Frank Iero personal assistant, or how Madonna saved the day. [1/2]

Author: inpurity
Title: Frank Iero personal assistant, or how Madonna saved the day.
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG13
Prompt for broadcastbandom:UGLY BETTY
Fandom:Frank/Gerard, hints of Spencer/Jon and Mikey/Alicia
Summary:Frank used to live a perfectly normal life in New Jersey with his babbo, sister Anna and nephew Matthew; but everything changed the day he started working at Mode. This is the story of an ordinary day at the office.
Word Count: 11,298
Beta Credit: Thanks to the amazing sweetrecovery for invaluable help, support and suggestions.
Disclaimer:This is a work of fiction, not written for profit. I claim no connection with any member of MCR/PATD/BN, their families or friends. The events hereby narrated are absolutely false and are not meant to reflect the person's private life. No harm, misrepresentation, libel, malice or copyright infringement is intended. At no time is this meant to be construed as reality.



UGLY FRANK – A GARDEN STATE ROMANCE

7:00am – Twelve hours to the party.

On weekdays the traffic from Jersey to Manhattan is a killer, everybody knows that.
It’s like an unavoidable law of physics, or like gravity. Frank knows it very well, and that’s why he wakes up every morning at five to be in the office by nine.

Well, almost every morning.
But not today.

“OH MY GOD!”

The piercing echo of his scream wakes his father and his nephew, but Anna, his sister, is impervious to his despair and continues to sleep through the ruckus that is a fretting, panicking Frank Iero rushing through the house at seven in morning.

“ANNA! I’m gonna kill you! Did you steal the alarm clock’s batteries again? Oh my God, my God.”

By ten past seven Frank is showered and dressed, but his hair is all over the place, his glasses askew on his nose and he keeps swearing under his breath in Italian.

“Babbo! Babbo, have you seen my bag, the brown one with my planner? Oh God, I am dead. I am dead. Mikey is gonna kill me. He is totally gonna kill me. Today of all days.”

Frank’s dad is, by now, used to his hyperactive, prone to panicking, super-dedicated to his boss son, so he fishes through assorted debris left on the sofa until he finds Frank’s bag, his pda and his cell phone.

“Hey, sorcetto. Breathe, OK?”

Frank regards him with a look of pure horror, as if the suggestion of taking a breath is a total outrageous requirement in this time of catastrophe. He turns his cell phone on and he has already four voice mails, three from Mikey and the last one from Jesse. He checks Mikey’s first, and not just out of loyalty, but also because, if Jesse has called, his ass is on the line and he is in no condition to answer to him this early in the morning.

”Frank, are you there? It’s three fifteen and I have just remembered that my brother is coming back tomorrow from his trip to Switzerland, so you have to make sure that he doesn’t upstage me. Sit him beside Christina Ricci, they have the same forehead; they’ll think he’s her sister. After al,l he used to be a girl, right? Oh… and I need a new jacket. No way am I wearing Versace. Not this year. Contact Ray and ask him to get me a double-breasted Armani. He knows my measurements.”

“It’s five, I can’t sleep. I mean, not that I wanted to sleep. You know that Russian model? Anyway. I changed my mind. I want Dior. Everybody is gonna wear Armani. Single breast.”

“Make it double-breasted. But I want a D&G one. I want to make a statement.”

When he plays Jesse’s message is whit a foreboding feeling of dread.
Jesse’s voice, familiar in his authoritative tone rings clear from the phone, and as the message plays, Frank gets paler and paler.

“Frank, I know Michael has everything under control, so I’m sure it won’t be a problem to arrange a table for Courtney and Frances Bean at the front. It was a last-minute thing, but the girl is a major fashion icon already. I know you and Michael will sort this out. Bye.”

Frank glances at the clock, replays Jesse’s message once again and his skin turns a slightly green tint, so much so that his dad sits him by the table and hands him a paper bag.

“Breathe sorcetto. It’s gonna be OK.”

Frank shakes his head, still breathing shallowly inside the bag and looking as if the minute slicing the hour towards half past seven are physically trying to kill him.

“Y-you don’t understand. I can’t do it. Not-not enough time.”

“You ain’t gonna make it at all if you die, Frank. OK? Come on. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.”

