Brody blew a stray lock of hair from her face with a huff. She was surrounded by yards of glittery spandex, gold lamé, and black leather. She slammed her head into the fabric, a dull umph resonating from the table.
"If I have to sew on one more sparkly doo dah to any more spangly, frilly bullshit I am going to lose my mind, and possibly the feeling in my fingers." She groaned looking at her band aid covered fingers.
Eliza, the wardrobe coordinator, rolled her eyes.
"If you don't like sewing the sparkly 'bullshit' I'm sure we could send you back to measurements."
Brody groaned louder, pulling her head out of a pile of spandex.
It was only three months ago that she so excitedly walked through the doors of the WWE cooperate office for orientation. Three months ago that she dreamed of designing flashy costumes and ring attire that would be talked about on message boards and blogs for years as being "integral to character development" and all sorts of other bullshit. Now she spent her time respangling skirts, reinforcing the crotches on every pair of pants put in front of her, and memorizing the exact measurements of almost every superstar on the roster. Her knowledge of the Diva's cup sizes would impress any sixteen year old boy.
But if there was any job worse than the mind numbing task of endlessly sewing on sparkly things to shimmery fabric, it was taking measurements.
Brody found the superstars to be nice enough, some were down right friendly, most simply ignored her. The thing she hated most about taking measurements was just how horribly awkward it made her. Asking Randy Orton or John Cena to hold still for her to measure their inseams sent her into such a horrible, red, stuttering state that she was surprised she was able to measure correctly. And telling a diva that she's gained an inch around her waist or telling a headliner that he lost an inch around his bicep, it was soul crushingly, terribly awkward.
"I guess spangly bullshit isn't that bad," Brody sighed.
Her boss responded only with a light "hmm".
With Raw being less than 24 hours away Brody knew it would be a long night, but after close to eight hours of nonstop, silent sewing she thought she would go mad. Eliza was a sweet woman, sweet but not much for company. She was a hard worker and had long perfected her stern glare. She never raised her voice but she also never joked or laughed.
Brody rubbed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, stretching back in her chair as she did so. She closed her eyes and took several deep breathes in, not hearing as someone approached her work station.
"Jesus!" Brody jumped at the sound of something being thrown onto the table in front of her.
"Try again sweetheart," the man grinned, obnoxiously popping his gum while he stared down at her.
Dean Ambrose stood, towering above her.
Brody felt the blood rush to her face. Her cheeks were no doubt a violent shade of tomato. Dean noticed this change in her complexion and his grin grew smug.
He leaned on her table with both hands, bending his face down to meet her at eye level.
"I need this repaired by tomorrow," he said, an accent Brody couldn't quite place seeping through his arrogant smile.
Brody nodded nervously and glanced at the cloth in front of her, a black leather jacket. It was standard, not too many pockets, no rhinestones and glitter like some of the wrestlers preferred, and at the elbow was a large tear. The repair was one Brody was more than capable of doing, but she already had a pile of clothes to repair for everyone else performing the next night.
She bit her lower lip as she examined the gash in the fabric. She ran her fingers delicately over the material, bracing herself before she spoke.
"I will do my best, but I may not be able to finish it in time. We already have alterations and repairs to make for almost every-"
Dean cut her off, his grin became forced.
"I need this for tomorrow," he reiterated, "and make sure you do it," he gestured, waving his hands carelessly at Brody. "Because every time she fixes something of mine it falls apart in minutes," he said, raising his voice loud enough for Eliza to hear, tossing a glare in her direction for good measure.
He was still leaning against Brody's work station, his hands fisted in the fabric and his face only a foot from her own, agitation etched all over it.
Brody had never met Dean in person, but she knew enough about him. She grew up watching wrestling with her brothers. She remembered, rather clearly, watching Dean wrestle on the independent circuit. He was walking controlled chaos. His wrestling style was as unpredictable as he was. His head could be pouring blood, his opponent lying motionless in the ring, and he would have the same goofy, tongue out grin on his face he always did. He enjoyed the violence. She specifically remembered an interview with him in which he rambled on incoherently while manhandling the female interviewer, tossing her around and wrapping his hand around her neck, all the while waving a fork around as if it were a switchblade. Brody knew she had to tread carefully.
His eyes bore into hers.
"I will do my best," she tried to sound confident, despite the slight waver in her voice.
Dean smacked his gum, his cocky grin reappearing as if operated by a switch.
"You do that." He pounded his hands on the table before strolling away nonchalantly.
Brody stared at the doorway for a couple beats, and when she was sure he was out of earshot she groaned loudly and let her head drop onto the table. Umph.
From her pile of fabric Brody heard Eliza mumble, "something's not right with that man."
Brody lifted her head and turned to face Eliza, glaring, but Eliza was already back to sewing.