Wardrobe Malfunction

by Samantha Towle

  “Yeah, but you look great, and I’m loving your hair,” she says, moving to the side to examine my hair. “Is that pink and purple you have in there?”

  “Pink and lavender,” I tell her.

  “I might have to get some in my hair.”

  “You totally should.”

  “Cool. Something for us to do together while we’re here.” She threads her arm through mine. “We should get moving. I parked in short-term.”

  “Thanks for coming to pick me up,” I say as we walk through the airport. “I thought I’d be grabbing a cab.”

  “As if!” She laughs.

  We push through the doors into the LA sunshine.

  “Welcome to LA.” She squeezes my arm with hers. “You been here before?”

  “First time.”

  “You’re gonna love it!”

  She leads me over to her car, which is one of those Smart cars.

  “Um, will my case fit in there?” I ask, skeptically eyeing the car.

  “Course it will.” She laughs a bright and breezy sound, opening the trunk.

  Surprisingly, my case fits in easily, with room to spare. Guess they’re bigger than they look.

  I climb in the passenger seat and strap myself in. The car feels really light and not sturdy at all.

  “You sure we won’t blow away with a strong gust of wind?” I ask as she turns the engine on.

  The sound of Machine Gun Kelly and Camila Cabello’s “Bad Things” blasts out her stereo. I love this song.

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t be hating on Sunny,” she says over the music. “And do you see any wind around here?”

  “First off, you named your car Sunny? And, second, you can’t see wind. It’s invisible.”

  She laughs loudly. “God, I forgot what a smart-ass you are! I’ve missed you, babe. So glad you’re here.”

  There’s something in her tone that doesn’t sound like she’s totally happy, but I don’t ask. She’ll tell me if and when she wants to.

  “That’s why you love me—my smart mouth.”

  “And your ability to sniff out a designer sale in a ten-mile radius.”

  “It’s a gift.” I dramatically flick my hand, making her laugh again.

  “Where are you staying?” Ava asks as she pulls onto the highway.

  “Um…” I dig out the paperwork I printed last night from my bag. “The Comfort Inn on Sunset Boulevard.”

  “God, the studio is cheap.”

  “I’m guessing the Chateau Marmont was all booked up.” I give her a sarcastic grin.

  “You could have stayed with me…but Jeremy…”

  “Ava, it’s fine.” I wave her off. “The hotel has a pool, which is always a plus.”

  “And it’s only a five-minute walk to the studio.”

  “Another bonus. See? I’ll be fine. And I’ll only be here for, what?”

  “Three weeks max. Then, we’re heading to Vegas.”

  “Vegas, baby! Vegas!” I cheer.

  “Have you ever been to Vegas?” she asks me.

  “Once. Years ago. So, tell me more about the movie,” I say, quickly changing the subject. I don’t want her asking why I was in Vegas all those years ago.

  “Which movie?”

  I give her a stupid look. “The one we’re working on, you numpty. The film with Makes Me Wet West in it.”

  “Numpty?” She throws me a confused glance, totally ignoring my new nickname for Vaughn West.

  I think it’s a great nickname. I should get it printed on T-shirts. I could make a killing.

  “It’s British. Means dumbass.”

  “And you’re British? Since when?”

  “I’m not. I just like their curse words. They’re way more fun than ours.”

  “You’re so odd.” She laughs.

  “I prefer the term unconventional.” I playfully stick my tongue out at her.

  She makes a lane change, and the car in front cuts her off. She honks her horn.

  “Mirrors, asshole!” she yells at the driver of the car, who obviously can’t hear a word she’s saying, as she angrily waves her hand around. “Fucking asshole needs to learn how to drive a car. And they say women are bad drivers. Dickhead!”

  Note to self: Never piss off Ava while in a car.

  “Steady there, Ronda Rousey.”

  She glances at me, her face moving from pissed to embarrassed. “Sorry.” She grimaces. “Idiots like that just piss me off.”

  “No kidding. Remind me never to get on your bad side,” I say, making her laugh. “So, the film?”