When he manages to get his breathing under control, it’s almost a quarter to eight and he would start crying if he knew it meant gaining some more time.

“What am I gonna do? At this rate I’m not gonna be in the office before eleven, and there’s the jacket and Courtney Love? OH MY GOD WHAT AM I GONNA DO WITH COURTNEY LOVE?”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what her plastic surgeon thought when he saw her last time…”

Frank’s nephew is a spirited boy with large brown eyes, a flamboyant attitude and a vast knowledge of fashion and gossip that Frank, on occasion, shamelessly uses to get himself, Mikey and, subsequently, the magazine out of trouble.

“Matt, not now. Go and get some breakfast. There are bagels and toast and cereal.”

“Nonno, how many times do I have to tell you? It's no carbs on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.”

“Sure, sure. Get what you want.”

Matt knows when to make himself scarce, but he can’t help his look of disappointment at Frank’s too-large grey pants and old, paisley sweater vest.

It’s a look that says are you really wearing that?, something Frank is almost immune to, but that still makes him pull at the hem of his vest with fretting, nervous hands.

After Matt leaves, Frank finally finds the presence of spirit to call Ray and start trying to sort out Mikey’s outfit for the benefit ball Mode is throwing in less than twelve hours.

“Ray?”

“Mistress of all things sparkly and beautiful at your service. How may I assist you?”

Despite the current state of imminent disaster Frank finds himself smiling. Ray was the first person who didn’t treat him like he was subhuman the day he started working at Mode and, in the past twelve months, they have struck a strong friendship that Frank cherishes. Some days, Ray is the only one who keeps him sane, preventing him from bashing his head against his desk when Ryan and Spencer bitch about his clothes, his glasses and his not pointy hips.

“Ray, it’s a mess. You’re the only one who can help me.”

“What did Mikey do this time? Frank, you’ve got to learn when to switch off, you can’t be his bloody babysitter twenty-four seven.”

It’s an old argument, and Frank knows that Ray is right, he truly does invest too much of his time cleaning after Mikey and making sure he doesn’t destroy Mode or, worse, give Jesse Lacey the way into becoming the new editor-in-chief. But Frank loves his job, even with all of the levels of insanity that comes with it. Like working for a sex fiend like Mikey Way, or having Mikey’s presumed to be dead sister Gwendolyn, coming back as Mikey’s fiercely hot brother named Gerard.
Frank still can’t look at Gerard without blushing.

“I know Ray, I know. But you’re the only one that can make this day less of a disaster.”

“OK, Frankie. Shoot. What does Mikey needs?”

Frank gives him the details of Mikey’s latest request and gives him precise instructions to also get the Armani, Dior and Versace’s suit jackets ready, because he knows that Mikey is more likely to change his mind another five times before the ball.

“I’ll pick it up later, OK?”

“Sure thing, but you better hurry up and come in. Apparently the anti-Christ is throwing a fit because Gerard is taking Shia Lebouf as his date, and that will totally upstage him. Also I’m pretty sure I saw Ryan and Spencer looking through your desk last night.”

Frank braves another bout of panic munching through a bagel his father has toasted for him, and tries hard not to think about the fact that Gerard is taking a movie star to the ball, Jesse is on the war path, Mikey is probably shagging some Easter European model, or several of them, and Ryan and Spencer are still plotting his downfall.

Sometime Frank wonders if it’s worth it.

“I’m still in Jersey; my alarm didn’t go off this morning. Don’t tell Mikey, I’m gonna sort this mess. Tell him I’m gonna be at the Waldorf Astoria to make sure everything is in place.”

“You live a dangerous life, Frank Iero.”

“Don’t I know it. I’m the double-oh-seven of personal assistants.”

Ray laughs and Frank takes the first full breath in what feels like ages.

“I’ll cover for you; just don’t let them boss you around. OK?”

“I think being bossed around is in my job description.”

“Only if you’re working for Jesse Lacey.”

“Talk to you later, Ray.”

Frank is not looking at the clock, he is totally not. He tries to call Mikey instead, leaves him two messages, and sends him three emails, then replies to Jesse.

No problem. Courtney and Frances Bean will have the best seats.

