Changing Teams (7 page)

“Did you?” Jorge said, his face lighting up. “How did everything go? Was the lighting good? I chose that silk to reflect well under both natural and artificial light.”

“It was beautiful,” I said. “Probably the most perfect gown I’ve ever worn.”

Jorge clasped his hands together. “Good, good. I can’t wait to see the images.”

Sam whipped his phone out from his back pocket, and thumbed open a folder. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got ’em right here.”

Jorge looked at Sam’s phone, while I wondered why Sam had a phone full of pictures of me. Figuring it was part of his job as Nash’s assistant, I peeked over Sam’s shoulder. He tipped the phone toward me as he swiped to the next image, which was taken mere moments after Giovanni had liberated my breasts and ruined my gown.

“What happened to the bodice?” Jorge demanded.

“You know how Gio likes to oil himself up?” Sam asked. “His Greasiness got a little too close to Britt.”

“Way too close,” I added.

“That bastard got grease stains on my gown,” Jorge muttered, then he let loose of a string of Spanish expletives I definitely hadn’t learned in Mrs. Garza’s class. “Next time Giovanni orders something from me, I’m sewing a pouch of itching powder into the crotch.”

“Does Nash use Giovanni often?” I asked.

“Mostly for romance novels,” Sam replied. “Gio’s got a good look for that. He’s even got his own fan clubs.” Sam shoved his phone in his back pocket and said to Jorge, “Here’s the deal: Britt needs to attend her snooty cousin’s wedding, and she needs to look better than the bride.”

“I don’t need to look better than her,” I said.

“Too bad, you’re gonna.” Sam turned back to Jorge. “Can you help us out?”

“Of course,” Jorge replied, looking me up and down. “Take off your jacket.” I did, and handed it to Sam. “Your boots too. I need to see how tall you really are.”

The answer to that was I am really tall for a girl; if modeling or art doesn’t work out for me I could definitely have a career in basketball. Well, except for my whole lack of athletic prowess. I slipped off my boots, but even in my stocking feet I towered over Jorge. Sam, however, still topped me by a few inches.

Jorge nodded. “Good, good. I can work with this.” With that he went to the racks at the back of the room, furiously sliding hangers back and forth. Once he found what he was looking for, he returned with a length of sky blue fabric draped over his arm. “Before I let you try this on, I need to know if you sweat.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I countered.

“This fabric is quite delicate, and sweat stains will ruin it,” Jorge explained.

“She didn’t sweat when Gio plastered his greasy self all over her,” Sam said.

Jorge nodded, then he handed over the dress. “You can change there,” he said, indicating a curtained alcove.

I stepped into the alcove and pulled the curtain shut, then I hung up the dress and took a good look at it. It was pale blue satin, floor length with a halter back and plunging neck line. I sighed, then I removed everything but my panties and stepped into the dress. The fabric skimmed over my body, so soft I could hardly feel it. As I fastened the single button at the back of my neck I felt like a princess.

I hiked up the skirt before I drew back the curtain; the dress was a bit long, but that would be fixed once I put on some heels. Since there was no mirror in the alcove, I had no idea what I looked like. When I saw Sam’s face, complete with glazed eyes and open mouth, I had my answer.

“Beautiful,” Sam murmured. “Jorge, you’ve done it again.” Jorge, however, did not share in Sam’s opinion.

“It’s all wrong,” Jorge wailed. “It’s too plain, too soft, and that color does nothing for her.” Jorge stomped toward the back of his workshop, muttering, “
Dios
, Sam, do you even have eyes? How can you think that dress is anything but terrible for Britt? Did you want her to look terrible?”

“So, this is not the dress?” I asked, watching Jorge as he delved into the back of his shop.

“Evidently not,” Sam replied. He glanced sidelong at me. “For all that it’s the wrong dress, you do look great, darlin’.”

“Thanks, cowboy,” I said. Sam cocked a dark eyebrow, but before he could question his new nickname Jorge returned, bearing a measuring tape, a mouthful of pins, and more fabric draped over his shoulders.

