Free Changing Teams by Jennifer Allis Provost

crevice. The finery didn’t end there, for against the back wall there were shelves of shoes and racks of jewelry. To top it off, the desk near the door, the only semi-clear surface in view, boasted a bowl of glittering rhinestones in lieu of candy.
    “Jorge,” Sam barked. “I need a dress.”
    “Whatever for?”
    I turned toward the voice, and saw a slight Hispanic man wending his way among the racks of clothing. He wore a checkered button down shirt, khakis, and tan leather loafers. A pair of wire rimmed glasses were perched on his nose. Basically, he looked like the complete opposite of a hip New York City fashion designer.
    “For a wedding, actually,” Sam replied. “Jorge, meet Britannica Lynn. She wore your frilly orange gown at one of Nash’s shoots the other day.”
    “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