Page 67 of Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 1)
This is a job, I tell myself, but like the sex with Vic, it doesn’t feel that way at all.
“Problem, Bernadette?” Oscar chides, standing next to me and smirking in that irritating way of his. He’s of the devil, I’m certain of it.
“No,” I snap, more for my own benefit than for his, and then I push in the front doors, a small bell tinkling happily as I move across the shiny wood floors and pause in a sea of white. Why do people get married in white again? Oh, that’s right. It’s supposed to denote virginity. I have to hold back a snort of nervous laughter.
“Don’t worry about the price of the dress,” Oscar says, leaning down and putting his lips awfully close to my ear. His breath feathers against my skin, and I shiver. He barely spoke to me on the way over here, and I get the feeling he doesn’t like me much. “Just pick something that calls to you.”
“Calls to me?” I ask as a perky sales attendant in a khaki skirt and pale pink blouse flounces her way over to me. Her smile is practically plastered on, but I can see it straining at the edges as she takes in the pair of tattooed kids in her shop, undoubtedly here to waste her time.
“Hello there,” she says, never allowing her professional façade to drop, despite the fact that she’s certain we’re not going to buy anything. “Can I help you with something?”
“We’re here to get a wedding dress for my lovely companion,” Oscar says, placing his hands on the small of my waist and making me shiver. I can feel each one of his fingertips pressing into that tantalizing bit of bare skin between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my jeans. “She’s a size eight in commercial clothing. Thirty-eight, twenty-eight, forty measurements.”
I grit my teeth and resist the urge to elbow him in the stomach. I have a feeling that if I do, we'll throw down, and I'm not ready to throw down in the middle of a bridal shop.
“Well, I'm here to help. Are we looking for an initial consult or—”
“She knows what she likes, and we need to find a dress today,” Oscar says, down to business as usual. The woman turns her attention to me and folds her hands in front of her khaki skirt, seemingly unbothered at being interrupted. I’d have punched Oscar in the balls for that.
“What sort of styles are you into, honey?”
“The most expensive ones,” I say, and Oscar lets out a low laugh as the woman tries to keep smiling through my deadpan disinterest.
“Sure, of course,” she says, blinking through her confusion. Have to give her credit though. She was born for customer service. “I'm Zoe, by the way. Just follow me.”
“Planning on re-selling the dress after the ceremony?” Oscar asks, and I shrug. No point in trying to hide it.
“Something wrong with that?” I ask, but he just makes this clucking sound under his breath and releases me, leaving these little warm spots where his fingertips pressed into my skin.
We follow after Zoe to the back corner of the store—probably to get us out of view of any other customers that might happen in—and she shows me a rack of dresses wrapped in plastic.
I notice that some of them are slightly off in color, in various shades of champagne or gold or whatnot. I mean, they're close enough to white.
“These are from a French designer,” she begins as I search for the tag on one of the dresses. Fifty-five hundred bucks?! For a dress. Holy crap. My fingers touch the tag, and something inside of me shifts. I don't really care about weddings or ceremonies or tradition, but buying a dress with the sole purpose of reselling it makes me feel like a total asshole.
“Do you have any black dresses?” I ask, lifting my gaze from the tag to Zoe's surprised face.
“A black wedding dress?” she says, like I've just suggested she cut off her own fingers and use them as lace on my gown. “I, um.” She pauses again, clearly thinking on her feet. Zoe snaps her fingers. “Okay, I have an idea. I'll set you up in a fitting room.”
“A black wedding dress?” Oscar repeats, the sea of white gowns reflecting in the lenses of his glasses. “Aren't we the little rebel?” He gives another one of those deep, low chuckles. “Ophelia will hate it.” He pauses a beat as we head toward the fitting room. “But Vic, he'll love it.”
Zoe leads me into a room, and then scurries off excitedly, like she's just thought of the perfect dress. I don't bother to wait for her, undressing and kicking off my boots, pants, and jacket. I stand there for a moment in the lingerie Vic gave me, my eyes narrowed on my own reflection.
