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Chapter Twelve
“Revenge is an ugly disease.”
~ Logan Carrington
“You misled me when we pulled up at Costumes and Toys.” A wicked smile flashes on her face as her bouncing body moves in through the automatic doors.
When we pulled up to the store, I thought, Okay, she’s kinky and maybe it’s my lucky day. How wrong was I to think it had anything to do with sex?
I watch Emmy make her way to the wall displaying the wigs, ignoring the urge to grab her body and tell her how fucking sexy she looks in her tight black dress and the shoes. Yeah, don’t get me started.
“C’mon.” She gestures, calling me over. “Pick a wig.”
“A wig? When I said let’s have fun, what part of that screamed wig shopping?”
She shoves a brown, shaggy piece into my chest. “If you wanna play, you gotta keep it a secret.”
Placing a blonde wig over her head she turns to face me, seeking my approval. I shake my head instantly—I don’t want to be seen with Florence Henderson.
She searches the wall again and grabs a wig styled in a bob.
“It’s pink,” I say.
“Well, duh! What do you think?”
“The paparazzi will find you in a heartbeat,” I tell her.
I scan the wall and notice a subtle black wig. Removing it from the hook I place it over her hair, carefully tucking in the loose strands u
nderneath. Her deep blue eyes stare back at me oddly. With just this one gaze, I’m taken back to a time when life wasn’t complicated. When the biggest hurdle was making it home before Mom, so I could cover the gashes on my leg from when I fell over jumping off the tree to prove I could fly.
And I got this—all from this one stare.
“That’s better.” I smile.
“Now you.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Now stop being a baby and pick a wig.”
Considering I’ve never worn a wig in my life, the choice seems overwhelming. I settle for a dark blond wig that makes me look like Justin Timberlake from his NSYNC days. It’s either that or a poorly cut piece that will made me a dead ringer for Ozzy Osbourne.
“Great! Now you need facial hair.”
I point to my chin. “I have facial hair.”
“Hmm… yeah, but you’re not hairy enough. You need to look like a man enjoying a Saturday night in Hollywood. Not like Logan Carrington, soccer extraordinaire, taking Emerson Chase out on some wild sex ride.”
I can’t hide the smirk. “We’re going on a wild sex ride?”
“Does it look like I’m dressed for a wild sex ride?” She pauses. “You know what? Don’t answer that.”
I can see the blush, yet she’s quick to busy herself, picking up a mustache that will make me look like an aging porn star. “Is this absolutely necessary?” I ask for the final time.
Ignoring my question completely she finds a hideous-looking pair of reading glasses, thrown into a clearance bin. She also pulls out a bow tie.
“We’re set,” she beams, deliriously happy for someone who looks like she should teleport back to the seventies with her glasses.
