“Holy shit. If I had a dick, I’d definitely fuck you.” This comes from Harlow, along with a slow clap. “Damn, girl. You look like a goddess in that.”
“Hold on. We need shoes! I know the perfect ones!”
Kelsey disappears back into the closet, then emerges with four-inch nude heels that have a simple strap across my toe and one that goes around my ankle. Thankfully, they’re also insanely comfortable and won’t cripple me before we even get to the club. Where many of my other tall heels qualify as “sitting shoes,” these are functionalandbeautiful.
I slide them on my feet and buckle them before turning in a slow circle so they can see the whole effect.
Kelsey is already making plans by the time I’m facing them again. “Your hair goes up. I know that’s not your normal, but with that back, we don’t want anything covering it. We’ll keep it super simple and sexy. Like a chignon, with a few wispy pieces around your face to soften the look.”
“And long earrings. Statement pieces,” Harlow says, clapping her hands. “Where are the pretties? I want to pick through.”
“Safe is in the closet. Let me grab a few trays. One sec.”
Moments later, I reappear, and we lay the trays on the bed. Harlow and Kelsey sort through the collection I inherited from my mother, as well as the new pieces I’ve added here and there.
“I like these. Simple and elegant.” Harlow holds up an earring made of a half dozen gold snake chains about three inches long, with diamonds dangling from the ends.
“Oh yes. Those are perfect. I can pick up the gold in the makeup. I’ll smoke it out a little too with some earth tones, and you’ll lookphenomenal.” Kelsey has her phone out, making notes about the look we’re going to create, and the lop-eared rabbits are back bouncing in my belly.
This is really happening. I’m actually going to do this.
A smile spreads over my face as Harlow and Kelsey debate the rest of the makeup choices and decide on a nude lip and a blinding highlight.
Gabriel Legend, you’re not going to know what hit you.
Fifty-One
Scarlett
Ifind myself back at Dolly’s Diner on Friday with Flynn, steaming bottomless cups of coffee in front of us.
Normally I wouldn’t leave Curated on a Friday, but things are different lately becauseI’m living.And apparently, so is my former stepsister.
“When did you start street racing? How?”
Flynn’s wearing a light pink cardigan over a white cami and a jean skirt. It’s a far cry from the all-black-and-leather outfit from Saturday night, which makes this conversation even weirder. It’s like I never knew her at all, which I suppose is the truth. We both spent most of the time we were around each other watching the shit show that was our parents’ relationship.
“Senior year of boarding school.”
“What? No way. That’s impossible.”
“Oh, stop. You know they let us get away with murder—and the parking lot is like a luxury car dealership. Every kid has the latest and greatest, even if they don’t know what the hell they’re driving.”
“But that doesn’t explain how you got intoracing them.”
Flynn leans back in her chair and sips her coffee. “I met a guy.”
“I swear, that’s how these stories always start,” I comment dryly.
Her dark hair falls over her shoulder as she tilts her head. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“Sorry, go ahead.”
“I met a guy. A townie. He hit on me one night when I was out with some friends, but he was really checking out my car. I was driving a BMW M3 in those days, and he cornered me in the bar and bet me that a pretty little rich girl like me didn’t know how to drive it the way it was meant to be driven.”
I have so many things I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut and let Flynn continue.
“I took the bait, ditched my friends, and followed him in his little Honda CR-X out to some abandoned strip of road on the other side of the tracks—”