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“I don’t give a fuck.” Pain and regret rode on her ragged tone. “Get out of my apartment. Get out of my life. And never come back.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Dress shabbily and they remember the dress; dress impeccably and they remember the woman.”
—Coco Chanel
The idea of standing in line at the department of motor vehicles for six hours while buck naked and holding a jellyfish held more appeal for Sylvie than attending tonight’s annual Fashion Fights Hunger fund-raising dinner at the Harbor City Museum of Modern Art.
“You could stay home.” Anya had cut short her honeymoon after Sylvie’s tearful phone call after the ordeal with Anders and Tony yesterday, and shown up at her front door after catching the first flight out of Tahiti. Her little sister had come armed with three flavors of ice cream, brand-new nail polish, and a mountain of fashion magazines. She’d promised that was everything a girl needed to revive her spirits after facing down a homicidal maniac and a total asshole of a fake boyfriend.
Drea had shown up twenty minutes later, after flying cross country from L.A. Good friends call. Great friends catch the red-eye.
Cuddling up for an Alfred Hitchoc
k marathon on Netflix did sound pretty damn good. Maybe she’d follow it up by watching every season of Downton Abbey for the fifth time? It was tempting as hell, but she couldn’t do it. “Haven’t I hidden away long enough? Anyway, they’re honoring our fathers for their charitable work. How can I miss that?”
“But they already gave you a pass.” Anya stroked Sylvie’s knotted hair.
“Anyway, you know how these fashion shindigs are,” Drea said. “It’ll be like being under a microscope.” She finished off the pint of monster cookie ice cream with a flourish and tossed the container into the trash.
“Yeah.” Sylvie sighed. “Everyone and their toy schnauzer will want every last detail about Anders.”
She wouldn’t—couldn’t—spend the evening reliving the gory details of yesterday’s shooting over canapés and champagne. Fear licked down the back of her neck at the memory of Anders’s viselike grip around her waist before Tony’s single shot took him down. Every car noise on the street sent her straight to the ceiling. And that was only the half of it.
After Anya and Drea had arrived, Sylvie had poured out everything—including Tony’s betrayal. That he’d been lying to her the entire time she’d known him. Hell, even before she’d known him, the bastard had been lying to her, posing as an Internet troll. After she’d cried a swimming pool’s worth of tears, an empty numbness had filled her. The hurt and anger would hit later, no doubt.
“Everyone’ll want to know all about you being the High-Heeled Wonder, too,” Drea said.
Sylvie’s cheeks flushed. Okay, admittedly, Tony wasn’t the only one who had veered off the honesty trail.
She snorted. “And to think I was running for cover when it was just gossip about catching Daniel going down on the waiter.”
“The good old days.” Anya snuggled closer to her on the bed, their shoulders touching. “So you’re going to the fund-raiser?”
“I need to reclaim my life, get it back again. I’ve had enough of crazy stalkers, lousy men, and being afraid of what others will think about me.”
Drea settled in on her other side, making a chicks-stick-together sandwich with Sylvie in the middle. “Are you sure about Tony—”
Her heart lurched. “Please don’t remind me what an idiot I am when it comes to that man. I’m thinking of growing bangs to cover up the Assholes Wanted sign that must be tattooed on my forehead.”
Drea elbowed her in the ribs. “No way, you have the wrong face shape for bangs. Plus, what would I do every dateless Saturday night if I couldn’t say, ‘At least I’m not a douche magnet like Sylvie’?”
“Hey!” She laughed, despite the sting. “You’re the one who told me I needed to get laid.”
“Next time I’ll tell you to load up on batteries, instead.”
“Don’t worry, I already bought stock.” She covered her head with a pillow and groaned. “Tell me again why I can’t wear yoga pants to this thing?”
“Because, sister dear, you need high-end armor.” Anya rolled off the bed and yanked her into a sitting position. “Come on, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Drea jumped up. “Yes! Great idea.”
Sylvie shuffled behind her sister and best friend to the large, walk-in closet like a woman on her way to the gallows. All the clothes hung neatly grouped by color. She went immediately to the dark section. Drea and Anya, of course, went to the other end.
“We have a winner.” Anya held up a burgundy ball gown. The taffeta skirt, supported by several layers of navy tulle, fell to the floor. Illusion netting made up sixty percent of the bodice, its sheerness mitigated only by burgundy lace roses.
No doubt, it was just the kind of big-impact dress the situation called for. But she didn’t have enough confidence in the reserve tank to pull it off.