Frank also wonders when he became such an accomplished liar, because he has no idea how to sit Courtney Love at the front of the stage when the band performing at the event is The Foo Fighters. Well, unless what he wants to accomplish is not only to see Jesse finally tramping Mikey’s authority as editor-in-chief, but also to make the headlines of every gossip column in the world for having Dave Grohl beating the shit out of Courtney Love with his white Gibson guitar.

Yeah, somehow he doesn’t think that something like that would look too good on his résumé.

“Oh Jesus Christ, it’s half past eight! Fuc- …”

In the haze of trying to lie and bargain his way through another crisis, Frank had almost forgotten that he’s still in Jersey, an hour away from the city.

“Don’t swear, Frank.”

“I didn’t swear.”

“You were about to.”

“Dad…”

Frank calls his father “dad” only when they are arguing or he is stressed out, otherwise he’s always “babbo”, a remnant of the Italian heritage he cherishes, like he cherishes his momma’s old recipe for lasagne and gnocchi, a still-living proof of her love for her family. But Frank just called his father “dad”, and that never goes over well.

“No arguing with me, young man.”

”Dad, I really don’t have time for this right now. I will say a couple of thousand Hail Mary’s tonight if I survive this ball. OK? Is that good enough?”

Frank’s dad slaps him on the back of his head with a no-nonsense attitude and sits him down again.

“Listen, I don’t care if you are working for this big shot now, that doesn’t mean you can go about acting all high and mighty with us. With me.”

“I wasn’t…”

“Whatever, we’ll talk later. Now go.”

“The next train is in an hour and there’s no way I can take the bus; the bus is always packed at this time of the day.”

“That’s why I asked Bob to give you a lift. He can use the bus lane because he has a delivery truck and you can make it through the morning traffic. You should be able to be in the city in less than an hour.”

“Babbo…”

“Sure… Go. Go.”

Frank hugs his father tight, standing on his tiptoes to reach up to the much taller man.

“Go, don’t let Bob wait, and try not to let those bullies in your office put you down, OK?”

Frank hugs his father some more and then dashes towards the door, just in time to see his sister emerging from her bedroom with sleep-mussed hair and scrunched up eyes.

“Is it still five?”

“No, you lazy ass. It’s almost nine, and you need to drive Matt to school.

“Oh God, I have two fathers” she says under her breath.

Frank rolls his eyes, waves at them and just catches Matt’s words before dashing outside.

“Don’t let Mikey stand too close to the stage lights; his complexion can’t handle it. ‘Jaundice’ is the word. “


8:55am – Ten hours and five minutes to the party.


Bob is waiting by his van, blue overalls stark and neatly pressed, his kind face open with a smile, his eyes brilliant blue in the morning sunlight.

“Thank you so much, Bob. I really appreciate it. I will repay you somehow. I promise.”

Bob just keeps smiling and passes Frank a cigarette after he catches him eyeing the Marlboro at the corner of his mouth with something akin to sheer need.

“Thank you so much.”

Bob just revs the engine and they drive into the city, the music from the stereo illuminating the journey with brash gusts of guitars and chasing, angry words that remind Frank of his youth, the dreams encased in guitars and shouted words across sweaty bars.

Bob and Frank have grown up together, they lived only a few doors away from one another and their mother’s had been good friends. They had grown apart after Frank left for college, but, unlike many people from the neighbourhood, Bob had never resented Frank for going away, getting an education and managing to land a glamorous (on the outside at least) job in the city.

“So what are you doing today? A photo shoots with Oprah?”

Frank laughs out loud, the bark of a real laughter he rarely allows himself when he is at Mode, where everything and everyone is scrutinized to find any little, and minute flaw.

“Bob, Mode is a fashion magazine! I doubt our art director will ever find a reason to put someone like Oprah on the cover. She has a quality that every woman, or almost every woman, in the magazine lacks. She can think for herself and has an opinion that goes beyond what is the next season’s must-have accessory.”

Bob keeps his eyes on the road, but Frank catches the look in his eyes, the sort of incredulity that Frank knows means that Bob has no idea why Frank works for a world that has made shallowness a virtue. Frank would love to be able to explain it to Bob, he would love to be able to tell him that, underneath the glamorous exterior, the fight to the death for the last, coveted Gucci goodie bag and various eating disorders, Frank has actually found real people.

