Page 2 of Make The Cut

Cowgirl? Then I realize he’s looking at my boots, which, mercifully, have survived the fate that my boss’s dry-cleaning didn’t escape. “Well, since I already have gloves on, why don’t I take a look at your injuries?”

“Oh. I was just going to ask you to get me another pair of pants. I have a photo shoot in two hours and I really could use something to wear that isn’t… women’s clothing.” He scans the dressing room, but it is a female-only space. I’m pretty sure that if I slapped a sign on the door that saidno boys allowed, it wouldn’t make a difference.

“Yes, but if you don’t fix…” I wave in the direction of his ripped pants. “That, you’re going to have a bigger problem than, I don’t know, flashing someone your bare legs.”

“Good point.”

I take a moment to hunt down the first aid kit that for some reason is stashed in the fashion closet. One too many catfights—now literally—have started here, so they felt the need to store band-aids and gauze pads among the feather boas and high-heeled shoes.

As I crouch down beside his feet and roll back the fabric of his pants past his knees, he winces. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I was just thinking about the fact that I paid for these pants but only planned to wear them once and then return them to the store. He shifts uncomfortably on the seat and pulls out a tag. “See, I didn’t even take the price tag off. So much for that.”

I laugh. “I guess that’s why my mom always told me not to treat clothing stores like a lending library.”

“Because you’ll be viciously mauled by a cat?” he says, chuckling. “I’m Naoya, by the way.”

“Poppy.” I focus on patting the blood off of his legs, most of which has dried. Olive must have never declawed Pepper, because I have never seen injuriesthisbad from a cat. “It’s nice to meet you, Naoya, though I was looking forward to nicknaming you based on all your other ink.”

“You can call me Tats if you want,” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice as I dab most of the blood off of his wounds.

“Okay, Tats, well, this is going to hurt.” I have no idea where Olive’s cat has been or if it has any shots, so I figure it’s better to be safe than sorry. Grabbing an antiseptic wipe, I gingerly smooth it over the scrapes.

“No, that doesn’t hurt at all, Red,” he says, gritting his teeth.

“I’m sure it hurts less than your tattoos did,” I say, perplexed by his nickname. “And why are you calling me Red?”

I thought the nickname was reserved for redheads, and—well, that’s it. Just redheads. It’s their exclusive right to be annoyed at the nickname for eternity.

“You know, poppies are red? Plus, I bet you look damn good in that colour.”

I try not to turn the same shade. I’ve never been one to blush easily, but something about Naoya is making me feel like I’m someone else. Someone different from the girl I’ve been these last twenty years. “Thanks.”

“Also, my tattoos are temporary.” He rubs his finger over the four-leaf clover and it disintegrates into little black eraser shavings. “See?”

“Why?” I finish wiping at his scrapes, and the colour returns to his face, his jaw unclenching. “You can’t commit?”

Naoya laughs. “Something like that.”

I bandage up the claw marks and eye the contents of the fashion closet. “We’re going to have to improvise.”

“I can roll with that.”

I spy a pair of voluminous black pants hanging off a rack, of such a prodigious size that they would swallow anyone whole. “You may end up doing more tripping than rolling, Tats.”

Half an hour later, Naoya is wearing the black, drapey pants, and he somehow manages to look better in them than, well, probably even a supermodel could. Then again, I have tucked and tailored them significantly so they’re not trailing the floor or making him look like he’s wearing a garbage bag.

With a handful of pins in my mouth, I’m putting the last touches on his outfit when he speaks. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone willing to do so much for a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger,” I say slowly, around the mouthful of pins. In truth, I can’t lose this internship. This is what I’ve been working for since I arrived in L.A. two years ago, a college freshman at UCLA along with my brother, Ryder. He came at the same time despite being a year older than me. He took a gap year, but me? Sometimes it feels like I haven’t let myself rest in a long time. “I know your name,andwe have nicknames for each other.”

“Good point, Red.” His gaze is distant. I wonder what he’s doing the photoshoot for. Maybe he’s a model? That could be why he looks so familiar to me. “Since you’ve done so much for me… What can I do for you?”

“Well, there is something…” I cast my unwilling gaze toward the dry-cleaning that I left discarded on the floor and accidentally prick him with a pin.

“Ouch!” He laughs, his grin telling me he’s exaggerating his pain. “You’re trying to finish off the work that Pepper, the dastardly cat, started.”

“Dastardly?” I laugh, pushing the pin through the fabric.

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