It’s time to find some new clothes.
Luckily, I’m at a shopping mall.
I lock the stall door from the inside, step on the toilet seat between the dead guy’s legs, climb on the piping system behind the toilet, and hoist myself over the wall. Before leaving, I check myself in the mirror, making sure I don’t have any blood anywhere. Then I exit the bathroom.
TWO
LACEE
This black dressis screaming my name. I hold the hanger up in front of me, examining it. It’s a short halter dress with a cutout keyhole neckline and made of silk.
I repeat:silk.
Wearing it would be like wrapping myself in the sheets at a Four Seasons Hotel.
It will make the perfect New Year’s Eve outfit. Not that Ineeda New Year’s Eve outfit. I don’t have any New Year’s Eve plans besides hanging out with my family. But they say you should “dress for the job you want.” Buying this would be me dressing for the New Year’s Eve I want—something exciting and romantic. So naturally, I should try the dress on. I glance at the price tag. It’s on sale, which is perfect for my tight budget right now—another reason why I should try it on.
I make my way to the back of the store, passing a rack of scarves. Maybe I should get my mom a scarf for her Christmas present—a last-minute gift before I fly to Leavenworth, Washington tonight. Even though everyone knows that giving someone a scarf as a present means you don’t know what else to get them, that's not actually the case here. I know what my mom likes. I’ve just had so much on my mind that Christmas shopping took a back seat. So I pick up the purple scarf and throw it over my arm. One present down.
The fitting room attendant doesn’t even glance at me as I approach the dressing rooms. In her defense, she has a mountain of clothes piled on her table that she’s trying to sort through and hang up.
I stand in front of her, watching a stream of people funnel in and out of the fitting rooms. Maybe this is a help-yourself dressing room. Just in case it’s not, I ask the teenage girl, “Do you assign me a dressing room, or do I just find an empty one myself?”
Her eyes don’t even move to me. Instead, she wrestles a bunch of hangers stuck together. “Just pick one.”
“Okay.” I hold up the dress and the scarf. “I’m taking two items in.”
“Whatever.” She yanks on one of the hangers, freeing it from the heap.
Apparently, shoplifters and fitting room theft aren’t a huge concern for this employee.
I walk down the long hall, passing all the closed curtains. I go by people standing next to rooms, waiting for their friends to come out. A child cries behind a curtain while her mom tells her not to open the fabric yet. Loose clothing items that never made their way back to the attendant clutter the floor. The place is a mess. This dressing room makes me feel like I’m walking through Ross Dress For Less instead of a high-end department store in the mall. But I guess the mess is to be expected one week before Christmas.
My phone buzzes and I reach into my back pocket. I swipe to read the text. It’s one of thoseHurry! This sale on Viagra won’t last long. The perfect stocking stuffermessages.
Um, no.
How do these companies get my phone number anyway? Their marketing director is not very good at their job because I’m the opposite demographic they should be targeting. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
I approach the last dressing room. The curtain is slightly open—creating a four-inch gap between the edge and the wall. I push the fabric the rest of the way and tug it shut as I focus on deleting the text. That’s when I collide with a man.
My cheek presses against a bare, solid shoulder, and my hands smash into what feels like the ridges of the Grand Canyon but are, shockingly, a man’s chiseled abs.
The collision surprises me, and I push off, fumbling with my phone. But it’s like a wet bar of soap, slipping out of my hands each time I try to catch it. The man shoots his arm out and, with cat-like reflexes, he snatches the device before it falls to the ground.
“I am so sorry!” I whip my body around, so I can’t see him. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you when you’re exposed. Notexposed.” Why did I use that word? “I’m not implying that you get completely naked in a fitting room. I’m just saying…” I step back, flustered, and that’s when my back bumps into his chest. I shift again, and now I’m facing the mirror with a perfect side view of his body. Oh my gosh! Has he been pantless this whole time?
He’s wearing black briefs that accentuate his rock-solid derriere. Although, rock isn’t the most solid thing on earth. Diamonds are. So his is a diamond-solid butt, which according to a jewelry store, will last forever. What am I even saying right now? This train of thought has gone too far. And I’m still reeling over my use of the wordexposed.I need to get the heck out of here. I can barely handle being in a small, confined place with a shirtless man, so hanging around when it’s just a pair of briefs between us is out of the question.
I shuffle so I can’t see his body through the mirror anymore, but he moves with me. I don’t know what to do, so I keep talking. “The attendant told me to pick any room. I would normally knock, but there’s no door. And the curtain was left a few inches open, so I thought no one was in here because if someone was in here, why wouldn’t they shut the curtain all the way? And I was distracted because I’d just gotten a text and was reading it. So I was looking down and didn’t see you when I came in, And…” I pause because I’m out of breath from talking so fast and from trying to inch my way around the small space. I’ve almost made a complete circle. I turn and face him again, noticing how his large body blocks me from the exit. “I should go.” I point to the maroon curtain, doing my best to keep my eyes offhim. I mean, I just accidentally fondled his abs. I can’t size them up too. It’s best just to cut my losses and leave.
He holds my phone up, reminding me that he still has it.
“Thanks.” I reach for the device, but he yanks it back like he’s playing a game of keep away.
He flips the screen toward him. “A sale on Viagra? Somebody’s about to have a merry Christmas.” One dark brow rises, matching the way the corner of his mouth lifts. His good looks are simple—a handsomeness made up of timeless features that never go out of style—dark hair, blue eyes, athletic build, minimal scruff, confident demeanor, and easy smile. And let’s not forget about the etched-out muscles on his chest. I guess there’s nothingsimpleabout those.
“SMS advertising.” I reach again for my phone, and this time, he lets me have it. “Viagra messages aren’t something I searched out.”
