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O’Shea doesn’t leave my mind. If we find out that he has a connection with Tsariuk—this is major. Maybe Dad and I can get those Australian visas after all and I can leave this island and never see Archer again.
It’s an angry thought. I love being here, spending time with Marlow, and… Yeah, that dick, Archer.
But last night, I sat on the terrace for two hours. In the dark. Thinking. Rethinking. Rewinding the evening in my mind. The dinner. Archer’s anger.“Leave, Kat.”
And I cried.
The last time I cried was after the assault charge back home. I felt angry and helpless. I felt the same last night but for a different reason. Though the same cause—a man.
Fucking men…
My mood is even worse today. The fact that Archer went to all that trouble with the Thai chef makes me feel like an ass. For standing him up. For being too arrogant.
Was that a date? Does he like me more than he leads me to believe?
I have no one to ask. No sisters or mother. I don’t have girlfriends.
Marlow won’t take it seriously, and we are not close enough to discuss my feelings anyway.
Maddy would listen, but she’ll judge me.
Callie hates Archer, so that’s a no.
Dad will be disappointed if he finds out.
Whatever is happening right now needs to be over.
I spend hours absently trying to do things around my bungalow—cleaning, making a sandwich, then reading a magazine. Nothing helps to pull me out of depression.
Until a text.
Marlow: Pick you up at seven.
Cece’s birthday party. Right.
Archer won’t be there—he never goes out. But the Pink Medusa might, and the rest of her coven. This is not a competition, but if she wants a stand-off, she’ll get it.
I’m angry at the world. At myself. At Archer. It’s not a good mood. But that’s when I’m the best at channeling my inner Amazon.
I pull out the red strapless minidress and black leather high heels and lay them out on my bed.
I get ready like I’m going on the most important date of my life.
Here’s a thing I learned about makeup. Women pay way more attention to it than guys. If a guy likes you, he doesn’t care if you have three layers of foundation and smokey eyes, or if you only threw on some mascara. Women, though, are envious of each other’s looks.
So there. This evening I’m gonna make bitches simmer in envy.
For the first time since I arrived on this inland, I unbraid my hair and wash it under the tap, then blow dry it and curl it. I can’t remember the last time I curled my hair, but there—it’s parted sideways and falls beautifully onto my shoulders and back.
Then I go full-on with makeup.
Smokey eyes? Sure.
Mascara? Double layer.
Red lipstick? Check.
I learned girl tricks not from mom, who I didn’t have growing up, but from a ladyboy in Bangkok. Jonshu taught me how to dress, wear heels, and put on makeup. Took me behind the stage to bars and strip clubs. The legal age for anything in Asia depends on connections. I might’ve been barely sixteen my last year there, but I’ve been to more shady places than an average adult sex tourist.
