“Fuck off.”
“Green, what if she’s a dog?” Wolf asks.
“She wasn’t a dog.”
“Been twenty years, dude,” he reminds me, and it gives me pause.
“There’s that deer-in-the-headlight look of panic I’ve been waitin’ for,” Crash says, chuckling.
“Shit,” I whisper the word, wondering if I haven’t thought this through. “I have no idea what I’m getting myself into, do I? What if she’s not my style?”
“Your style? You mean fast and easy?” Crash snipes.
“He means a stripper,” Wolf clarifies, laughing.
“Just look her up on social media,” Cole suggests.
“Do I look like a person who uses social media? Besides her name is very common, and there’s like a thousand people who pop up.”
“Maybe you need to bring a date,” Wolf suggests.
“A date? Green?” Red Dog laughs.
Cole chuckles, meeting my eyes. “I’m sure he could pay one of the girls down at the strip club to go with him.”
“Let’s go. Any excuse to stop by there is a good one in my book,” Wolf says, waggling his brows.
“Fuck that,” I protest.
“Come on, Green. We have to nail this down today. You gotta be fair and give the girl time to come up with a dress for this shindig, don’t you?”
I roll my eyes.
“Mount up, Green,” my VP orders with a grin.
I jam my helmet on my head, and swing my leg over my seat, lifting it off the kickstand. “I hate you all.”
I drowned out their round of laughter with the roar of my Harley.
4
Sara
“It’s all wrong. Start over.”
“What do you mean it’s all wrong? It’s completely accurate,” I snap back at Ethan, my hands landing on my hips, and wishing I’d never taken this job working on his independent film. It’s become a complete nightmare.
“The lead in this picture is not wearing that god-awful gown. I don’t care how good a costume designer you are, if you can’t get it right . . .”
“What’s wrong with this?” I look at the beautiful gown I’ve sketched out for him. I jumped the gun and drew it up based on our first discussion, before the first scheduled design meeting that starts in a few minutes. Maybe I wanted to impress him, but apparently, I’ve miscalculated what he wants.
“It’s too . . . too . . . I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Try.”
“She should be elegant but reserved.”
“You said you wanted flamboyant. You wanted a fantasy element. I’m giving it to you.”
“Don’t tell me what I want. I know what I want, and that’s not it. That’s not what I asked for at all. Start. Over.”
I whirl on a heel, fuming and ready to blow, but I’m a professional, so I bite back the ugly words I want to hurl at his face, and resist the urge to slam the door on my way out.
My team is waiting in the hall. I don’t have to tell them how the meeting went; they heard every word.
“Come on, ladies.” I click down the hall in my skirt and heels, tablet in hand, and my team of three behind me.
Janice hands me a Starbucks mochaccino as we walk; it’s my drink of choice, and we all take turns getting the coffee. “Here, this will cheer you up.”
“I thought it was perfect,” Stephanie says, trying to console me.
“It was,” I snap back.
“I love the dress you designed, but I’d kill for that outfit you’re wearing now,” Tammy says, trying to distract me.
“Thanks.”
I like clothes. I love them in fact. I feel positively giddy when I put on my Jimmy Choo shoes. I especially love costumes. If I had to choose between my car and my sexy Lt. Uhura Star Trek uniform, I’d take the uniform.
I’ve loved making elaborate costumes since I was in high school, back when Comic-Con and the Halloween-once-a-year deal wasn’t enough. I wanted more, but back then I was aimless with no real direction, so when my high school counselor recommended I try to get into an art school and study fashion and costume design, I suddenly had a goal. When she helped me get a scholarship, the deal was sealed. Besides, being a dream, it was a ticket out of my crappy home life.
Now I’m a costume designer working on film sets in Hollywood. If that isn’t every girl’s dream job, I don’t know what is.
Aside from being around more shoes, hats, and cloth than I can shake a stick at, I get to take an active part in creating an important element of a piece of art. Depending on the project, it may also be a piece of shit, but the point is I’m being creative.
It’s a fun job, but there’s a lot of forethought that goes into it, and a lot of hard work to achieve the initial vision.
And sometimes you run into an arrogant ass like Ethan and life becomes hell.
We move down the hall and enter a set of double doors. I sit at the table in the conference room and sip my Starbucks.
“This should be easy,” Janice murmurs as the other teams walk in, set design, hair and makeup, director of photography, and lastly Ethan and his team assemble for the morning design meeting to discuss the look and feel of the project.
“Nothing’s easy in this business,” I whisper back.
“Oh, come on, Sara, an independent film set in the Old West? I could design it with my eyes closed. Hell, go home and watch an old Clint Eastwood movie and you’ll have everything you need to know.”
For the next two hours we listen to how this director wants everything in depressing muddy browns like a sepia film. The set design will be gloomy; almost like a horror film, and I wonder if this project is going to tank before it ever gets off the ground. I’ve been on more than one picture that was dumped by the studio or investors before it ever saw the light of day. It’s hardly the fantasy element he described to me when he talked me into coming on board this project.
