Wardrobe Malfunction

by Samantha Towle

  “Come on, Jack, you would have hit him if you were in my situation. Anyone would have.”

  “You’re right, but it’s easy to twist and manipulate things to look differently, and Piper’s proven she’s good at lying. Then, there’s your behavior as of late—the drinking and the women. It’s giving Piper’s people the tools to swing this however they want. Piper is getting sympathy by bringing you down. It’s not too late to stop it, but we need to take action now, Vaughn.

  “I’ve let you have your time to be hurt and angry, but it’s enough now. I need you to clean yourself up. I need you out of the press for whom you’re fucking and back in it for what you’re working on next. You want revenge for what they did to you, Vaughn? Then, revenge is cleaning yourself up and getting back to work, stepping over them and climbing right back to the top.”

  He’s right.

  I know he’s right.

  This isn’t me. Who I want to be.

  But I’ve never been hurt like this before. It’s almost like I don’t know what to do with the hurt, so I ignore it, and when it becomes too much to ignore, I drink and fuck it away…until it comes back, and then I rinse and repeat.

  Piper’s betrayal hurt. But Cain’s betrayal hurt way more.

  He was my friend for ten years. I would’ve taken a bullet for the guy.

  And he slept with my girlfriend.

  I almost laugh out loud at the cliché of it.

  Best friend fucks girlfriend for months under the nose of the boyfriend, and he has no clue.

  Happens all the time.

  But, when you’re a celebrity, then it’s the juiciest story of the decade. A story that just won’t fucking go away.

  To the fans and press, I’m the wounded animal.

  Pathetic.

  Poor Vaughn.

  It’s the pity and apathy that drive me fucking insane.

  But no more. Jack’s right.

  Arms folded, I lean my back against the window. “So, what do you have in mind?”

  Jack smiles. “You have an offer.”

  “For what?”

  “More like from whom.” His smile widens, making me stand up straighter. “Evans.”

  My heart stops. “Brandon Evans?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Holy fuck.”

  Brandon Evans is the hottest director around at the moment. Everyone wants to work with him.

  “What’s the movie?”

  “The Lament. It’s a gangland thriller. Think Goodfellas 2017.”

  “What’s the part?”

  “Lead. Drew Asher, heir to the Asher family. It’s a great fucking script. Brandon wrote the part with you in mind.”

  “You’re shitting me.” I’m almost breathless. My insides are lighting up like the sky on the Fourth of July. “Did you know?”

  He shakes his head. “You know Brandon keeps things tight to his chest. I got the call just last night. There’s no doubt that he wants you for the part, but he has reservations, Vaughn…your recent behavior.”

  “I’ll sort it out. Clean up my act.”

  My heart is drumming, my pulse thrumming. I feel alive, like I haven’t felt in a long while.

  This is the part I’ve been dreaming of. This could take me up to the next step. From the hot movie star to serious actor, like DiCaprio did with his career.

  “This could be it, Vaughn,” Jack says, excitement in his voice. “This could put you at the top with no way of ever coming down. I’ll do the work at my end to get rid of the shit the press has been saying about you, but you have to keep your nose clean in the meantime. No more excessive partying, drinking, or screwing around until the film is released.”

  “Consider it done.” I pick up the paper with the phone number that the redhead left behind. I crumple it in my hand and toss it in the trash can.

  Charly

  I’m admiring the gorgeous Fendi hanging from the shoulder of the woman walking in front of me when my cell starts ringing from inside my knockoff Stella McCartney.

  I retrieve it from the bottom of my bag, expecting it to be Nick—my roommate and best friend since college—but see that it’s Ava Simms. She’s a friend and colleague. She works wardrobe like I do.

  “Yello!” I sing cheerily to her.

  I hear her laugh.

  “Charly, do you ever answer the phone like a normal person?”

  “Why would I when I can answer so colorfully?” I say in a puzzled tone, making her laugh again. “How you doing?” I ask.

  “Good,” she says.

