Page 80 of Collateral Love
Not to see if I looked pretty.
To see if I looked believable.
“Channy, hurry up and zip me!” I called.
She tiptoed into the room like she expected Mama to materialize out of thin air and snatch her soul.
“Relax,” I murmured. “You’re with me.”
Her little shoulders settled. They always did when I said that. Because of all Mama’s favoritism and passive-aggressive digs, I was the one who kept the house from crumbling.
I was the glue.
The shield.
The secret.
Camilla pulled up, blasting Trina and chewing on gum like it owed her money.
Chanel hesitated.
“You sure she gon’ cover?”
I smirked. “Camilla lies better than most pastors preach.”
And she did.
Because she knew why I needed tonight to go well.
Because she knew who I was sneaking out to see after I dropped my sister off at the party.
Once we got to the gas station to change out of our decoy clothes, Chanel dressed as if it were her first day on earth.
The halter top fought for its life. The jeans fought for hers. But she didn’t look grown—she looked like she was trying not to breathe too hard.
I fixed her lip gloss.
“Don’t lick it off,” I warned.
“I’m nervous,” she whispered.
“Good. Nervous girls survive. Let’s go.”
When it was my turn, I peeled off the church-lady decoy skirt, adjusted the cheetah-print mini, and checked my phone.
One new message.
Zay:
I miss your fine ass.
Heat pooled low in my stomach.
I cleared my throat, put on the face Chanel needed to see, and walked out like nothing inside me shifted at the sight of his name.
Crestwood partiesalways smelled like cheap liquor, sweat, weed, and ambition.
I walked in first, letting the bass wash over me, letting eyes follow me—because eyes on me meant no one watched my sister.
