Page 36 of Twisted Control

An amused smile curves his mouth. “You could wear a trash bag and still look smoking hot. But we’re dressing you down. Jeans, hoodie, hair up. No one’s gonna look twice at you. We can actually go out without causing a scene.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, considering it. I suppose it’s not the worst idea.

“Fine,” I say with a dramatic sigh.

“Look at you,” he says, voice warm and smug, “braving the terrifying world of denim and normal people. So brave.”

He gets out before I can respond. I glare at his back as he rounds the car to my side. I’m fighting a smile.

God, he’s a moron.

We step into the mall. Everything is too bright, too loud, and too much. Gleaming white floors, soaring glass ceilings, and that sickly-sweet scent of pretzels and cinnamon rolls hanging in the air. I feel eyes on me instantly. I quickly dig my oversized sunglasses out of my bag and slide them on, but they do almost nothing to make me feel invisible.

Drew glances over at me, clearly amused. “You have been to a mall before, right?”

“Of course I have,” I say, a little too quickly.

Years ago. With my mom. In a very upscale department store attached to a much quieter mall. Not…this.

Drew spots a store up ahead—Eternally 20—with blinding pink signage and windows full of ripped denim and tiny crop tops. He starts steering me toward it with a hand at my lower back.

I dig my heels in. “Absolutely not.”

“This is what normal people wear,” he says, gently but firmly guiding me forward. “If you want to blend in, you’ve actually got to blend in.”

As Drew pulls me inside, I immediately regret every life choice that brought me to this moment.

The music is thumping like we’ve stumbled into a nightclub. Colored lights flash across the racks in a cheap disco effect, and there are endless rows of shiny plastic clothes.

But if this is the price of anonymity, I suppose I can suffer through it.

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders.

I scan the racks, trying to be a good sport, and reach for a white mini skirt. Drew catches my wrist before I can even lift it off the hanger.

“Try these instead,” he says, holding up a pair of slightly flared jeans.

I wrinkle my nose. “No.”

He exhales sharply, clearly running out of patience. “Just try them on.”

I sigh but take the jeans anyway. I hold them up against my body and immediately shake my head. “I’m five-eleven. Nothing off the rack ever fits properly.”

Drew looks at the jeans, then at me, and seems to agree. “Fair point.”

“Thank you,” I say, trying not to sound too smug. I’m being cooperative, after all. That should count for something.

“There’s a proper denim place further down,” he says. “They might carry longer lengths.”

We escape the thumping techno nightmare and head across the mall. The place he mentioned called Denim Warehouse is much calmer. Softer lighting, wider aisles, and (unfortunately) country music playing overhead. It’s still not my scene, but at least it’s not a sensory overload like the other place.

I glance around at the endless walls of denim. “Do you actually shop here?”

Drew pulls a revolted face. “Do I look like someone who wears jeans?”

A young salesgirl spots him and immediately flushes bright pink. She tucks her hair behind her ear and flashes a way-too-wide smile. “How can I help you today?”

Drew doesn’t seem to notice the heart-eyes she’s throwing at him. “You got anything for someone her height?” he asks, nodding toward me. “Long legs.”