Now, he’s going on about the color orange and how he doesn’t want to see a single drop of it on anything. I’ve known my share of quirky, artsy types, so an aversion to orange doesn’t faze me all that much. If he wants brown in ten shades, he’ll get it, by God.
When the meeting wraps up, I stand and gather my notes, then turn to my team of three assistants. “Come on, we’re heading over to the library at Western Costume.”
Stephanie actually groans. “Seriously?”
“Yes, research is important. We need to become experts on the dress, material, and style of the people of the given period. It won’t do just to watch a couple episodes of Deadwood, and assume we’ve got the idea. The research has to be meticulous, because if there are any historical inaccuracies in the finished product, believe me, someone will notice and make a big deal about it. Plus, I take pride in my work, and want to get it right. If you don’t feel the same, perhaps you’re on the wrong team.”
“Fine, but if you ask me, a cowboy’s a cowboy.”
“And what about the heroine? You heard Ethan; she’s just arrived from London. She’s going to have a completely different wardrobe. Lady Amelia Kent won’t be wearing homespun cotton, I assure you.”
“And apparently not the gorgeous design you came up with.”
I lift my chin. It’s one of the best designs I’ve ever created, but I won’t let him get me down. I’ve already got an idea how I’ll use it.
At 2 p.m. I take leave of the rest of my team and allow them to continue researching—I’ve decided how at least Lady Amelia should be dressed and am ready to start designing. I’ve printed out plenty of visual research material to go off of and use them as reference as I sit in my studio, starting over with more rough sketches.
At 4 p.m. I meet with a young woman—a friend of Stephanie’s—who’s hoping to join the team. I interview her, take a look at her portfolio, and try to get a sense of her personality and work ethic.
Just glancing through her book, I find myself remembering when I attended the Savannah School of Art and Design. Ho
w young and full of enthusiasm I was then, and how proud I was of my own portfolio. When I first arrived in Hollywood, I was starstruck, thinking the world was at my feet. But of course, nothing came easy; it took years of hard work and determination to succeed and reach the position of head designer with a team of my own.
My interviewee clears her throat, and I blink, flipping a few more pages.
The girl is bright, and her portfolio shows that she knows what she’s doing. I look up. “Do you have any questions?”
She smiles with excitement. “Do you mind if I ask, what’s your favorite part of designing?”
“I’ve found that one of the best things about this job is the variety. You could be designing flounced petticoats for a Victorian-era drama, heavily armored-leather vests for some Roman warrior, or some silver sheath for a space goddess.”
“I’ve wanted this my whole life,” she says, and I can see it in her eyes.
After a few more questions, I stand and shake her hand. “Thank you so much for coming in. I’ll get back to you and let you know my decision in the next day or two.”
After she leaves, I call Ethan to get approval. I’ve already made up my mind that this girl will be a great addition to my team, but I have to run it by the director first.
I’ve had enough of dealing with him to know he isn’t going to give me anything unless I fight for it. After twenty minutes of explaining that three assistants aren’t going to be able to costume everything he wants in the time allowed, he finally relents and lets me hire the girl.
The rest of the day flies by, and I stay late into the evening working on a special design.
“Knock, knock.”
I recognize Jenny’s voice, and holler for her to come in. She works in set design, and she and I came up in the business at the same time, ending up on several projects together. We’ve built a close friendship over the years.
She’s bitching before she even shuts the door.
“Ryan kept me working on that damn set all this time.”
“What time is it?” I yell from the back of the design studio.
“Nine o’clock. Where are you?”
“Over here.”
I’m on my knees in front of a pale blue gown I have pinned to a dress form. I look up when Jenny rounds a tall metal shelving unit piled with bolts of fabric and stops dead in her tracks.
“Wow!” she exclaims. “That’s beautiful. Is it the dress from your sketch—the one Ethan rejected?”
“It’s the dress. I’ve been hanging onto this fabric for something special, and this is it.”
She circles around, its full skirt flaring out several feet on each side.
“Oh, Sara, it’s gorgeous.” She pauses and turns to me. “But I thought he didn’t like it. Who’s wearing it?”
“Me.”
“You? Where?”
“My twentieth reunion. It’s black-tie and the theme is a fairytale ball.”
“Twentieth?” Her hands land on her hips. “No way. You can’t be that old.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I guess I am old. Been in this business sixteen years now, and still no major award to show for it.”
“Your time will come.” Her eyes scan the dress again. “You’re so talented.”
“You have to say that; you’re my BFF.”
She scoffs. “No I don’t. When is this shindig anyway?”
“Next weekend.”
“Do you need any help?” she offers, and I want to hug her.
I drop my shoulders, the stress of trying to finish in time falling away like magic at her offer. “God, yes.”
She smiles and we get to work.
5
Green
Saturday night
I turn down the long road that leads into the gates of the Fife Estate and follow the signs to the parking area.
“Good Lord, this place is something else,” my date says, staring up through the windshield at the castle-like building.
