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“Shh!” I bring my finger up to my mouth. “Maybe,” I say, scolding her and pulling my new—or Tatum’s—choice of dress off the rack, “because she’s been around us for all of five minutes.”
Tatum narrows her eyes. “Hmmm, maybe.”
“Stop!” I point my finger against the tip of her nose. “Don’t dig or anything. Just leave it.” Shit. I’m a little buzzed. “What the hell is in that wine, anyway?”
“Uhh, wine? Wine is what’s in that wine, and not the cheap kind. Live and learn, my love.” She steps into her dress, every inch of the sequined material pushing against her tiny frame. “Do me up!” I zip her up and she turns. “How do I look?”
“Holy shit, you look incredible!” Tillie says, walking out of the bathroom.
I halt, scanning her curvy frame filling her tiny little dress. “So do you!” I point. “You two are going to make me look like the ugly stepsister.” Tatum looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and Tillie scrunches up her face. “Better continue my drinking,” I half joke under my breath.
I don’t have that high of a self-esteem, but that came from years and years of just never fitting in. All the pretty girls hang together; they all gravitate toward each other and all feed off each other’s beauty and what not, but that’s never been me. I’ve always been the tomboy loner who likes to shoot guns and wear Keds or Chucks. Tatum? She’s a heels-and-diamonds kind of girl—always looks stunning—and has the kind of confidence that could only come from being told “you’re the shit” for most of your life. Tillie, on the other hand, I’m still trying to work out. She has this retro hippie feel about her, what with her pastel pink hair and earthy, naturally beautiful, in-line-with-the-universe thing going on, if that even makes sense—which I’m sure it doesn’t, because fucking wine.
Jesus, I need to pull my shit together. Deep breathing, in and out. But every intake of breath I take, I get hit with a rich tang on the back of my throat from the after taste of the expensive alcohol.
“Hello?” Tatum waves her hands in front of my face. “Earth to Madi, get changed!”
“Shit.” I snap out of my lingering thoughts of self-pity and tipsy ramblings. “I’ll get changed. Fire up the curlers.” I slip into my closet, unclip my current bra, and snap on a strapless. When I step back out, I say, “Tatum, did I tell you how much I hate you for choosing this dress? I don’t do dresses.”
“Good thing I gave you wine beforehand then.” She winks, curling her hair, as Tillie leans over the sink in the bathroom, doing her makeup.
“This was your plan?” I look at her with fresh eyes. She’s sneakier than I ever imagined.
Tatum taps her head. “You’ll never know.”
Hmm, sure I won’t.
“So,” Tillie says from the bathroom, “I’ve never been to an elite party before.”
I halt, dress clutched in my hand. “What?” I ask lightly.
“You know,” Tillie lines her eyes with black, “an elite party.”
“You mean figuratively?”
Tatum rolls her eyes, letting her long, blonde fresh curls drop over her slender shoulders. “No. She means Elite, Madi. We’ve had this discussion.”
“Wait, how do you even know about that?” I look back toward Tillie.
She stops what she’s doing. “We’ve all heard of them, Madi. I didn’t realize your stepbrother was Nate Riverside, though.”
“Are you judging me?”
She stops and spins to face me, horror flashing over her freshly marked face. “God, no, Madi. No. I was just surprised when I pulled up here. That’s all.”
I nod, turning back to hold my dress. If Nate and his boys cost me a friendship, I’ll have to kill him for real. I have a hard enough time making friends—not that I actually care—but I happen to like Tillie, so I don’t want to lose her friendship. “By the way, whatever you heard about them, it’s not true.”
“Is so.”
“Tatum, shut up.” I look back to Tillie with a smile. “It’s really not. They’re not all that interesting.” I don’t know why I feel the need to protect whatever the fuck I’m protecting, but I’ll blame it on the wine again.
Tillie shrugs. “I don’t know much, only rumors, and of course, Bishop Hayes used to date a girl from my school.” My heartbeat slows, thickening my blood. “And everyone knows who The Elite Kings are. Also,” she adds casually, “Nate and Cash are always at Backyard Bucks, and as usual,” she says casually, lining her lips, “Bishop is always ripping through the streets.”
“What, what, and what?” I ask, stepping closer to her and shimmying into the tight red strapless dress. It’s thin, snug, and has a deep dip over my sternum, showcasing my cleavage.
“You know, Backyard Bucks Octagon, and Bishop, racing?” She looks at me, waiting for me to catch on.
