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The boots had sat abandoned and unworn in her closet, awaiting their destiny.
Sophie chewed on her lip and considered. The boots were certainly tacky, but wasn’t that kind of the point of a bachelorette party in Vegas? Particularly a bachelorette party for which the slightly unhinged bride had declared a theme of Totally Trashy? These boots were practically the poster children for trashy.
Not to mention they’d cover the glow-in-the-dark-white shade of her calves.
Decision made, Sophie flipped off her old standby black sandal. There’d be plenty of time to channel first ladies and iconic movie stars at job interviews and bridal showers.
The bride’s pouty voice echoed in Sophie’s ear. I want my
bachelorette party to be hella skanky and memorable. If you’re going to be on your period that weekend, fix it.
Which was totally reasonable, since all women could totally just up and regulate their uteruses with a firm talking-to.
Sophie was a sucker for traditional wedding hoopla, bachelorette parties included. But she wasn’t looking forward to this one. Had the bride not been her cousin, and the maid of honor not been Sophie’s sister, she would have bailed. But family was family, so here she was in a hotel room she couldn’t afford, dressed like some sort of space-station call girl.
Grabbing her cosmetic bag, Sophie teetered into the bathroom and eyed the multiple mirrors. She pulled the magnifying mirror away from the wall and stared at herself in rapt horror. No pasty American female in her late twenties would have thought it a good idea to zoom in on skin that had been maybe just a tiny bit free with the gin and lax on the sunscreen.
Sophie pushed the judgmental mirror away and gave it the bird. She didn’t need a crappy little mirror calling attention to her flaws. She had a mother and a sister for that.
Turning toward the normal, less judgmental mirror, she began applying her makeup with a heavier hand than usual. And the last step in the transformation to tart?
Fake eyelashes.
They’d been deemed mandatory for all bridesmaids. A Totally Trashy uniform of sorts. Sophie squinted at the elaborate packaging. Not only were these things like an inch long, but they had little fake gemstones on them. She shrugged. At least they’d match her boots.
After twenty minutes and a good deal of cursing (Jackie O was long gone by this point), Sophie managed to attach something that looked akin to bedazzled pube clumps onto her normally pale, stubby lashes.
Lovely, she thought. Really lovely and classy.
Last, she wound her blonde hair around a curling iron to create a mass of showgirl curls. Stepping back, she surveyed the overall results in the mirror. Not bad, considering.
This was not the Sophie Dalton who’d been dumped over the phone yesterday afternoon while standing in the airport security line as the TSA agents were disassembling her carefully packed bag.
A bag that contained The Boots. And a purple vibrator. Which the judgmental little security man had sooooo not believed was a gag gift for Trish.
But that loser version of herself wasn’t here tonight.
No, the Sophie in the mirror had her shit together. Granted, it was trampy shit. And she would have to blame the slightly red, puffy eyes on the dry Las Vegas air. Still, she thought she was hiding the pathetic pretty damn well. At least she wasn’t wallowing at home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
Sophie yanked the curling iron plug from the wall and blinked back the tears that would probably send her fake eyelashes sliding down her cheeks. She wasn’t even sure why she was crying. It wasn’t as though Brian had been The One. He was the fun guy, not the husband potential you brought home to Mom. They’d only been dating for eight months and Brian had switched jobs no fewer than three times.
For once, Sophie had been the stable one in the relationship.
Which was why it stung when he’d told her yesterday that she simply didn’t have enough drive. That he needed a woman who knew what she wanted, whereas Sophie was just floating.
Floating, he’d said. Right before the Sea-Tac Airport TSA agents had loudly commanded her to hang up the phone and repack her “pleasure toys.”
Whatever. His loss.
Slopping on a glittery lip gloss that claimed to “plump” lips into a sexy pout with God only knew what kind of chemicals, Sophie took one final glance in the mirror.
Skirt the size of a Band-Aid? Check.
Scrappy halter top barely covering her nipples? Got it.
Pole dancer makeup? Definitely.
And the final touch: boots that belonged in a brothel.