“When is this event?” Jorge asked around the pins.

“Saturday,” I replied.

“Arms straight out,” he ordered. I complied, and Jorge commenced measuring every part of my anatomy. He didn’t write anything down, instead muttering furiously in Spanish around all the pins. After a few minutes of this he dropped the tape, grabbed one of the lengths of fabric, and draped it around my neck. It was a sheer tulle, the color reflecting blue or gold, depending on the angle.

“You are comfortable forgoing a bra, yes?” Jorge asked as he pinned a second swathe around my torso.

“Not wearing one now, am I?” I countered.

“Good. This dress will have a low neckline.”

“Wait.” Jorge halted, mid-pin. “You’re
making
me a dress?” I asked.

“I will customize a dress for you, yes,” he said, straightening up. “You cannot outshine a bride on her wedding day in something off the rack.”

“I can’t afford a custom dress,” I said. Hell, I could barely afford groceries.

“No charge,” Jorge said, resuming his pinning. “You are Sam’s friend, therefore you are my friend. I do not charge friends. However,” he added, “should I need a model of your height and coloring, I do hope you will return the favor.”

“Of course I will,” I said. “Thank you, Jorge.”

He waved away my gratitude. “Now, about the skirt. Will there be dancing?”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” I said. Melody hadn’t exactly involved me in the wedding plans.

“If you’re going with me, we’re going to dance,” Sam declared. “I always show my dates a good time.”

“Sam will be your date?” Jorge asked, and I affirmed that he would be. “I assume you will want me to dress him, as well.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” I said. “All he owns are jeans and tee shirts.”

“I have an excellent and extensive wardrobe.” Sam huffed.

“And you’re keeping all these items hidden, because?”

Jorge poked me with a pin and I yelped; I was pretty sure he did that on purpose. I guess Sam’s and my bickering got on his delicate nerves. “I will construct the skirt for ease of movement,” Jorge said. “It will take me a few days to complete, then I will have it delivered to Sam’s apartment.” Jorge stood and waved me toward the changing alcove. “You may dress now. Be careful not to disturb the pins.”

“I’ll be careful.”

After extricating myself from the fabric while keeping each and every pin in place, I exited the alcove and reentered the studio proper. I found Jorge and Sam discussing a gallery opening. “What opening is this?” I asked, reverently handing the pinned fabric over to Jorge.

“Michael’s,” Sam replied. “You met him at Astrid’s party, remember?”

Of course I remembered the beautiful black man with the killer sense of humor. “What sort of artist is he again?”

“Sculptor,” Sam replied. “This showing will be his first.”

“Sam, why don’t you take the lovely Britt as your date?” Jorge called as he secreted the pinned fabric away in the back of the room. “It can be a rehearsal for your wedding adventures.”

Red dusted Sam’s cheeks, but he didn’t miss a beat. “You free Wednesday night, darlin’?”

“Sure am,” I said. I wondered if Astrid would be there. Based on how much Astrid had always supported me, I imagined she’d be there for her cousin.

Sam grinned. “Good. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“And I have just the dress for Britt to be seen in,” Jorge announced, emerging from the racks. It was styled after the mod dresses of the sixties, with a short skirt, long sleeves, and an A-line silhouette. The dress itself had a white background and was patterned with abstract vines and deep green leaves. Astrid would freak if she saw something that so perfectly captured her favorite decade.

“It’s gorgeous,” I breathed. “You’ll let me wear this?”

“No, I will let you have it,” Jorge clarified. “It was part of my retro line a few years ago. Styles have since moved on, and I’ve been searching for the perfect person to bequeath it to. You, Britt, have the height and bone structure needed to carry off this dress.”

“Thank you,” I said, hugging the dress to my chest. “What kind of shoes should I wear?”

“Size?”

“Eight and a half.”

