me, waiting for my reaction. I tell myself to say something, to stand up for myself. But instead, I just nod in acquiescence and turn the edges of my mouth up into what I hope is at least some semblance of an assiduous smile—exactly what they want me to do. As if this is all my fault, my doing. As if I am taking full responsibility for their narrow view of what a future member of their team should look like.

Most girls like me, from the hood, from the other side of the Hudson, where the median household income is in the same bracket as the cost of a preloved Birkin, can’t afford to participate in a three-month unpaid internship. And of course, it was set up this way by design, to keep a certain demographic out, to keep the new hires white and well-bred with plenty of generational wealth to subsidize a full season of free labor.

I want to say all this to her. I should. But that would be like trying to put out fire with a jug of diesel. So I nod again, robotically, and go back downstairs to finish my assignment, head tucked, a low-frequency hum muting most of the sounds in the suite.

Once I’ve gotten the dress to the point where I have to squint to see where the rust-hued stain used to be, I tap the screen of my iPhone for the time. Nate’s plane should be landing in about an hour. I take an elevator back upstairs so I can grab my bag, and though I should probably check in with Chloé to remind her that I’m leaving early, which she approved over a week ago, I don’t because I’m sweaty and hurt and still a little salty. Also, I do not want to be held accountable for what comes out of my mouth while I’m in this state.

Before I head out the door, I stop into the bathroom to pop a few Advil to keep my cramps at bay and check to see if my face is still intact. I end up bumping into Vanessa from PR, who is on her way out, and she asks me to stop by later to pick up her personal dry cleaning. While this isn’t the first time this has happened, I can’t help but feel degraded, especially since she doesn’t even attempt to look up from her phone as she passes me. I politely tell her I can’t because I’m actually leaving the office now, but let her know that I can come back for it first thing Monday morning. She stops so fast, it’s like she’s collided with an invisible wall.

“Well, you can pick them up now, can’t you?” she asks, swinging around to face me.

But I can tell by her tone that it isn’t actually a question. I should really say no since I’m already running late and I might not even be at Van Doren for much longer. But I have always been docile in the presence of authority figures and I really don’t want word to get back to HR. So I nod and follow behind her as she leads the way to her bright corner office with her impossibly large Monstera. I lug her Theory and Zimmermann on the express R train with me, clutching them tight to my chest next to a guy who is aggressively watching hentai on his iPad and quietly masturbating under his dusty backpack with his free hand.

I make it to baggage claim just in time. Nate told me I didn’t have to trek all the way to JFK this time, but it’s been three weeks since we’ve seen each other in the flesh, no screen or satellite signals between us; way too long since I’ve felt his mouth on the darkest, sweetest parts of my body. And after the shitty day I’ve had, I want to soak up every minute I can with him. I wait next to an elderly couple, dressed in his favorite vibe: cropped FIT sweatshirt that I slashed myself slouched over one shoulder, high-waisted cutoffs and the Yeezys he got me for my last birthday. At first, I was on the fence about accepting them, but Nate was adamant about convincing me to separate the man’s politics from his art. I still haven’t quite managed to detangle the two, but they’re hot, so I’ve somehow managed to work out this cognitive dissonance to the point of tolerance.

Just as I glance up from my phone, a slim Asian guy strapped with a heavy Nikon connected to a behemoth lens crashes into me. He’s tall and dressed in a thin, crew-neck sweatshirt and jeans with busted-out knees, his black hair hanging past his shoulders. He apologizes briskly but doesn’t stop moving. He’s rushing to turn on his camera and adjust the overhead light panel. My eyes flick around. Someone’s coming down the escalator and a crowd is forming.

Of course the paparazzi have beat me here. I roll my eyes and look away. Until Nikon guy bumps into me again, down on his knees now, trying to get a better angle of Nate heading through the crowd.

Nate must have spotted me first because he’s already making a beeline for me, head down as he bypasses the guys with their cameras—there’s three of them hovering now—but he slows for a few fans who ask for pictures with him, two girls in crop tops and a little boy with his father, and it’s hard to tell which of the latter two is his biggest fan.

Sometimes I forget that other people look at him so differently than I do, that he’s a frontrunner for the next NFL draft pick, the son of a Hall of Famer and even better than his four-time MVP father. But Nate isn’t like most ballers.

I know, I know. They all say that. But it’s true. Camera flashes give him anxiety, and he’s into monogamy.

For Nate, the game is just the game, his passion, his EKG, but not a gateway to fame and above-the-law regard. When we first started hanging out, I didn’t even know who he was. I knew he played football at Ohio State, a whole five hundred miles away, and honestly, that was enough to make me apprehensive about the whole thing. But after FaceTiming each other for a few weeks five hours at a time, peeling back the layers and witnessing how sweet and unassuming he is, I was blindsided when he showed me pics of him and his father, his dad wearing his black-and-yellow jersey in most of the shots. It quickly became obvious that he’s basically like the first son of professional football. Nate thought it was cute, charming in a sort of pitiful way, how completely oblivious I was to the football world and its titans. Of course, I’d heard his name before, but Robinsons are almost as ubiquitous as Smiths and Browns, so it wasn’t my fault that I hadn’t made the connection.

I thought all celebrity kids were coddled, entitled, self-absorbed assholes, and maybe most of them are, but not Nate. He comes from money but never leads with it. It’s only in the small, significant moments—like when a waiter accidentally brings out the wrong entrée and he says it’s cool, orders another, pays for both and still tips twenty-five percent—that I remember he’s rich and doesn’t ever have to worry about a nebulous 401(k) or paying off student loans. Everything is always “cool” with Nate. Except when the suited security guards at high-end department stores are on us like bees on a snapdragon, or when he finds a “fuck you nigger” comment under one of his touchdown dance videos on Instagram. I remind him that their micro-and macroaggressions aren’t personal and do whatever I can to make him laugh and forget the rest of the world on those nights. I hate how much it gets him down. He went to a thirty-grand-a-semester PWI in liberal Manhattan where his white peers treated him like a prince and created a warped perception that we live in a post-racial society.

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