Then she dives into the closet, rummaging, and emerges with something held aloft like a sacred artifact.
A micro leather skirt. Jet black with threads along the sides. The type of mini skirt that requires no underwear, not even a thong.
“Jackie,” I breathe.
“Yes,” she says simply.
“I can’t wear that.”
“Yes you can.”
“That’s not a skirt. That’s a… that’s like a sleeve.” I scoff, pulling at one of the strings. “It is barely cloth.”
She laughs, shakes it once like it might come to life. “It’s perfect. You’ll stun them into silence. And if not, you can blind them with how short it is.”
“No,” I shake my head as she shakes the skirt.
“Try it,” Jackie insists gently. “Just try it.”
I take the skirt out of her head, and roll my eyes as I slide the leather up my legs. It fits like it was shaped around me—warm, tight, hugging the curve of my hips, skimming my thighs in a way that makes my breath catch.
Jackie inhales sharply. “Oh, honey.”
“What?”
“You look like sin,” she whispers reverently. “Like the kind Isaiah would praise, the kind Asher would analyze, and the kind Xavier would absolutely start a war over.”
My stomach twists, hot and electric.
“Top,” she says, recovering her composure. “We need the perfect top.”
She rummages through a drawer and pulls out a black Raiders shirt she’s cut and re-tailored. The neckline dips off one shoulder, the fabric fitted but soft, stitched tight at the waist to show the shape of my body. It’s casual but intimate, sweet but dangerous.
When I pull it on, Jackie grabs my shoulders and swivels me toward the mirror. The girl staring back is trouble. A temptation. A dare.
Jackie beams. “You look so good. Asher and Zay are going to loose their shit.”
I swallow. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” she says softly. “They’re going to go feral when they see you. Now… hair up or down?”
Something warm flickers low in my chest. “Up.”
“Perfect,” she giggles, grabbing her brush and gel.
In a blur of quick fingers, she gathers my long, curly blonde hair and draws it up into a high ponytail that tightens everything about my face, lifting my features and baring my neck like an invitation I’m not sure I ever meant to give. The curls spill down my back in a wild, glossy cascade.
Then she moves to my face, leaning in with the confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times. She smokes out my eyes until they look darker, sharper, almost dangerous. She brushes a soft glow across my cheekbones, catching the light just right. And when she’s finished, my lips glisten with a glossy pink shine—full, soft, kiss-tempting in a way that makes even me blink at my reflection.
By the time she steps back to admire her work, the floor is already vibrating faintly beneath us. The party has started downstairs—bass pulsing up through the wood, rattling the baby toys, humming under my boots.
My thigh-highs are on. My hair is tight and high. My makeup is flawless.
“Damn I am good,” she whistles lowly.
“Yeah, you are.” I smirk, and then realize that she is still dressed in her sweats. “Are you not coming?”
“No, Henderson took the baby to my moms so we're going to have a family night there.” She sighs, tilting her head to the side with a sad smile. “I can’t stay up past ten o’clock even if I tried.”