Jorge darted back into his store room, returning a moment later with a pair of square toed white leather boots with chunky heels. “These will be perfect,” he said. “I will also have shoes sent over with your dress for Saturday.”

Figures; the designer didn’t trust little ol’ me to choose proper footwear for one of his creations. Based on the gorgeous clothes he made, that was fine with me.

“Now, out with you both,” Jorge said, shooing us toward the door. “I have work to do. Britt, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Thank you again,” I said as Jorge slammed the workshop door in our faces.

“Jorge is Jorge,” Sam said with a shrug.

“Artsy types can be cranky,” I said. “Sam, thanks again for going with me to the wedding, and for bringing me here. I really appreciate it.”

Sam graced me with that lopsided smile of his, and my heart melted a bit more. Okay, a lot more. “Anything for my Britannica Lynn.”

Chapter Ten

Sam

Thank God the Tuesday shoot at Nash’s was a standard one, because I was barely going through the motions. Instead of paying attention to my work, all I could think about was Britt. Specifically, Britt in that sky blue dress that enhanced the honey tones in her hair and eyes, and all that soft satin skimming across her curves. Jorge hadn’t been kidding about the delicate fabric; the weave was so fine it clung to Britt’s body, defining her firm hips and perfect little breasts. I had berated myself at least a thousand times for not having had the presence of mind to take a picture of her in that dress, so I consoled myself by shuffling through the images of her in the ochre gown whenever Nash wasn’t looking.

Eventually the shoot wrapped up, and I attended to all the boring details that made up the bulk of my job. While I was shelving a few binders, Nash approached me.

“Remember the brunette from the romance cover shoot last week?” he asked.

“Britt Sullivan?” I asked without turning around. The last thing I needed was for Nash to see the dumb smile I wore whenever I thought about her.

“That’s the one,” he affirmed. “She said you mentioned the harem series to her. When are we shooting one of those again?”

I went to the computer and brought up the scheduling software. “Not until the month after next.”

Nash frowned. “See if you can squeeze one in earlier. I’d like to do a few test shots with Britt in the costumes.”

“Will do.” I grabbed a sticky note, scrawled ‘
BLS-harem soon’
on it, and stuck it to the white board. While my system lacked finesse, I always got the job done.

“BLS?” Nash asked.

“Britt Sullivan’s middle name is Lynn,” I explained, omitting how that was the middle name I’d chosen for her. “Therefore, BLS.”

My phone vibrated on the desk; when I grabbed it I saw it was a text from Britannica Lynn herself. “Excuse me,” I mumbled, walking to the far corner of the office. When I was sure Nash couldn’t see my screen, I opened the text.

Britt: Want to see me naked?

Sam: Always. When & where?

Britt: Life drawing class, six p.m.

I checked the time; it was just before four.

Sam: Where are you now? Up for a late lunch/early dinner?

Britt: Can’t. Catalog shoot.

Sam: Work it, baby.

Britt: You know it. Meet me at class?

I smiled; smart girl had taken my advice and was bringing a friend.

Sam: I’ll be there.

Britt: Thank you! Got to go :-)

I sent my phone to sleep, then turned around to find Nash staring at me. “Hot date?” he asked.

“You could say that.” I shoved my phone in my back pocket. “I’ll email Britt about the harem shoot. What time do we start tomorrow?”

“Be here for nine,” Nash said. “The rest will be here by ten. Have fun with the lucky guy.”

I strode out of the studio and headed over to the diner on the corner. The shoot had started early that day, and the coffee and bagel I’d had for breakfast had long since reduced to fumes. After I’d scarfed down two burgers and some fries, I purchased two bottles of water and made my way to the museum. Since I was a bit early, I leaned on the wall next to the front door and waited for Britt.

“Can I help you?”

I glanced toward the voice, and saw the art class instructor staring me down. “Ben, is it?” I asked, turning on my Midwestern charm. No one in their right mind could resist Midwestern charm. “I’m waiting on Britt. She’s modeling for one of your classes today, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Ben replied. “Why are
you
here?”

