Wardrobe Malfunction(12)

“Pinned.”

He glares again.

“Sorry,” I mumble, dropping my gaze.

“Vaughn?”

“What?” he snaps.

“The pin…it’s still in…there.”

His eyes follow mine down. “Jesus Christ,” he groans.

“Do you want me to pull it out?”

“No, I don’t want you to fucking pull it out! I’m not letting you anywhere near me ever again. You’ve probably just killed all my best swimmers. I swear to God, if I lose a ball because of you—”

“That’s a tad dramatic. It was just a tiny pin.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as angry as he looks right now. His face his red, bordering purple.

“Okay, so let me stick a tiny pin in your clit and see how you get on,” he grits out.

“Okay. Point taken.” I clamp my thighs together.

And I watch quietly as he takes a few deep breaths before he takes ahold of the pin and yanks it out.

“Motherfucker!”

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not fucking okay!” he snaps.

He opens the button on the pants and carefully pulls the zipper down, and I realize he’s about to check his damaged goods.

Should I look away or watch? That’s the million-dollar question.

“Can you turn around?” he barks at me.

“I was just about to,” I mumble, turning away.

And I swear to God I was going to.

I hear him groan.

“Christ, I’m fucking bleeding. What the hell kind of pin was that? And what the hell kind of seamstress are you?”

I have to stop myself from correcting him that I’m actually a wardrobe assistant and not a seamstress, but something tells me that wouldn’t go down too well. So, all I say is, “Sorry,” for the hundredth time.

A few seconds later, I hear movement and then feet shuffling.

I risk a glance over my shoulder.

I see him limping toward the changing room—in only his boxer shorts.

Holy cow! He’s naked! Well, not completely naked, but…

He has great legs. Really long and toned.

And I just stabbed him in his ball sack.

That thought quickly drenches my pervy libido right back down.

“Can I do anything?” I ask quietly.

“No.”

Okay then.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him get his cell from his jeans pocket, which are hanging on the peg in there.

He dials and puts the phone to his ear, his other hand cupping his junk over his boxer shorts.

God, I can’t believe I stabbed him with a pin. All these years I’ve been doing this job, and I’ve never stabbed anyone—oh, fuck. He’s making a call. What if he’s calling to get me fired?

“Vaughn…Mr. West.” I turn to face him, not bothering to care that he’s practically naked, and I press my hands together in front of me in a pleading manner. “I really am sorry. It was an accident and—”

The look he hits me with slams my lips back shut.

“Alex, I need a doctor,” he says into his phone. “What? No, I just got stabbed in one of my balls with a pin.”

He glares at me again, and I shrink in on myself.

“Yes, I’m being serious. The seamstress in wardrobe. It’s not funny, you prick. Yeah, I’m still in wardrobe. Bring the doctor here. And, Alex, it goes without saying…discreet. Yeah. See you soon.” He hangs up his cell.

He was calling for a doctor, not having me fired. Thank you, God.

“Thank you. I thought you were calling to have me fired.”

Another glare. This one, a narrow-eyed glare. “The day is still young.”

Shit.

I watch as he walks over to a chair. He lets out a pained sound as he sits down.

My natural instinct is to help him, but I know he doesn’t want me anywhere near him, so I stay put.

And then I’m just standing there, like a spare part.

“Do you want me to get you an ice pack while you wait for the doctor?”

“Why? So you can freeze my balls off, seeing as though your first attempt at maiming me didn’t work?”

I bite my tongue.

Asshole. I know I hurt him, but it’s not like I did it on purpose.

“No.” My voice is tight. “To help numb the pain.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, not looking at me.

I head over to the small refrigerator that I spotted earlier, hoping it has a freezer compartment in it. And, thankfully, it does.

I grab a clean dish towel, put some ice inside, and fold it up.

I take it back to Vaughn. He’s quiet, his head tipped back, eyes closed.

“Here,” I say softly.

He opens his eyes, his angry stare back on me.

Ignoring his anger, I hand the ice pack to him.

He rests it over his injured part, a soft moan escaping his lips.

I wonder if that’s what he sounds like when he’s— Jesus, Charly.

“Better?” I ask, clearing my perverted thoughts away.

“Better would be not being stabbed in the ball sack by some crazy twerking chick who clearly can’t do her job properly.”

“Hey now! It wasn’t entirely my fault. You did jerk your hips forward—”