  But I can tell from her tone that she’s not good at all. We might not be super close, like Nick and I are, but I know her well enough to know when something is wrong. I just hope it isn’t that prick of a so-called boyfriend of hers. The one she moved across the country to be with. Honestly, I can’t imagine leaving New York to move to LA for any guy. Especially not an out-of-work actor who sidelines as a hand model and thinks he’s God’s gift to women.

  I don’t know what Ava sees in that guy. Granted, he’s good-looking, but he’s a dick, and she could do a million times better.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Are you still in Nashville?”

  Okay. Not the answer I was expecting but whatever.

  “Nope. I just landed in JFK.” I smile to myself, looking forward to having the week off that I booked in for myself. I haven’t had any time off in…forever, and even though I’m not rich, I have enough money in the bank to allow myself a week of doing nothing. “I’m actually walking through the airport as we speak, heading to grab a cab home. Why?”

  “Well…I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but I landed a job on this big-budget movie, and I’m the wardrobe mistress—”

  “Really? Congrats! That’s great, Ava!”

  Wardrobe mistress is a promotion for Ava, who was a wardrobe assistant like me. She’s been in the business longer than I have though, so I can’t envy her promotion.

  “Well…the thing is, I was wondering if you would want to come and work with me.”

  “When?” I have a job lined up in wardrobe on a small Broadway play after my weeklong break, but if it’s after that, then I can do it.

  “Well…tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I yell in surprise.

  “Yeah, I know it’s short notice—”

  “No kidding. Hang on, am I an add-on? Did someone drop out, and you need me to fill in?”

  Silence.

  I can practically hear her wince.

  “Ava?”

  “It’s not as bad as you’re making it sound. I knew you were already working up in Nashville on Rollers, so I hired Millie Reed—”

  “Millie Reed?”

  “I know you don’t like her—”

  “She screwed Michael.”

  “After you dumped him.”

  “I know, but that’s not the point. She was supposed to be a friend. You know, girl code and all that.”

  “You two were never friends; you just worked together.” She laughs. “I remember what you said the first day after you worked with her. You said she was useless.”

  “She is useless. She’s a crap seamstress. She sewed all the buttons on a shirt the wrong way—rookie mistake.”

  “Well, she was available—”

  “She always is.”

  “And you weren’t,” Ava continues seamlessly. “I would have asked you first; you know that. But, with the timing, I knew you wouldn’t be able to do it, so I asked Millie, and…”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I just got a call this morning from Vaughn’s manager, telling me to fire her. Apparently, she was incompetent.”

  “She probably tried to screw him, too,” I mutter. “Hang on, Vaughn? As in—”

  “Vaughn West. Oh, yes.”

  “Oh my God,” I breathe.

  Vaughn West.

  Vaughn. West.

  I can’t say I’m not excited at hearing that name. I’ve worked with
a lot of celebrities, but Vaughn West is a whole different caliber of celebrity. Aside from being off-the-charts hot—dark blond hair, hazel-brown eyes, and a body made for sex…let’s just say that Vaughn has starred in a lot of my late-night fantasies. I might have a teeny-tiny crush on him.

  But not only is he gorgeous, he’s also a great actor. To be able to see him in action would be amazing.

  “What’s he like?” I have to ask.

  “Gorgeous, of course. I’ve only met him twice, and each time was brief, but he seems like a nice guy.”

  I knew he’d be nice! He always comes across as nice in his interviews.

  Not that I stalk him or anything.

  “Where’s the job?” I ask her.

  “LA, for studio. Vegas, for location.”

  “How long?”

  “Two months…three, max. The pay is really good, and it’s a great opportunity, Charly. It’s being directed by Brandon Evans.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  Brandon Evans is Hollywood’s current golden boy. Every film he touches is gold. He and Vaughn together will be magic.

  “It’s a gangster film. Lots of designer dresses, shoes, bags. And I’m sure we’ll be able to keep some items at the end.”

  My ears perk up at that. Girl knows how to get me; I’ll give her that.