  “Oh, yeah. I told you West is in it”—oh, yes, you did, and he’s mainly the reason I’m here—“and that Evans is directing. It’s a gangster film, so the clothes are pretty much straightforward—suits, classy dresses. Natasha Warner is in it, playing the female lead.”

  “Ooh, I love her.” I clap my hands.

  “Yeah, she’s super nice as well. I met her last week. She and Vaughn are gonna steam the screens up.”

  “And I will be watching that scene with the utmost concentration.”

  I grin, and Ava giggles, her brows rising in agreement.

  “Right?”

  “Those two would make beautiful babies,” I muse.

  “Agreed. But Natasha’s married, and she already has a baby, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s married to that hot NFL player…”

  “Carter Williams.”

  “Lucky bitch.”

  We both sigh at the same time.

  “So, what about you? You seeing anyone?”

  “Nah.” I shake my head. “I’ve been busy a lot as of late, and after the disaster that was Michael, I decided to give dating a break.”

  “Wasn’t that about two years ago? And I guess you are super picky.”

  “I am not picky!” I squawk, affronted. “I work in the clothing industry. Most of the men I work with are gay.”

  “I work in this industry, too, and I managed to meet someone.”

  “An actor. I don’t want to date an actor.”

  “Says Miss Not Picky. And what’s wrong with actors?” She flicks me a look.

  Oops.

  “Nothing. I just want to date a blue-collar guy.”

  Honestly, I think it would be hard to date an actor, having to watch them get it on with other women on the big screen. Also, there’s a high probability that said actor would screw his costar and dump me. Plus, actors are high-maintenance. I might drool over hot actors—aka Vaughn West, Chris and Liam Hemsworth…God, two brothers. Anyway, I wouldn’t say no to a roll in the sack with any of them—and, yes, I know dreams don’t come true. But, in reality and for the long-term, I want a nice, normal blue-collar guy who works with his hands all day long and then comes home and ravages me with those rough, callous, hard-working hands.

  “Wasn’t Michael a drug dealer?” Ava pipes up.

  “Yes, he was a drug dealer, but I didn’t know that when I met him.” I frown. “He told me he worked construction. I dumped him as soon as I found out his real profession.”

  Of course, dumbass that I am, it took me six months to figure it out. But it’s not like I could have had anything serious with Michael—or with anyone back then. And, still, not now—well, for a short time longer, that is.

  “And, well, I can’t be that picky, considering I went out with Michael,” I add.

  “Yeah, he was a dick. But a good-looking dick.” She grins.

  She’s right. He was gorgeous.

  “He had a good-looking dick, too…very big.” I size out with my hands. “That’s the only thing I miss about him.”

  We both giggle.

  Ava pulls off the highway, heading onto Sunset Boulevard. I watch out the window, taking in the sights.

  “So, who else is on the team?” I ask her.

  “It’s just me, you, and Logan.”

  “Logan?”

  “Logan Cheung.”

  “I don’t think I know him,” I muse, tapping a
finger to my chin.

  “He’s an LA native. Wants to be an actor.”

  “Who doesn’t in this town?” I quip.

  “He’s lovely though. Told me he started working in wardrobe to try and get a foot in the industry. He’s real good, and he has a real natural flair for style. And, God, can the man sew.”

  “And, without stereotyping, I’m guessing he’s gay?”

  “Of course.” She smirks.

  She pulls up in front of the hotel. I stare up at it. It looks okay. And I stayed in worse places back when I lived in Philly.

  “You want me to come in with you? Then, we can go out and get some dinner,” Ava offers.

  “Nah, I’m knackered. I’m just gonna get room service, if they do it, and crash. All this traveling has wiped me out.”

  “Cool.”

  “Thanks for the ride.” I reach over and give her a one-armed hug.

  “I’ll see you in the morning. Show you around the wardrobe. Oh, you’ll need this to get into the studio.” She reaches over into the glove box, pulls out a pass on a lanyard, and hands it to me. “Your pass to get in the studio.”

  “What time do you need me there?” I open the door, readying to get out.