He has found people like Ray, leonine and rough on the outside, but filled with creativity and warmth. He’s also found Mikey, and discovered that beneath the playboy persona, there is a guy that is funny, caring and genuinely affectionate to the people who are prepared to see beyond his selfishness. He has found Gerard, prepared to change his skin so completely to become another person entirely to pursue his happiness, regardless of the gender boundaries allocated by society.

“It’s complicated.”

“What isn’t?”

Frank is thankful for Bob’s attitude, his ability to hear so much in so few words.
Bob hands him his thermos of coffee, and they sing along with the radio all the way to the Waldorf Astoria, and by the time they arrive Frank is smiling again, buzzed on caffeine and ready to tackle all the problems that, inevitably, will arise within a gathering herding so many egos.

He rushes out of the van, waves at Bob and manages not to get run over by a taxi by a mere smidge.

9:58am – Nine hours and two minutes to the party.

Jesse Lacey, magnificent in a dark blue suit that costs more than Frank’s yearly salary, is standing in the middle of the ballroom, Spencer at his heel like a perfectly groomed lap dog.
It’s a mystery to Frank why Spencer puts up with all of Jesse’s abuse, but the two of them share some sort of weird loyalty to one another, something fuelled by their inner ability to be the biggest bitches Frank has ever encountered, but also incredibly talented when it comes to fashion.

Jesse is five seconds away from making the caterers cry, and the decorators are not in a much better shape. If Frank is correct they look like they have spent the night redoing the entire décor. They have.

“Oh, if is not our little Italian cannolo.”

Frank rolls his eyes at Spencer’s words and plainly ignores him, only to trip over his shoes and fall face first on one of the tables that dot the grand hall facing the make-shift stage. Spencer snickers, but Jesse shushes him with a condescending wave of his large, pale hand.

“Frank, darling, I hope you have rescheduled the seats to accommodate Courtney and Frances Bean, they are both so excited. I gave Courtney’s publicist your number, just in case.”

As if on cue Frank’s cell buzzes in his pocket and he has barely the time to catch the slanted grin of satisfaction on Spencer’s face, before being able to stand up and flip his phone open.

“NO, NO, NO! What is this? This is Mode benefit ball! Not the county fair. What was the last thing you organized? A bovine auction? Spencer! Call Cerise Penrose and tell her to come over here. NOW!”

Frank is pretty sure that one of the decorators has just grabbed a nail gun when Jesse finally stalks out of the ballroom and starts harassing the chef. He debates for a second if he needs to advise Spencer about Jesse’s life being in danger; he decides not to when the woman on the phone starts harping away.

If Frank is not going to survive the day, Jesse will have to face the fact that someone, sooner or later, will stab him, burn him, chop him up and then sell his pictures while wearing polyester fibres. The ultimate humiliation.

Not that Frank has ever had dreams like those.
Of course not.

“Frank? Can I call you Frank? Listen, Ms Love and Ms Cobain are very peculiar; the water has to be exactly room temperature, no ice and no lemons. They hate lemons. Am I being clear? The menu for Ms Cobain is fully vegan macrobiotic, while Ms Love only eats white food. Yes, white.”

Frank is definitely going to murder Jesse for this if he doesn’t die of a stress-related cause by nine o’clock tonight.


11:39am – Seven hours and eleven minutes to the party.

“I am here to save your life, oh ye of little faith.”

When Ray makes his entrance pushing a rack of designer clothes whose cost would cover the economic budget of a small
country, Frank is sitting on the stage, head in his hands. He has just gotten off the phone with the harpy from PR hell, and all he wants is to die. Or to eat loads of chocolate cake so he can have a hypoglycaemic fit and die of a sugar overdose.

Anything would be better than this.

“Ray, Ray I’m so fucked.”

Ray hands the rack to his assistant with strict instructions to guard it with her life, and on her way backstage, the girl looks longingly at Frank, her eyes famished behind the thick frames. Frank doesn’t notice; he is too involved in his personal pity party, and all he can muster is another bout of self-pity, and Ray sits beside him, stroking a large hand down the length of Frank’s spine.