  I love designer clothes. Only my bank account doesn’t love them as much as I do.

  Not that she didn’t already have me at Vaughn West, but I’m not going to let her know just how easily I’m won over. Especially not when I’m coming in at second.

  “Okay…I’ll do it.”

  “Yay!” I hear her hands clap in the background. “You’re the best, Charly! I’ll get the office to book your ticket for tomorrow, and I’ll have them email it to you tonight along with the details of your hotel.”

  “Maybe I should just sleep at the airport tonight.”

  I’m half-joking. Still, she laughs.

  “It’s going to be so much fun, working together again. I can’t wait! We’re gonna have a blast. Get yourself home, and get some sleep, crazy girl. I’ll see you tomorrow!” she sings.

  “See you,” I say with way less enthusiasm at the thought of having to fly all the way across the country tomorrow when I’ve only just gotten back home.

  But the money…

  I can treat myself to those Manolos I’ve been drooling over…and, of course, Vaughn West. Gorgeous, sexy Vaughn West.

  Le sigh.

  I drop my phone in my bag and head out to grab a cab. On the way, I call the agency that gets me jobs, and I let them know that I can’t do the Broadway gig anymore.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m walking up the steps of the brownstone that I call home.

  Nick and I live in a small two-bedroom apartment on 95th Street on the Upper West Side. Well, calling it small is probably over-egging it a bit. It’s tiny. I could lie down on the floor of our living room/kitchen, and my head and feet would nearly touch the opposite walls. At five-eight, I’m not exactly short, but still, it’s not big for an apartment. But the rent is good for a two-bed. And it’s ours, and I love it even if I don’t get to see it often at the moment.

  I unlock the main door, letting myself into our building, and I take the first flight up to our apartment.

  “Honey, I’m home,” I call out. Shutting the door behind me, I drop my bags near it.

  Nick appears out of his bedroom, a smile on his face. “Hey, gorgeous.”

  He’s a sight for sore eyes. It’s been well over a month since I last saw him. He saunters over, all six foot of him, and slaps a kiss on my cheek.

  “Your hair looks cool,” he says.

  “You think?” I finger a strand of my hair. I had lilac and pink highlights put in a week ago. It’s the first time I’ve ever dyed my hair. I just really fancied a change, and cutting my waist-length honey-blonde hair was not an option. I have great hair. Thick with a natural wave.

  “Yeah, it looks good on you. You hungry?” he asks, heading to the kitchen. “I was just about to make some soup.”

  “By make, do you mean—”

  “Pour out of a can and heat up. Yeah.” He throws me back a grin before opening up the cupboard door where we keep the canned goods.

  I take a seat on one of the stools at our breakfast bar.

  “Chicken noodle or lentil?” he asks, holding up the cans.

  “Chicken noodle.”

  I watch Nick move around our kitchen—getting out bowls and spoons, opening the cans, pouring the contents into the bowls, and putting the first in the microwave.

  Nick has been my best friend since we met at college. We were both studying at The Art Institute of New York City. I’d just moved to New York from Philadelphia, and Nick had moved here from Canada on a study visa. I was studying fashion design, and Nick was studying interior design. We met at the party of a girl who was on my course. That’s why our tiny apartment looks so awesome—because of Nick. His eye for design is amazing. He can make the smallest of space roomy but homey, which is what he’s done with our place.

  He works for a small interior design company. One day, he wants to run his own interior design business.

  I wanted to be a fashion designer. Wasn’t so easy to land a job, as I found out when I graduated. That’s how I found myself working in wardrobe. I have bills to pay, I’m a good seamstress, and I still get to work with clothes. I still design in my spare time, but I haven’t done anything with my designs in a long time. They sit in my sketchpad, and no one sees them but me—and, occasionally, Nick when I let him.

  “So, I have news.”

  “Good news?” Nick asks, leaning back against the counter, folding his arms over his chest, showing off his toned biceps.

  At six foot with jet-black hair and blue eyes, Nick is gorgeous, of course, but not my type. And I’m definitely not his. I’m rocking a vagina for starters, and Nick definitely likes cock.