I turn off the truck and we both climb out. I grab my suit jacket from the hook behind my seat, and shrug into it, adjusting my cuffs while I glance around. Formal gardens surround the place, but the courtyard and stairs leading up to the main entrance are really something. Whoever planned this thing tonight, did it up right. Little white lights twinkle from every tree and bush leading inside.
My date is a tall strawberry-blonde girl from the strip club, named Misty. She’s wearing a strapless black dress in a stiff fabric that stands out at her calves exposing flounces of black petticoats underneath. The front of her gown is shorter than the back, exposing black stockings and heels. If Sara doesn’t show tonight, I guess I can console myself by finding out if those stockings end at the top of her thighs. It’s a sexy look, one that is also classy, which I have to give Misty credit. I’m glad she listened when I told her I didn’t want her wearing anything over the top slutty—not to this event.
Misty takes my arm, a little clutch purse in her hand.
“Don’t you look handsome in that tux, Green. Especially with that badass ink peeking out at the cuffs and neck.” She strokes the tip of her finger down the side of my neck, tracing the ink. “You’re going to have all the girls turning their heads, maybe even a few will hit on you.”
“Thanks, babe.”
She steps away and twirls. “Well, aren’t you going to compliment me? This magic took hours.”
I grin. “Gorgeous. You’ll have the guys falling all over themselves.”
She laughs and loops her hand in my arm. “That’s the plan. You be sure to point out the successful ones, Green, that was our deal.”
“Right.”
We walk in the doors, following several other couples that I don’t recognize, and stop at a check-in table.
I give my name, and one of the women working the table gets big-eyed.
“Wait, you’re Tim O’Leary?”
I nod.
The two of them laugh.
“My God, you’re nothing like the guy I remember from high school,” one of them murmurs. She lays a hand on her chest. “I’m Heather Cantrell. Don’t you remember me? I was on the cheer squad.”
I suddenly do remember. She obviously hit her prime in high school because she hasn’t aged well. I nod. “Right. Heather, how are you?”
“Fabulous. I sell insurance now.”
“Great.” I take my nametag and move along before she tries to sell me a policy.
She leans over the table. “Save me a dance, Tim.”
Misty giggles as we walk down the marble tiled hall, and says in a singsong voice, “She thinks you’re sexy. She wants your body.”
I huff a laugh and roll my eyes. “Lord, save me.”
We pass a door with a brass plate that says Powder Room. Misty pulls on my arm.
“I’ll just be a minute.”
I wait in the hall for what seems like an eternity before she returns.
“That bathroom is amazing. It’s like a beauty parlor. They have everything. Makeup and hairspray and perfume and . . . Oh, look, mints.” She sticks her tongue out to show me the small breath mint lying on it.
“I thought you just had to pee.”
“I did, and I enjoyed every minute of it.” She leans toward me conspiratorially. “The seats were heated.”
“Maybe someone was just there before you.”
“Don’t be gross. Not here.”
Violin music carries to us from a trio set up in a foyer we pass through, and then we’re entering the grand ballroom.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, taking in the gold gilt trim and the huge chandeliers.
“Wow,” Misty utters, staring up at the vaulted ceilings painted with angels.
“I’ve never seen anything like it, have you?” I ask.
She huffs a laugh. “Me? Hell no.” She squeezes my bicep. “This is going to be the best night. Thanks for bringing me, Green.”
“Let’s get a drink.” I l
ead her to the bar and get her a flute of champagne and a scotch on the rocks for myself, feeling like a turd in a punch bowl.
I scan the room for Sara, but don’t spot her. Misty, meanwhile, is scoping for cute guys.
She tugs on my arm. “Oh, oh, who’s that cute guy over there?”
I follow her gaze. “Simon Keller? He’s a class-A asshole. You can do better.”
“Damn it, the cute ones always are.”
There’s a DJ playing, and couples are out on the dance floor. We stand by the bar and people watch. I spot several faces I remember. I dip my head to Misty and murmur, “It’s weird how some classmates have changed so much, and some not at all. The ones you think will turn out one way don’t turn out that way at all. Life sure is surprising.”
“That it is. Do you see her?” Misty leans to peer around me, still scoping out the crowd.
I raise my glass to my lips. “Nope.”
“So, tell me about this girl. What’s she like?”
“Sara was a misfit like me. We shared a table in the cafeteria one day and when our geeky chemistry teacher walked by and I laughed at the bowtie he was wearing. She snorted milk out of her nose and from then on we were fast friends.”
“Eww, gross.”
“You had to be there, I guess.”
“What else? What did she look like?”
“She was always changing the way she looked. One day she’d look Goth, the next she’d have her hair in pigtails. You could never pigeonhole her into one cliché.”
“Was she smart?”
“Very. She helped me pass several classes. If it wasn’t for her, I might not have graduated.”
“But what does she look like?” Misty whines again.
I shrug. “Long hair. Pretty.”
“You have to give me more than that! Like, what celebrity does she look like?”
“Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Ugh. You’re impossible.”
I take a sip of my drink. “Okay, if I had to compare, I’d say she looked like that chick from 13 Going On 30.”
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