Page 6 of Pink

Her mother echoed the silent sentiment. “You did it, baby girl! This is your break, Gi. I’m so proud of you.”

Should she cry?

Breathe?

Gigi didn’t know.

“They’ll want me to fly out to Paris soon, maybe a few days, or a couple weeks,” she said, voice faint. “That’s like … not very long to prep and—”

“Who cares? It’s Pierre Missioux,” Cassie crowed, throwing her head back in laughter as she crossed the room. Gigi didn’t even get the chance to respond to that before her friend wrapped her in a hug that ached as much as it felt like a congratulations. “The biggest haute couture designer in Paris. Do you know what that means, Gigi?”

Sort of.

Yes.

No …

“You have to celebrate,” her mother said on the phone.

“Yes. That’s what we’re doing.”

“But—”

Cassie cut her hand through the air as she took a step back from Gigi, offering no room for argument when she pointed at the phone and said, “Even Kimie said so.”

The words came out sing-song.

Gigi wanted to laugh.

And cry.

“Celebrate,” she heard her mother say. “You earned this.”

“And who knows when you’ll have time to do anything after next week? Did you reply to MGNT’s email yet?”

Gigi shook her head and finally sat down on the edge of her bed with the laptop still balanced between her hands. If she let it go, then her roommate would see how hard she had been working to hide the trembling in her fingers.

The nerves.

All that excitement.

What happens now?

Gigi glanced up.

Cassie stood waiting with hands on her hips and a wide smile at the ready. “Definitely celebrating. I’ll call Matty—he’ll know a good place.”

How could she say no?

Gigi was still trying to catch up with everything else. Her entire life was about to change.

• • •

Gigi’s idea of a celebration did not include ending up at a dingy bar hosting illegal fights in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen but after slamming back a few of her favorite drinks—compliments of her friend’s boyfriend, no ID needed—it all looked a little better. Alcohol had that effect on people.

“See that guy over there,” she heard Matty holler over the rising noise in the bar, “black suit, sitting by the big dude with dreads.”

He nodded—didn’t point, she noticed—across the room from their current position. In the dimly lit bar, a makeshift boxing ring had been set up right in the middle of the scuffed, hardwood floor. Closest to the ring where two men were currently doing their best to beat the hell out of each other, tables filled with a melting pot of different people enjoyed the scene in front of them. More than once, she had noticed money passing hands from different men who approached the tables and then left as quickly as they came. And without much fanfare, either.