  Makes two of us.

  But Nick’s not just my best friend; he’s also family to me. The only family I have.

  “Depends on how you look at it. I’m gonna be working on the new Vaughn West movie.”

  Nick meets my eyes, grinning. He knows I have a tiny crush on Vaughn West. But, I mean, who doesn’t?

  “That sounds like great news to me,” he teases with a lift of his brows.

  “Yeah, it is. The downside is, the job is in LA, and they need me ASAP, so I have to leave tomorrow.”

  “Bummer. And you were going to have a week off, too.”

  “I know.” I sigh. “But Ava called—you remember Ava Simms? Well, she offered me the job. She’s wardrobe mistress on set.”

  “Yeah, I remember her. You worked on Broadway together, right? How is she?”

  “She sounded good.”

  “She still dating that dick? The one she moved to LA with.”

  “Jeremy. She didn’t say otherwise, so I’d say so.”

  The timer goes off on the microwave. Nick gets the bowl out and puts it in front of me before handing me a spoon.

  “Well, I only just got you back. The place is too quiet without you. Gonna miss you, gorgeous.”

  Warmth coats my skin, and my throat thickens. It’s always good to know that someone’s going to miss me. After never having anyone to miss me in my Philly life, it means a lot, having Nick.

  “I’ll miss you, too.” I smile.

  “So, how long’s the job for?” he asks, getting a couple of beers out of the fridge. He pulls the tops off and hands me one.

  “Couple of months,” I answer, taking the beer and putting it down on the counter. Spooning up some soup, I blow on it before putting it in my mouth. “But the pay is good. Really good.”

  “I’m happy for you.” He lifts his bottle to me, so I pick mine up and chink it with his.

  “Thanks.” I take a sip of my beer.

  “So, Vaughn West, eh?” Nick gives me a suggestive look.

  “Ha! As if! He’s way out of my league. Like g
alaxies out of my league.” I put my bottle down.

  “You’re beautiful, and you know it.”

  Beautiful might be pushing it. Okay, so I’ve never had a problem with getting guys in the past. Just not Vaughn West kind of guys.

  “The guy dates actresses and supermodels. Not normal girls like me.” I point a finger at myself.

  “And he just had his heart broken by that bitch Piper Watts. You could fix it for him, Charly.” He gives me a suggestive look. “A normal girl might be just what he needs right now.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Doubtful. The closest I’ll be getting to Vaughn West is when I take his inner leg measurement.”

  Charly

  Landing in at LAX after a six-hour flight and with the three-hour time difference, I feel like I haven’t slept for a week even though I slept a good eight hours last night. It’s all this traveling. I’m jet-lagged as hell. My body doesn’t know which time zone it’s in.

  I’m so ready to get a cab and check in to my hotel and sleep.

  I grab my case off the carousel, hitch my fake Gucci up onto my shoulder, and head out in the direction of Arrivals, texting Nick to let him know I landed.

  I walk through the open door into Arrivals.

  “Charly!”

  At the sound of my name, I lift my head from my phone.

  “Ava.” I grin.

  Pressing Send on the text, I drop my cell in my bag and make my way over to her.

  “Hey.” She embraces me in a hug. “How was your flight?”

  “Long.” I chuckle. “You look great,” I tell her, stepping out of her hold.

  I’ve always been uncomfortable when people hug me. It comes from a lifetime of never being hugged, I guess.

  Ava is really pretty and my total opposite. Where I’m tall and blonde, she’s small and brunette. And she’s a little older than me. Ava is twenty-eight, and I’m twenty-five.

  “The California sun is really working for you,” I tell her. “Those highlights or sun-bleached?”

  “Sun-bleached.” She flicks a hand through her poker-straight hair.

  “I’m seriously envying your tan right now as well.” I glance down at my white arms. Even though it was hot in Nashville, I didn’t catch a tan. I’m one of those people who has to sunbathe for hours to catch even a little color.