“Talk to me, princess. The oracle of all things fabulous is at your service.”

Frank raises his head and there is a faint red dent on the bridge of his nose from when he banged his glasses against the table few hours earlier. He looks positively frazzled and Ray takes pity on him and hugs him tight, the buzz of his hair tickling Frank’s cheek.

“Talk to me, my pretty. What did Mikey do?”

“It’s not always Mikey’s fault, you know?”

“What’s not always my fault?”

At the low baritone of Mikey’s voice, Frank jumps up as if electrocuted, Ray shakes his head and coughs none too subtly, but Frank is already in assistant mode, his abashed desperation replaced by well-rehearsed professionalism.

“Nothing, nothing. I mean, you know things are always a bit crazy at these types of functions. Ray was just thinking about the Black & White ball, remember? When we had to deal with the ambassador of that small African state when he found you with your hand down his eighteen-year old wife’s pants? That type of crazy. Nothing I can’t handle. Not that that was a problem, because yeah, it was, a bit, but we’re pros, right? And you have totally learned to ask about marital status and age now. Right?”

Ray’s snort is inaudible only because Jesse picks the exact same moment to make an entrance; he struts towards Mikey, dressed in a perfect shade of confidence and disdain, his frosty blue eyes trained on the younger of the Way siblings.

“Michael, how nice of you to join us. After all, this is just the charity event of the year. I’m sure you can spend the day shopping for the best supermodel, because I have everything under control.”

Mikey may be (he is) a flake, and an unrepentant playboy, but in the past twelve months he has found himself really starting to care about Mode and his employees. He is still impossibly naïve sometime, and puts his selfishness above everything else, but he is learning, and Frank, the impossible optimist, still sees it as a total victory.

Bottom line is, Mikey has learned not too take any shit from Jesse, something that infuriates the senior editor to no end, and makes Jesse a formidable enemy, a villain wearing hand-tailored suits and Italian shoes.

“Jesse, you mean everything is according to your plans? I’m here because I actually care about this ball, and I am supervising Frank so that everything goes smoothly.

Ray’s snort this time doesn’t go unnoticed, and Jesse shots him the filthiest look, his sharp chin raised high in quiet contempt.

“I am sure you have better things to do around here than gossip, Ray. I hope you remember to have my jacket fitted to my measurements. Jesse Thomas Lacey does not wear sloppily tailored clothes.”

Spencer appears out of thin air, pats Ray’s shoulder only to have his hand almost beaten off in retaliation, and yelps back beside Jesse, hands on his hips and fierce by association. Jesse gives him a bored look, his attention still on Mikey, waiting to attack, like a serpent in the grass.

“Jesse, I’m bored. Bored of your insufferable, pretentious attitude. I am the editor-in-chief, and regardless of what you, or my beloved brother may think, dad has left the magazine to me. So, go and have another bout of Botox, or train your puppy to bring you younger boys, or whatever he is supposed to be doing and let me do my job.”

Frank wants to say something, he knows he needs to say something, but before he can even manage to open his mouth and inform Mikey about the Courtney Love problem, Jesse is smiling a snake-like smile, the serpentine beauty of his thin mouth stretched thin over his imminent victory.

“Of course, how did I ever forget my place?” Jesse says. “I should have let you handle this, all of this. After all I only spent four months planning the seating, meeting the sponsors and busting my, may I say, very fine ass to come up with a guest list that does not resemble a first communion party in New Jersey, right Frank?”

Frank’s eyes flash gold for a moment, simmering fury burning under his usually demure behaviour. He bites his lips because he knows that anything else will only create more problems, and not just for himself, and when he doesn’t reply he can see the sheer gloss of triumph in Jesse’s icy irises.

“Anyway, come on, Spencer. Let’s leave this to the professionals. If you ever need us, Michael, you know where to find me. Don’t expect that to be free though. I don’t do pro-bono.”

Mikey watches him leave with a mix of relief and not so hidden fear that he will need Jesse’s help before the end of the night. Frank tries to give him a comforting smile, but it is thin at the edges and there are so many things he needs to do, too many things. He touches Mikey’s elbow to gain his attention and he’s about to say something when Jesse stops by the entrance, black hair illuminated by the natural light that streams from the large windows, and he adjusts the lapel of his jacket and smiles.

