“Dakota!” a voice calls out, and I jump at the sound of Tess’ rapid footsteps clicking across the floor. Maxx and I emerge from the closet just in time to see her step in through the open door in a pair of her own Louboutin pumps. Hers, however, are classic black. “I see you’ve found the gifts that your … Justin sent.” She grits her teeth when she says his name, eyes flicking to the pile on the bed. “He’s also, apparently, sent over a nail tech, a makeup artist, and a hair stylist?” She phrases that like a question and then adds, “at your request?”
You son of a bitch.
“Um, yeah. I just wanted to look nice for the party.”
I can smell an unspoken request from about a million miles away. If Justin didn’t appreciate me questioning his need to order my food at a restaurant, I can only imagine how he’d react if I rejected any of his ‘gifts’.
“I’ll send them up then,” Tess continues, her face a mask of begrudging acceptance. “Did you hear the news about Parrish?” she asks, abruptly switching the subject to something much more favorable.
“I did,” I reply, making myself smile through the nausea.
“I told her in the car; she cried,” Maxx offers, and I throw him a look that he returns with one of his own. Right. That works. I’m having trouble feigning excitement seeing as I know Justin is manipulating us all behind the scenes.
He seems to love *NSYNC. We actually watched the music video for Bye Bye Bye in the limo before he started singing You Gotta Be, so I’ve got that image of the band hanging from puppet strings in my mind.
That’s what we are right now: his puppets.
“We’re getting close,” Tess says, straightening out her jacket and lifting her chin. “I found one of my children before; I can do it again.”
“I know you can,” I reply, as nicely as I’m able.
She studies me for another moment, her dark eyes rife with concern. She doesn’t like the idea of us going to this party anymore than we do—only, she can’t know that.
“I’ve got a date set for the custody hearing; you’ll get to tell the judge whatever you want. We scheduled it for after final exams are over. I just wanted you to be aware of that; I will fight with everything I have to keep you away from that man.”
I have a feeling that whatever I say now will be used against me by Justin, so I keep my mouth shut and offer up a simple nod. That same, sad disappointment floods Tess’ face as she reluctantly starts to retreat from the room, her hand lingering on the doorjamb.
“I’ll … grab your beauty team,” she tells me, and I can’t help but cringe at the implied judgement in her words.
As soon as she leaves, I spin toward Maxx, putting my hands on his chest to ground myself. It feels good to touch him like this.
“I look like a total dick to everyone I know,” I murmur as Maxx covers my hands and presses them against his chest.
“Not to me, not to Chasm, and certainly not to Parrish,” he promises. “And don’t worry too hard about it: the truth always comes out in the end.”
I look up at his handsome face and count my blessings.
Without Maxx and Chasm, things would be so much harder.
Good thing I know how to choose my pawns, eh, Justin?
I don’t recognize myself when I look in the mirror.
My green and black hair is twisted in an elaborate chignon at the base of my neck, the pink diamond tiara glittering on the crown of my head. The earrings catch the light, keeping the eye drawn up toward my face. There’s no necklace with the outfit which seems to be intentional; the bare expense of my pale chest above the bodice of my dress provides a nice contrast with the pink of the gown and the slightly brighter shoes.
The gloves and the wrap lend an elegance to the outfit, helping to offset some of the youthfulness of the cut and color. My makeup is subtle enough that I might not be wearing any—wink, wink. That is, I’m wearing a shit ton of makeup to look like a walking-talking Snapchat filter.
I purse my lips tight, blinking the long, curved lengths of my eyelash extensions.
Yes, eyelash extensions. Justin’s makeup artist did them for me before she did my face up.
My nails look very much like Raúl’s—a French manicure with blunt tips. I reach one hand up and rest my fingers against my cheek, studying my dark eyes in the mirror. I’m the perfect blend of Tess and Justin, a twisted fragment of their DNA.
DNA.
Fuck DNA.
It’s DNA’s fault that I’m even in this situation, that Parrish is in this situation.