  “I’m getting in at eight thirty. Vaughn’s coming in for a fitting at ten. I’ve assigned him to you, as he was Millie’s, and I know how much you like him.”

  She gives me a knowing smile, and I shake my head, getting out of the car.

  I hook my bag on my shoulder and drop the lanyard in it. Leaning down, I say, “I’ll be there at eight thirty then. See you tomorrow.”

  “See you then.”

  I shut the door and get my case out of the trunk. I tap my hand on the roof to let her know I’m good. Then, I wave bye and head into the hotel.

  Charly

  My sewing case in hand, I’m at the studio. I arrived here ten minutes ago, and Ava has been showing me around the warehouse where all the clothes and costumes for the studio are kept.

  “This is the main wardrobe and props area…and this is our section for storage.”

  I follow her over to the rails of clothes and storage units.

  “Everything is labeled, so we know which is ours. But we have a trailer over by the studio they’re filming in, so we can do fittings there. All of Vaughn’s stuff is already over there. I had Logan move it over for you yesterday.”

  “Brilliant. Thanks.”

  “Here’s Vaughn’s sheet, listing what he’ll need on which days.”

  “Great, thanks.” I take the file from her. “What about the other actors?”

  “Logan has Natasha. The rest of the cast, I’ve split between the two of you, and we’ll work out the schedule as we go.”

  “And you just sit back and give us orders?” I grin.

  She sticks her tongue out at me. “Because we’re a small team, I’ll be on set for any alterations, and I get the awesome tasks of inventory and keeping your ass in check.”

  “I am a handful,” I tell her with a serious face.

  “No kidding.” She laughs, swatting me on the ass.

  “Hey! Sexual harassment!” I call out with a laugh.

  She shakes her head, laughing. “Come on, I’ll show you the trailer and introduce you to Logan.”

  We walk over to the trailer. I follow her inside. It looks just like all other wardrobes I’ve worked in, nothing different.

  Except for the hottie over by the table, who’s sewing a button on a Marc Jacobs blazer.

  “Logan, I’d like you to meet Charly.”

  He snaps off the thread and puts the blazer down. “Hey, Charly. Good to meet you.”

  He stands up to shake my hand. I’d say he’s about five-eleven, and he has a lovely face, dark eyes, and jet-black hair. Best of all, he’s dressed in a snappy suit. I love a man in a suit.

  “I love your top,” he says.

  I glance down at it. I’m wearing my black You Can’t Sit With Us cropped tank. It’s my favorite. I love it. I teamed it with my ripped Gucci jeans that I got at a seventy percent off sale and my Zara wedges. My hair is down, and my makeup is light. I’m rocking the basics, if I do say so myself.

  “Thanks. Love your suit. Tom Ford, this season, right?”

  “Right.” He smiles.

  I hear a phone beep, and then Ava’s saying, “Shit. I’ve got to go pick up Natasha’s dresses. I forgot they’d be ready this morning. Charly, will you be okay if I disappear for a bit?”

  “Sure”—I wave her off—“I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t forget that Vaughn is coming in at ten thirty.”

  “Ten thirty. Got it.”

  I watch her disappear out the door we just came in through.

  “I need to get this jacket to Marcus—supporting cast actor,” Logan explains, “and see if it’s right this time. I might be a while. He can be…tricky.”

  “Gotcha. No worries. I’ll just familiarize myself with this place.”

  Then, Logan’s gone, and I’m alone.

  I have a look around, finding where everything is. I locate Vaughn’s clothes on the rail, so I get them off and set them up on the table. I get my sewing kit all ready.

  And then I’m good to go, with time to kill.

  Honestly, I’m feeling a little nervous.

  Of course I’ve worked with actors before, but this is Vaughn West.

  He’s a huge star.

  And gorgeous.

  I decide to do some work on my latest design. I pull out my sketchpad from my handbag, set my cell on the table, and start my playlist. I open my pad at the drawing I’ve been working on this past week.