“Britt asked me to join her,” I replied. “Is that a problem?”

Ben looked at me for a moment, then said, “No, I suppose not.”

I smiled. “Glad to hear it. While I’d hate to disrupt one of your classes, I’d also hate to say no to Britt.”

“Why would you ever say no to me?”

I looked to my left and caught sight of Britt as she slid her arm around my waist. “Like I’d ever deny you anything, baby,” I said, squeezing her close. “Water?” I asked, offering her one of the bottles.

“Thank you,” she said, squeezing me back, then she glanced at Ben. “Hey, Ben. Thanks for calling.”

“Of course,” he bit off. “See you inside?”

“Sure.”

With that, Ben stalked inside the museum and left Britt and me cuddling on the street. “That Ben’s got a thing for you,” I said.

“He does not,” Britt demurred. I didn’t call her on her naïveté; hell, I was so naïve I regularly got blindsided by the plot twists on reality TV. “Ben’s just nice.”

“All right, then.” I stepped back from Britt, then I opened the museum door for her. “After you, my lady.”

Britt giggled, then we entered the museum proper and walked toward her dressing room. Once we were alone in the room, Britt dropped the act.

“Thanks for coming here,” she said. “I didn’t want to say anything out there, but Ben does have a thing for me. I usually downplay it, but when he starts calling me a couple times a week it freaks me out.”

“How is he freaking you out?” I demanded. “Does he know where you live?”

“It’s just the things he says, the way he looks at me,” she mumbled. “I never gave him my address or anything, so I don’t think he knows where I live. I guess he could have followed me home.”

Suddenly, art class geek Ben reminded me of every asshole jock I’d gone to high school with. “That’s it, you’re coming home with me tonight,” I declared.

“What? No,” Britt said. “My building’s safe, and—”

“And if you really felt safe you wouldn’t have called me,” I said over her. Britt worried her lower lip, letting me know I was right. “Come on, darlin’, get naked. There’s a class out there waiting for their subject.”

I turned my back, listening to the soft rustles of fabric that resulted from Britt shedding her clothes. I didn’t look back until she cleared her throat. I found her clad in the same black velour robe she’d worn during the last class, her hands shaking like a leaf.

“What is it?” I asked, taking her hands.

She smiled tightly. “Nerves. Usually, I meditate for a few minutes before I go out there. It’s weird being the only one naked in a room full of clothed people.”

“I thought nudity didn’t bother you,” I said, recalling the confident girl strutting around her apartment in nothing but her panties.

“Depends on who’s looking at me, you know?”

I sure did know, and I made a mental note to tell Nash that Britt was unavailable for the harem shoot. “What you need to remember, darlin’,” I said, drawing her close to my chest, “is that you’ll be the most beautiful girl in that room. Don’t be nervous, be proud.”

Her lower lip quivered. “But—”

“But nothing.” I turned her toward the mirror, and smoothed down the robe’s lapels. “You are the one they’re here to see, Britannica Lynn. You are the woman of the hour.” When she smiled, I put my mouth next to her ear and whispered, “And don’t forget, I’m here for you. You need anything, I’m here.”

She looked at my reflection, then over her shoulder at me and back to my reflection. “Thank you.”

“Any time, baby.” I slid my arms around her waist and kissed her temple. “Any time.” We smiled at each other in the mirror for a moment, then Ben pounded on the door and barked Britt’s name. “I guess it’s show time.”

“I guess so,” Britt muttered. We left the dressing room hand in hand, and strode into the classroom. Unlike the last class I’d attended, this one was packed with at least thirty students set up before easels. When Britt hesitated just inside the studio doors, I squeezed her hand.

“You got this, baby.”

Britt flashed me a quick smile, then she walked up the dais toward a wooden chair. “Pose?” she asked Ben.

“On the wooden chair, back straight and legs and arms crossed,” he replied. Britt dropped her robe and assumed the pose, as instructed. As the class wore on he had her adjust her pose a few times, but not into anything too scandalous. Too bad; I was dying for a reason to yell at him.