Frank feels a shiver running down his spine. It’s like watching a cougar, all muscled elegance and quiet deadliness.

“Michael? Remind me to introduce you to Ms. Love tonight. She’s a huge fan. Bye.”

Mikey’s expression takes a few seconds to shift from confused to alarmed and then terrified. He turns to look at Frank, to seek advice, and the guilty look on Frank’s face is something he was not expecting, something that makes his hazy, soft eyes burn.
“YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS? OH FUCK! Of course you knew. You know everything. So why didn’t you fucking tell me? Why on the fucking earth is she coming here tonight? Why did we have to book the fucking Foo Fighters?”

Frank tries, to no avail, to wedge a word in here and there, but Mikey is too far gone, pacing the length of the stage, muttering to himself, and Frank knows that he will have to wait for Mikey to wind down before he can talk to him, but they have no time and he has no way to sort this shit if Mikey starts to freak out.

“Mikey? Mikey? MICHAEL!”

Mikey whips his head around so fast Frank is scared he’ll get whiplash (and wouldn’t that be super?), but he has his boss’ attention at last and he can sit him down, and try to come up with a plan.


12:45pm – Six hours and fifteen minutes to the party.

When Frank finally manages to get Mikey to listen, he sits him down and tries to explain what has been going on.

“Mikey, first of all. I didn’t know about Courtney Love until two hours ago, and I have been trying to call you for the past two hours and also sent you three emails, with no reply. Second, we are in deep shit, I am aware of that and we need to find a way to sort this out. It’s clear we can’t not tell the band about Courtney being here. Also because I think her last restraining order is still valid, so she cannot sit too close to the stage. If I remember correctly it was two hundred yards. OK… We may have a bigger problem than I thought…”

Mikey groans and flops on the stage, long legs dangling from the edge, soft hair falling into his eyes.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, as I already said. We are pretty fucked. But let me google the details of that restraining order, OK?”

Frank taps furiously at his Blackberry for few seconds, brows knitted together in concentration and Mikey looks hopeful for about half a second, until Frank tries a small smile and says “Well, it is a bit better than I thought. It’s only one hundred yards.”

Mikey lets himself fall back against the hard wood stage and groans loudly.

“It’s not too bad…”

“FRANK! We have the Foo Fighters performing and a celebrity that will want to be seated up front, that cannot, for legal reasons, stand too close to Dave Grohl. How is that not bad?”

Frank wants to be positive, he really does, and he even has a perfectly good speech ready for it. All his babbo had taught him through the years, how to look at the glass half full, how honesty is the best policy, and when that fails there are always prayers, or a call for a favour to some Jersey mafia boss (although that wasn’t really an option in the Iero’s household). He’s about to dazzle his boss with the power of his positive attitude when his Blackberry buzzes several times. When he scrolls down the list of emails it’s clear that they have to start praying right now. Or call Carmine Tannino.

“Mikey?”

“Oh Jesus, what now?”

“I think we won’t have any problems sitting Courtney Love and Frances Bean at the front.”

Mikey looks at him, scepticism written all over his handsome face.

“Well, don’t freak out OK?” Frank says. “This may be a blessing in disguise.”

“ Frank?”

“Just got three emails. One from Dave Grohl’s publicist, one from The Foo Fighter’s manager and one from Dave Grohl himself… And, well they have to cancel. Unforeseeable circumstances.”

Dave Grohl’s email actually reads No way in hell I am performing in front of that bitch., but Mikey doesn’t need to know that, especially not now, because it looks he is about have a heart attack, and Frank would really love not to kill his boss. That wouldn’t look to good on his resume.

Mikey keeps a stunned, silent stance for a handful of seconds until something flickers in his eyes, and then he’s jumping off the stage, crossing the ballroom in a few strides. He starts kicking chairs around, the crowd of decorators curiously staring at him.
Frank follows him, picking up a chair in a feeble attempt to stop his fury, but Mikey is half a foot taller and wirily strong, and he snarls away every time Frank tries to touch him.

“That motherfucking bastard! He did it! Of course he did it; he orchestrated this to make me look like a fool in front of my father. In front of the entire fashion world.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“MY BROTHER! Him and that other fucking snake in Gucci shoes!”

