Three Strikes

Rose groaned to herself, staring down at the damage with a big frown. The brown liquid soaked her shirt, leaving a terrible stain. Mopping it with a few hand towels, Rose swore under her breath and hurried into the bathroom, dabbing it with a wet cloth before drying it underneath the automatic dryers, to no avail. The shirt had a large, ghastly stain on its chest.

"This is so not my day," muttered Rose, exiting the bathroom and heading straight back to her desk. The nineteen year old fished through her bag, looking for a spare shirt or something. She groaned, hitting her forehead on the desk. "The one day I didn't bring a spare," she said, finding no amusement in her predicament.

"Morning Rosie," called Peter, one of her co-workers at the Fashion Inst. He flashed a toothy grin before coming over, bright blue eyes concerned. "Everything okay?" He asked, peering down at her slumped form. Peter ran the floor on which Rose worked - maintaining the business' high profile. He was tall with a strong physique, leaving both women and men, after his own heart.

Rose shook her head, sitting up to face him. Peter gasped.

"What happened to your shirt? It's a one of a kind!" He cried, pinching the shoulder's material. "Did you trip or something?"

"The latte maker hates me," grumbled Rose, pushing back strands of chocolate brown curls. They bounced with each shake of her head. "It was schizoid earlier. I don't have a spare shirt with me today," she admitted, biting her lip.

Peter tutted loudly. "Darling," he rolled his eyes, "you're forgetting we work in the fashion industry. We have spares all over the place."

Rose shot him a look, "Not one I can just take, Peter. They're designs for God's Sakes!"

Peter rolled his eyes and pulled her to her feet. "Sweetie, I run this business. Well, this floor. I'm not afraid of the big bad wolves above us. C'mon, what size are you? A four, a six?"

"I'm a six," said Rose, letting him pull her along. They flitted through the offices, passing people on the way. Rose hardly had time to wave to another colleague of hers as Peter wrenched open the doors to the fitting rooms.

"Whip it off," he said, walking down the aisles. "I'm going to find you something."

"Peter!" shouted Rose, unbuttoning the blouse. It was a known fact that Peter was gay; she had no problem with taking her clothes off in front of him. The two worked in fashion; they saw scantily clad women every day. "You know I can hardly afford anything you're going to throw at me."

She heard his voice a good way away. "It's a loan, silly. Besides, you know you'll look lovely in it."

She sighed, glancing down at the now ruined blouse. "I loved it as well."

"Marc Jacobs was it not?" asked Peter, coming towards her, garments loaded in his arms.

Rose nodded, throwing the blouse on the floor. She watched as Peter held a shirt against her. "That wipes you out." He held up another, "This is a four, but it's divine, is it not? You could squeeze into it, I suppose."

She shook her head. "What else have you got?"

Peter delicately picked up a stunning, embroidered white button shirt. "It's a six and a one-off Chanel. Do you like?" He held it to the light, watching the pearl buttons sparkle.

"Like?!" asked Rose, taking it from him. "I love it! It's beautiful!" Without warning, she passed it back to him. "You know I can't wear it. I'll end up doing something disastrous to it." She shook her head, "It's times like these I wished we advertised something from... H&M or somewhere."

Peter rolled his eyes. "You'd rather wear the Prada? We have two of these," he reminded her with a grin. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind if one were to simply, well, disappear."

Rose grinned and winked. "Peter, honestly. You spoil me."

"It's the perks, darling, the perks." He laughed. "No, I think it'd look good." He helped her shrug into the button shirt, watching as she buttoned it close. "You look lovely."

"It's a little snug on the bust," Rose commented, spinning around, catching her reflection in the many full length mirrors. Peter snorted.

"Not every woman can have a chest like yours," he said, eyeing her large chest. Rose caught his stare and whacked his arm. "Watch the suit, Rosie, it's LV and one of a kind. I picked it up yesterday." Peter helped her straighten the hem before standing back, whistling appreciatively. "Lovely. Now, back to work. You've an hour left on the shift. Sweetie, did you sleep at all last night?" Peter asked his friend, noticing the dark circles that had previously been hidden by make-up. "You look like a zombie."

Rose rolled her eyes. "Ever the charmer," Rose murmured. "I'm having a little trouble sleeping. What, with Adam being gone and..."

Peter tutted. "You broke up months ago," he suddenly softened. "Still not over him?"

"Not in the slightest," Rose agreed, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I miss him, obviously. It's just I've got the apartment to myself, now. And it's so... empty, almost."

Peter hugged her, kissing the top of her head. "Go home and rest," he said, flicking his own hair back. "Okay? You'll need it. We've got the fundraiser in a couple of days. I'm going to need you at your best. I'm your boss and your best friend, Rose. I'm trying to do what's right from both perspectives."

Rose smiled as she hugged him. "I know, Petey. I know. And I love you, really." She kissed his cheek. "You're fine with me leaving?"

He placed a hand to his chest, "How will I go on!" He cried, dramatically. "Now, go! You're making me look bad! Love you, my little Rose!" He called as Rose began to leave, picking up her purse and jacket. Exiting the building, and waving goodbye to Anna on the reception desk, Rose left the busy LA Design offices and headed off to the car lot, unlocking her car and clambering inside, liking the feel of the rented blouse against her tanned skin. She started the engine and pulled out of her parking space, only to have the car skid to the right. Slamming on the brakes, Rose's eyes widened in horror as the car failed to brake. Cutting the engine, the car swerved to the side, barrelling into the concrete wall opposite. Sighing in relief as the airbag inflated, Rose's head was thrown forward, bouncing off of the tightly filled airbag. Breathing heavily, she clambered out of the car, thanking whoever was up in the sky that she was alive. People flooded out from the ground floor of the building after seeing what had taken place. Connor, an attractive man Rose knew, insisted that she go to the hospital.

Rose sighed, allowed herself to be carried to his car as she felt he headache brewing.

Could today get any worse?!