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A fucking train.
For a high school dance.
This thing is nice enough to be a wedding dress, and likely cost as much as the average one, too.
I trace over every inch of the gown, taking note of the precise tailoring, and when I meet my eyes, it’s with a shake of my head.
I glide my palms over my shiny hair.
Pretty little princess.
My fingers trail down my neck.
Silly little plaything.
I grip my own hips, tipping my head to the side.
Pathetic little pawn.
I lick my lips, smiling as I was taught, but a humorless laugh quickly follows.
I look to the ceiling, letting out a long sigh.
Monti calls my name from the hall, my phone beeps with the fifth ignored text of the day, and promptly rings right after, but I don’t move. I stand there in the middle of my room, staring at myself.
Anger burns in my chest.
“Screw this.”
I move as quickly as I can, but another ten minutes pass before I’m walking into the living room where the others are waiting.
Monti is the first to spot me and her eyes shoot wide, but her laughter replaces it just as quick. “Just...” She shakes her head. “Yes.”
Her smile is wide, and she turns it toward the others behind her who now realize I’m standing here.
Light eyes meet mine, and a slow smile curves his lips. “Damn.”
I step up to him and he leans in, bringing his mouth to my ear. “Red is your color.”
“Thanks, Scott.” A smirk pulls at my lips and my chin lifts a little higher. “It was a gift.”
To say that I stand out tonight is an understatement and something I failed to consider in my two minutes of having no fucks to give. Obviously, as I was at the start, everyone here is in their best-made ball gowns, Valentinos, and draped in family jewels. I would guarantee the majority of these girls sat in a salon chair for the last six hours, all to get here and compare every inch of themselves to someone else rather than enjoying their night for what it is—an over-the-top high school dance fit for royals, California-style.
It’s almost as if, in worlds like ours, we’re meant to be pinned against each other, to fight over who wore it best or compete to make sure it’s us in the end.
Amy is a perfect example of this; she had no idea what I’d wear tonight, and the girl spared no expense. Her dress is by far the most captivating ball gown of the night... but mine is far from a gown, so in her vindictive little mind, I wore this as a way to steal the show when really, I wore it because I wanted to feel like I was running my own.
Not the dance committee who decided the theme.
Not my mom, who picked and shipped the pile of lace on my bedroom floor.
And okay, maybe a little out of spite too, but I’m annoyed, and that nasty little fact only annoys me further.
Maybe Amy does know Ransom as well as she claims, because she too wears red. She’s draped in it from neck to toe, and the custom piece is nothing like the one she was having tailored the day I was with them.
I wonder if hers was a gift, too?
Something sour coats my mouth and I reach for the flask hanging from Scott’s fingers.
He cuts me a quick, approving grin and goes back to his conversation.
I swirl the too sweet whiskey in my mouth, reveling in the burn, holding on to it as long as I can stand, before forcing it down my throat and passing it back. As I lick my lips, my eyes catch Amy’s for the fiftieth time tonight, and this time, I flip her off for the hell of it.
She purses her lips and goes back to what she’s been doing for the last few hours—glancing from me to the door, from the door to me, to the bathroom and toward every dark corner in this place, knowing if they were here, she’d find them in one of those three spots. But they’re not.
They had said several weeks ago that they wouldn’t be. Maybe it’s not their thing, or maybe they couldn’t meet dress codes—black jeans would never make it through the door. Of course, if they wanted to, they’d find a way. It’s what they do, get their way. They did with me.
Several times now.
Not that I complained.
(I’m just a dumb girl who had to go and accidentally want a little more of the one who occupies her dreams at night.)
Scott turns to me, a fake gold crown hanging half off of his head, a drunken grin written along his lips as he tosses his arm over my shoulder. “Ready?”
I nod, glancing from him to Cali and Jules as they walk up with several others trailing behind.