By this point Mikey is screaming and the crowd of onlookers has grown to include waiters and wardrobe assistants. The gossip mill has already started, and if Frank is not careful someone will film this and they will be on Fashion TV in a matter of ten minutes.

Frank finally manages to spot Ray in the crowd and he comes to his rescue, so that they can both steer the still-ranting Mikey into a nearby private room that Mode has reserved for the night.

Mikey may have conceded to be taken away from prying eyes, but he has yet to stop cursing and ranting, his anger resembling a petulant child, rather than a distressed business man in danger of fucking up a big event.

To Mikey, Frank realizes, this is still about winning over Gwendolyn (well, Gerard now), about being the child his dad loved the best, about not being upstaged by his ever-so-brilliant sister. Only now the sister is a brother, giving his dad another reason to be strangely proud of his eldest son.

“I’m gonna fucking rip those brand new jewels she bought with dad’s money!”

“Well at least he can use them for a lifetime. They’re not just disposable like the models you lavished with gifts…”

Frank looks at Ray with wide, shocked eyes, and he mouths how is that supposed to help? But Ray just shrugs and Mikey stares at the sassy, self-proclaimed sparkly seamstress of ungodly talents for a second before barking out a laughter that shakes his thin frame.

“Jesus… This is so ridiculous.”

“Well, he makes a fine man. I have to say his ass was always kind of too big for a girl. Perfect size for a man.”

“RAY!”

“What? I have eyes. And pretty, pretty hands too.”

“My sis-brother would love to hear you compliment his ass. He can be a bit self-conscious when he is not being a fucking cheating scumbag of a bastard. Frank what are we gonna do?”

Frank has to stop thinking about Gerard’s ass before he can reply.

Damn.

2:07pm – Four hours and fifty-three minutes to the party.

After finally agreeing to go back to the office and try to sort out the photo shoot about the Amazonian rain forest (or the girls in skimpy clothes made entirely of leaves and some streaks of mud), Mikey leaves Frank with instructions to kill his brother on sight, and, most importantly with the job to find a replacement band in less than six hours. Of course Frank is thrilled, so much so that drinking bleach sounds like a lot of fun.

“Hi, I’m Frank Iero, from Mr. Michael Way’s office. As you know tonight is the big charity ball at the Astoria and we would love to see Jay-Z performing. I understand this is last minute, but the Mode party is a big event… Hello? Hello?”

Frank starts crossing out names, and, with each call, he gets more and more desperate.

“Hi, I am Frank Iero, from Mr. Michael Way’s office. As you know tonight is the big charity ball at the Astoria and we would love to see…

“Beyoncè?”

“Christina Aguilera?”

“J-Lo?”

“Amy Winehouse? Oh, she’s in rehab, again? I see. Congratu- I mean get well soon.”

“Jessica Simpson? Ashleey? I see… Chicago, I see. Of course, I understand, I see collaboration with Fall Out Boy, I see.”

Frank hasn’t had anything to eat since the bagel at his house and by three o’clock his stomach is protesting so much he can’t ignore it anymore. The fruitless search for a performer is also making him nauseated, and there must be a god that hates short, Italian assistants that only wanted a job at a magazine so they could become a journalist.
Frank is pretty sure that if that God existed, he would look a lot like Jesse Lacey, maybe with less Prada, or maybe more. Who knows.

He walks out of the hotel, his jacket tight around the frame of his lithe body, the late autumn breeze cold enough to counteract the bright sunshine. There is a deli just across the street, with rows of neatly stacked cheeses and savoury meats in display, and he can feel his mouth water. None of the people at Mode would be seen dead in a place like this; fasting and throwing up are part of the curriculum for any true fashion acolyte. It’s yet another thing that cuts Frank from off the rest of the pack, another thing that gives ammunitions to Ryan and his pathetic jokes about the size of Frank’s love handles.

He bites into his meatballs sub with glee, mentally flipping the finger to all the stick thin insects that flutter all around him at the office. He finishes half of it in few bites and wraps the rest in foil paper for later, the clock is ticking inexorably and they are still short a main act.


PART 2 IS HERE