Wardrobe Malfunction(7)

By: Samantha Towle



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.”

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