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He must mean the opposite, considering that what he hands me next is a skimpy dress with a plunging neckline wrenched from the back of his closet. The black fabric smells faintly of perfume but isn’t wrinkled, presumably clean. There are no tags on it, however. Whoever owns it left it here for Daze to loan out to any stranger he happened to bring home.
“This belong to another woman you talked off a bridge?” I croak, fingering the spaghetti straps. I follow as he enters the bathroom.
“Something like that. Put it on. And this—” He shoves something else into my hand, and I gape at it—a shiny, fire-engine red wig. “Hurry up. We need to leave soon.”
He’s gone before I can choke out another question, closing the door behind him. Left with no other option, I shimmy out of his shorts and tug the dress on over my head.
“Don’t forget the wig,” he calls through the door. “I can’t risk anyone recognizing you, princess. No one will fuck with you if they think you’re with me, but you gotta look the fucking part, and blonds aren’t my type. You done yet?”
I jump as the door is shoved open, forcing me to scramble out of its path. Crossing his arms, Daze inspects me, frowning. “Good enough. Here—” He enters the bathroom and rummages beneath the sink. Eventually, he surfaces with a small black case he shoves onto the counter. Through a clear lid, I can make out a simple selection of dark eyeshadow.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” I wonder helplessly.
“You know.” He mimes applying makeup. “Get dolled up. The cakier, the better. Prissy little politician’s daughters aren’t welcome where we’re going, and I’d bet my ass you won’t find another fuckingFrancesthere either. Now make yourself look like a Rhonda or a Candy.”
“So, basically a stripper?” I eye myself in the mirror again.
As sheltered as I’ve been, I shouldn’t have a reference in mind—but I do. It’s a fleeting memory of one night Hale, and I crept to the top of the stairs and watched my mother storm out of the house. She wore heels taller than I was, her eyes caked in a dark substance. It was like she transformed, becoming someone apart from Abagail Heywood, the reserved Shepherd’s wife.
She looked like a demon.
And,a voice in my head whispers,you’re following right in her footsteps.
“Yeah, a stripper.” Suddenly, the makeup case is snatched from my hands, and my chin is in Daze’s grip. “Hold still.” Grunting, he flips open the case and runs his thumb over an ugly shade of navy. “Stop blinking!”
“Okay! Okay!” I suffer his clumsy application and nearly gag when I look at myself in the mirror. I don’t look like my mother. With the blue eyeshadow and terrible wig, there is no resemblance to me at all. I’m a stranger.
“Perfect,” Daze says in approval. “Now, one last thing...”
“W-What are you doing?”
I shiver as his hand grazes my waist, snagging the hem of my dress. Before I can shove him off, he lifts, revealing my panties. Then my stomach.
I stiffen. He can’t possibly intend another repeat of what happened earlier. Can he? I don’t know. His body visibly tenses, muscles twitching, as he takes in the sight of me.
And, despite my better judgment, my breathing hitches. Those crippling doubts disappear. I feel that spark again, and chasing it doesn’t feel half as stupid as it should. “D-Daze—”
“Frey,” he murmurs, briefly lifting his head to look me in the eyes.
My heart hammers as my lips dampen and part. “I—”
“Keep this on you at all times,” he warns, tucking something between my hip and the waistband. It’s cold. Heavy...
As I look down, my stomach sinks. Not only are his fashion choices questionable, but Daze has a weird idea of an accessory for this outfit—a small utility knife.
THIRTEEN
Twenty-four hoursafter Daze stopped me from jumping, and everything I suppressed comes rushing back. I miss the quiet, sterile walls of Salvation. I miss Father’s stern words of encouragement and his aversion to cursing.
I miss the numbness of missing Hale but never knowing why he might have hurt himself. I thought answers would bring me clarity, but it’s been the opposite.
I’ve only found more questions, and I’m not sure I want them explained.
“Let’s get this shit over with,” the man beside me hisses. I shoot him a wary glance. An unfamiliar note has crept into his voice. It makes him sound harsher. Meaner. Like…
Well, like the criminal poster child he appears to be. He seems committed to the role—like any “bad boy” cliche, he even owns a motorcycle. It sits outside in the alley just beyond the gym. I don’t have much experience with such machines, but his is matte black, with white and silver details painted on the body—a fitting ride for a man who thrives in sin.
“Oh, don’t look like that, princess,” he scoffs, noticing my raised eyebrow and the hands placed on my hips. “This baby rides like a dream. Even inthatoutfit, you don’t compare.”
