Page 22 of Fatality

“Shit!” I yelp. “Oh, for God's sake.” I sigh.

One of the bottles rolls straight under the lowest shelf.

Of course it does.

I sigh and crouch down, sliding my arm under the shelf and patting the floor blindly.

Nothing.

Just perfect.

I lie on my stomach and crawl farther underneath like some military recruit on a mission.

Pat. Pat. Pat.

There.

I snag it with my fingertips and sit back on my heels, examining it.

Bingo.

The one that rolled under is the exact shade of red I was looking for.

Of course it is. Otherwise, it wouldn't be nearly as funny to watch me crawl around the middle of a shop.

I finally push myself back to my feet, smooth out my clothes, and check my comm.

It's my mother.

My eyes narrow as a knot begins to tighten in my stomach.

What the hell do she wants?

The screen flashes, and my mother's message appears, sounding exactly as if she were standing right beside me.

Mother: “Riven, you are summoned to the gala in two days.”

My grip tightens around my comm and the bottle of red ink, my knuckles turning white from the force.

No choice. No Hello, Riven. How are you? She'd have a heart attack before she'd ever do that.

Then I read the second message, my grip turns lethal.

Mother: “And dress in a way that reflects well on this family. Don't shame us.”

What the hell is wrong with them? I would embarrass them? Them?

The bottle explodes in my hand, splattering red ink all over me like I just committed a murder.

I look down at myself, and for a second, I'm frozen in time. Then I take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm me down.

“Put it on my tab, Josh.” I head for the exit. “Send the usual to my studio—and throw in the same shade I just painted myself with. Thanks, and sorry for the mess.”

I don’t wait for an answer.

I leave, the door sliding shut behind me with a soft swish. The heat hits me like a truck, but I'm too pissed off to care.

A gala? Summoned? Dress in a way that doesn't embarrass those pricks with the sticks up their asses?