One thing I did notice about Ben was that whenever Britt changed positions, so did he. After the third time she’d altered her pose I figured it out: the bastard was repositioning himself so he could get a full frontal view of her. No wonder Britt had to meditate before each class.

After Britt endured a full sixty minutes of being stared at, Ben announced that the class was over. While the students packed up their charcoals and pastels, I met a robed Britt at the bottom of the steps.

“Another good show, darlin’,” I said. Before she could reply, Ben appeared at her side and shoved an envelope at her.

“There’s seventy five inside, instead of the usual fifty,” he said.

“Did I get a raise?” Britt asked.

“The increase is because the class ran over,” Ben replied. He looked from Britt to me, but before he could spit out whatever was eating at him a student called him over. I walked Britt back to the dressing room, keeping my hand on the small of her back the entire way.

Was that proprietary? Yes, it was. I wanted anyone looking our way to know that they needed to go through me to get to Britt.

“Ben has more than a thing for you,” I said once we were alone in the dressing room. “He’s paying you to sit naked for him. And giving you extra money? What is that all about?”

“The class did go over,” Britt said.

“Only because he didn’t call time,” I said. “I don’t want you doing this again.”

“Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?” Britt snapped. “Listen, I’m sorry I asked you to come here. I know Ben’s a little weird, but I do need the money. Until I start selling some of my work or hit the lottery, I’ll probably keep doing a few sessions a week. And I don’t buy lottery tickets.”

We stared at each other for a moment, then I said, “Britt, I didn’t mean to order you around.”

She nodded. “I’d like to get dressed. Could you please wait outside?”

I almost made mention of her kicking me out, but then I remembered that I really had no right being anywhere Britt was dressing. Or undressing, for that matter. Without another word I went out to the hallway, and sat on a bench a little ways down the corridor. I debated leaving the museum altogether, since Britt didn’t want to listen to me or common sense in general, and just get her little naïve self into all sorts of bad situations.

I sighed, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and supporting my head in my hands. A girl like her didn’t need a mess like me, and Britt would be much better off without me and all of my baggage mucking up her life.

Just as I decided to move on from this fantasy I’d been living, I heard a rattling sound. I glanced toward Britt’s dressing room door, and saw Ben shaking the handle. The door opened, then I heard Britt say, “Sam, I—”

She shut her mouth with a clack when she saw Ben standing there, and took a step back. “Ben. I’m sorry, I thought you were Sam. Why were you trying to get into my dressing room?”

“I came to thank you,” Ben replied. “You’ve been sitting in on a lot of classes recently, and we really appreciate it here. Maybe we can get you a regular position.”

“That would be nice,” Britt said. “Would that make me a museum employee, with a regular paycheck and everything?”

“We can get some coffee and talk about it,” Ben said, ignoring her question. “We can go now, if you like.”

“I have plans now,” Britt mumbled, her panicked gaze searching the hall. When she saw me sitting on the bench, her relief was palpable.

“Sam,” she said, slipping around Ben and walking toward me, “I thought you’d left.”

“Leave my Britannica Lynn? Never.” I stood and held out my arms, kissing the top of her head as I gathered her close. As I pressed my face against her hair I decided that she really was my Britannica Lynn, and I never wanted to let her go. How I was going to work that out, I had no idea. “We off to my place?”

“Your place.” Britt glanced at Ben. “Bye, Ben. Thanks again for calling me.”

We left the museum with my arm draped across Britt’s shoulders. I’m pretty positive I heard Ben swearing a blue streak under his breath as we walked away, but I ignored him. My only concern was getting Britt as far away from that guy as possible.

Since it was a warm night, we walked to my apartment. We stopped at a bodega on the way and got some dinner fixings, and were at my building before nine. Britt was unusually quiet during our journey, but I figured she was beat after a long day. When we finally stepped inside my apartment, I learned that wasn’t quite the case.