Page 30 of Bent Out of Shade
“Not even a little bit.” I stuffed the money in my pocket.
“What? No, then you can’t have that,” he said.
“Why not? You offered it freely.”
“We had a deal.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Did you make me a formal offer to which I agreed?”
“Don’t be such a bitch,” he said.
Oh, you little putz. You saw a middle-aged woman and in your sexist arrogance of youth thought you could bully me. “I wasn’t going to actually keep the money, just impart a lesson in the importance of language when striking a verbal contract. But I’ve changed my mind and will be keeping this. Some people charge sales tax, I charge asshole tax. However, in exchange, you may take this.” I handed him a Cassin & Associates card.
“What is it?” He frowned at it.
“A lifeline. Keep it close, kid. I have a feeling you’ll need it.”
With that I went to rat him out. I left to the dulcet tones of his mother screeching, “Jack, you are in so much trouble!” Even better, my pockets were five hundred dollars heavier because she’d insisted on me keeping the money.
Sadly, there was still one other unpleasant task I had to cross off my list. Hmm, did I want to take my life into my hands and go see Giulia about the ring on the very same day as my date with Laurent?
The answer to that was a big nope, so I did what any woman going out for the first time with a hot guy did and called my best friend to help me pick out clothes since I had only three hours to get ready.
Jude refused to come over. “No way. I’m familiar with everything in your wardrobe and none of it has that wow factor. We’re going shopping.”
I tossed a shirt onto my depressingly large discard pile. Would three hours be enough? Maybe we should have started this morning. “He told me to wear stretchy clothes since we’d be eating a lot.”
“That’s not mood killing at all. Men.” She snorted. “Brace yourself, sug. We’re going to disregard that memo.”
* * *
Jude took me on the pub crawl equivalent of glitzy dress shopping. Other than the lack of booze, I felt just as queasy and sweaty as if we were barhopping. I lurched from store to store, contorting myself in and out of clothing.
After the first five shops, I dubbed this outing the Parade of Awful, and the lights outside this current changing cubicle did nothing to sway my opinion. I examined myself in the floor-length mirror, turning sideways to see my butt. “There’s such a plethora of options to choose from. Do I go with this King Midas barmaid look?” I ran a hand over the gold ruffled bodice that pushed my girls almost up to my chin. “Maybe go back to the last store for the great lace mishap?”
Jude, sprawled in a chair, tossed a chocolate-covered almond into her mouth. “My vote still goes to the leopard-print number.”
“Ah, yes. Mobster’s First Wife. A classic.” I wriggled a finger under the tight elastic binding my chest so I could breathe properly. “I’m not sure I have time for the spray tan it demands.”
“True. Orange is the new black.” She snapped her fingers. “What about the one with the rhinestones? Very Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.”
“This is hopeless.” I stomped back into the fitting room. “I’m wearing my funeral dress. It’s stretchy.”
“You are not wearing anything that’s seen more coffins than dicks.”
The woman in the cubicle next to mine snorted a laugh.
I wrestled the dress off, going very still when the filmy material got stuck around my shoulders. If I had to pay two hundred dollars for this monstrosity, I was going to lose it.
Inch by sweaty inch, I freed myself. I’d pulled it off with a sigh when a mass of slippery purple fabric with no discernable shape was draped over the door.
“Try this,” Jude said.
“Is it a body sock?” I peered at it doubtfully. “A bruised sandworm?”
Jude gave an aggravated sigh, signaling I was several seconds away from her barging in and shoving me into the dress.
I grabbed it. “Can’t wait to try it on.”