  It’s a wedding dress. Strapless bodice encrusted with crystals and a lace ribbon stitched under the breast with the ends of the ribbon set with crystals as well. I just can’t decide on the skirt. It’s been bugging me all week.

  Madonna’s “Dress You Up” starts to play on my phone.

  I love this song! It’s my anthem.

  Putting my pad down, I turn the volume up.

  Then, I’m singing along and getting to my feet. Picking up a lint roller to use as my mock microphone, I’m singing my heart out, dancing around, twerking my ass off to Madge, and—

  “Shit! Fuck!” I yell mid turn, the lint roller dropping out of my hand and to the floor.

  Because Vaughn West is standing in the doorway—arms folded, his shoulder leaning on the doorframe—watching me.

  Oh my God.

  I dart over and silence the music, closing my sketchpad. “God, you scared me.” I’m breathing quickly. I press my hand to my chest, my heart pounding. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Yeah, I got that.”

  His voice…dear God. Deep and raspy and sexy.

  I take a good look at him, and he’s even better in real life than he looks on-screen.

  He’s beautiful. And tall. I know he’s six foot two and a half. And, no, I’m not a stalker. I read it in a magazine once.

  He’s dressed in blue jeans and a simple black tee that highlights the golden tone of his skin. His hair is tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it. And his lips, so full and kissable…and his eyes…they’re like melted chocolate with caramel in the center…

  Then, I realize he’s laughing at me. Well, not laughing, laughing, but there’s definitely mirth in those gorgeous eyes of his.

  And I’m back to planet Earth with a bang. Where I’ve just made a complete fool of myself in front of Vaughn West.

  Someone, please kill me now.

  “I am sorry about that.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting you for a while, and when Madonna comes on, you just have to sing along, you know?”

  “Oh, yeah. Every time I hear Madonna playing, I have to drop what I’m doing and shake my ass to the beat.”

  “Right?” I exclaim, sounding a little shrill.

  I might be a tad flustered and flying high on adrenaline right now, which is why it takes me a beat longer to realize he’s
actually taking the piss.

  “So, anyway”—I brush it off with a shake of my shoulders—“embarrassing moment aside, I’m Charlotte Michaels; everyone calls me Charly. I’m your new dresser. I’m replacing Millie. It’s really great to meet you, Mr. West.” I walk over to him and stick my hand out to shake his.

  He seems even taller up close. I’m not exactly short at five-eight, and I’ve got my three-inch wedges on, giving me extra height, but I feel like a little girl standing in front of him.

  Vaughn glances down at my hand like he can’t quite figure me out, and then he looks back up at my face with an expression that says he thinks I’m mentally impaired—which isn’t surprising, considering he just walked in on me wailing out to Madonna and twerking.

  Honestly, I question my own sanity at times.

  “Vaughn’s fine,” he says but makes no move to shake my hand.

  “Okay.” I awkwardly pull my hand back, trying not to feel like a complete moron. “Vaughn, it is.”

  Then, we’re just standing there, staring at each other.

  “So…” he says.

  “Right. Clothes.” I snap myself to attention.

  I turn to the table where I left the clothes I need to alter for him, and I pick up the pants off the top of the pile. Black Armani suit pants. He’ll look super hot in them.

  “To start with, I need you to try these on. Ava’s notes said they don’t fit properly. I just need to see them on, so I can resize them for you.”

  He takes the pants from my hand. “In here?” He gestures to the curtained-off area.

  “Yes.”

  Vaughn goes into the changing area, pulling the curtain across. I turn to the table and bend over, dropping my head on it with a silent groan.

  Ugh. God, I can’t believe I was just twerking to Madonna, and Vaughn West walked in on me and saw me. I’m such a fucking loser.

  I hear the rustle of clothing from behind me. I pick my head up, righting myself.

  Vaughn West is undressing and quite possibly naked, only ten feet behind me.

  Holy crap.

  I’m actually starting to sweat a little.

  I fan my face with my hand.

  Jesus, get it together, Charly.

  A minute later, I hear the rail rattle, telling me the curtain is being pulled back.

  I turn around, and…holy shit.

  He’s shirtless.