nail polish and makeup and ask Jacob to deliver them.”
“I wish you could deliver them yourself.” I don’t want to be alone. “But with the cameras outside, I guess Jacob is the safer choice. No one notices a security guard.”
“Any escort worth her hourly rate can enter a building without being detected,” Lona says smugly. “Some of my clients included rock stars, high-profile politicians, and billionaires.”
Nicolas is a billionaire. Has he ever hired my friend? I don’t ask. I’d rather not know.
“Then you can visit me.” I walk across the room to the window. My cat watches me from her hiding place. She cares about me, about what I do, where I go. “If you have time.”
“I have time.” Lona pauses. “There’s always a chance that I’ll be caught. The paparazzi would then link our names together again, ruin your restored reputation.”
My reputation is only partially restored. I stare down at the park, the sliver of green flat and bare without Nicolas’s beloved tree. Some of the people attending tonight will believe I’m a whore. They’ll always believe this, as some of the people living in Happydale will always view my strong, brave mom as being wild, unworthy, and less than.
“I’ll risk my reputation.” I clutch the dog tags hanging between my breasts. “I want to see you.”
Moments pass. She doesn’t say anything. I glance at my phone. We remain connected. “Lona?”
“You’re a good person, Belinda,” she says softly. “I’ll be there in an hour.” She ends our call.
“Did you hear that, Gisele?” I look at my cat. “We’re having company.” She licks her dainty black paws. “I agree. We should get ready.”
I hurry into the bedroom, hang my gorgeous Prada gown in Hawke’s eerily semiempty closet, and steam the wrinkles out of the luxurious fabric. It’s almost too beautiful to wear, the skirt fairy-tale-princess light.
I set the sandals under the dress and envision the entire outfit. The black will accentuate the paleness of my skin. The fit will be perfect, the hem skimming the red carpet.
With this dress, I can enter the ballroom and know I belong, that I deserve to be there. Heads will turn. They’ll gaze at me with wonder, begrudging admiration reflecting in their eyes. No one will find fault with me, not Angel, not Dru, not one of my critics.
I frown. These critics are the same people who rejected Cyndi and Lona, my friends, who labeled me as being a whore for having lunch with a tormented soldier, who treated Hawke like shit because they thought he was merely a bodyguard, merely a man devoted to protecting them, willing to die for their ungrateful asses.
Fuck them. I step into the bathroom. It’s no wonder that Nicolas wants me by his side, that he wants a friend in his corner. I won’t abandon him . . . not until he abandons me. Then I’ll ask Mack or Ellen to escort me home.
Satisfied with this plan, I carefully set my diamond hair comb on the vanity, quickly strip and shower, reluctantly washing Hawke’s scent from my skin. His mark on my breast remains, a brand of possession I wear proudly.
I dress in black G-string panties and the red silk robe Cyndi forced me to wear to the English department’s senior year “pimps and hoes” party two years ago. The garment is poorly crafted and shamefully slutastic, but I need something I can remove without mussing my hair. This robe is the best choice.
The doorbell rings. A black ball of fur streaks across the floor, dashing into the bedroom I share with Hawke. “It’s Lona, Gisele,” I tell my nervous cat. “She’s a friend.”
I gaze through the peephole and inwardly groan, wondering if Lona will be a friend for long. The escort is her usual immaculate self, perfect hair, perfect makeup, and from what I see, perfectly dressed.
I open the door and my trepidation increases. She’s wearing a drool-worthy Dolce & Gabbana floral brocade dress with a fitted bodice, an empire waist, and a
“I wish you could deliver them yourself.” I don’t want to be alone. “But with the cameras outside, I guess Jacob is the safer choice. No one notices a security guard.”
“Any escort worth her hourly rate can enter a building without being detected,” Lona says smugly. “Some of my clients included rock stars, high-profile politicians, and billionaires.”
Nicolas is a billionaire. Has he ever hired my friend? I don’t ask. I’d rather not know.
“Then you can visit me.” I walk across the room to the window. My cat watches me from her hiding place. She cares about me, about what I do, where I go. “If you have time.”
“I have time.” Lona pauses. “There’s always a chance that I’ll be caught. The paparazzi would then link our names together again, ruin your restored reputation.”
My reputation is only partially restored. I stare down at the park, the sliver of green flat and bare without Nicolas’s beloved tree. Some of the people attending tonight will believe I’m a whore. They’ll always believe this, as some of the people living in Happydale will always view my strong, brave mom as being wild, unworthy, and less than.
“I’ll risk my reputation.” I clutch the dog tags hanging between my breasts. “I want to see you.”
Moments pass. She doesn’t say anything. I glance at my phone. We remain connected. “Lona?”
“You’re a good person, Belinda,” she says softly. “I’ll be there in an hour.” She ends our call.
“Did you hear that, Gisele?” I look at my cat. “We’re having company.” She licks her dainty black paws. “I agree. We should get ready.”
I hurry into the bedroom, hang my gorgeous Prada gown in Hawke’s eerily semiempty closet, and steam the wrinkles out of the luxurious fabric. It’s almost too beautiful to wear, the skirt fairy-tale-princess light.
I set the sandals under the dress and envision the entire outfit. The black will accentuate the paleness of my skin. The fit will be perfect, the hem skimming the red carpet.
With this dress, I can enter the ballroom and know I belong, that I deserve to be there. Heads will turn. They’ll gaze at me with wonder, begrudging admiration reflecting in their eyes. No one will find fault with me, not Angel, not Dru, not one of my critics.
I frown. These critics are the same people who rejected Cyndi and Lona, my friends, who labeled me as being a whore for having lunch with a tormented soldier, who treated Hawke like shit because they thought he was merely a bodyguard, merely a man devoted to protecting them, willing to die for their ungrateful asses.
Fuck them. I step into the bathroom. It’s no wonder that Nicolas wants me by his side, that he wants a friend in his corner. I won’t abandon him . . . not until he abandons me. Then I’ll ask Mack or Ellen to escort me home.
Satisfied with this plan, I carefully set my diamond hair comb on the vanity, quickly strip and shower, reluctantly washing Hawke’s scent from my skin. His mark on my breast remains, a brand of possession I wear proudly.
I dress in black G-string panties and the red silk robe Cyndi forced me to wear to the English department’s senior year “pimps and hoes” party two years ago. The garment is poorly crafted and shamefully slutastic, but I need something I can remove without mussing my hair. This robe is the best choice.
The doorbell rings. A black ball of fur streaks across the floor, dashing into the bedroom I share with Hawke. “It’s Lona, Gisele,” I tell my nervous cat. “She’s a friend.”
I gaze through the peephole and inwardly groan, wondering if Lona will be a friend for long. The escort is her usual immaculate self, perfect hair, perfect makeup, and from what I see, perfectly dressed.
I open the door and my trepidation increases. She’s wearing a drool-worthy Dolce & Gabbana floral brocade dress with a fitted bodice, an empire waist, and a
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