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“I think he has his eye on you, too,” the other blond admits, spritzing herself with enough perfume to set off the fire alarm. “Not that it matters, because those rumors are definitely true.”
“What, that he never goes on a date with the same girl twice?” another girl says, breezing around the corner in just her bra and panties. “I agree. He’ll be a bachelor until he’s eighty.”
“And even then, we’ll all still want to fuck him.”
Girlish laughter rises up like shower steam and for some dumb-ass reason, irritation slithers down my spine. I couldn’t give a flying fuck about Raphael Visconti’s love life, but the fact that he fucks-and-chucks women is just the cherry on top of his obnoxious cake. It makes all the smooth talking and shark-like smiles seem even worse.
“You know what I think?” bra-and-panties girl says. “I think he’s got the hots for the new girl.”
The laughter stops, and the weight of five pairs of eyes falls heavy on my back.
Silence. Bitchiness crackles in the air like static, and then a retort from bra-and-panties girl flutters through it.
“Not a fucking chance.”
It’s low and syrup-like, but it wades through the locker room and steels my spine.
Sighing, I close my eyes and rest my forehead on the frame of my locker.
I’m not used to being around catty women. Being around women at all, actually. Good times spent with my mother only existed in pockets of sobriety. Outside of them, the only time she’d talk to me would be to drunkenly whine that my existence had ruined both her figure and her relationship with my father.
In high school, the girls I ate lunch with acted like I had leprosy after my parents were killed. The only group of girlfriends I’ve ever had were the strippers I worked with for a few months. They were kind and uplifting and would be the first to come to my defense with an eight-inch glass stiletto in hand when a patron stepped over the line. But strippers, like swindlers, follow the money. They’d bounce from bar to bar, even city to city, and it was all too easy to lose contact.
It’s sad to say aloud, but it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Maybe it’s because when my parents would pass out on the sofa, exhausted from a day of strong liquor and loud arguments, I’d sit on the rug in front of the television and watch The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants on mute. I longed to have friends like that. Friends I could complain about my parents to and who’d invite me to sleepovers on Saturday night so I didn’t have to hear them fighting on the other side of my bedroom walls. Instead, all I had was a hotline, and, of course, Nico. While I love him, it’s just not the same. Sure, I’m forever grateful to him for teaching me how to unbuckle a Rolex crown clasp with my eyes closed, but it would’ve also been nice to have someone teach me how to do winged eyeliner, or how to choose a bra that fits.
I learned how to insert a tampon from a YouTube tutorial, and I still don’t know how to braid my hair.
There’s a rustling beside me, and I pop an eyelid to see Katie sliding down the bench and coming to a stop next to my locker. She looks up at me with an embarrassed smile. “Ignore her; she’s on her period.”
I roll my eyes and cross over to the mirror above the row of sinks to touch up the concealer on my faint head wound.
I stand beside Anna, pretending like I can’t see her gaze travel down the length of my body in the mirror.
She’s thinking what all the other girls are thinking. I can see it in their sideways glances, but she’s the only one to be so blatant about it. I don’t look like them. I’m not six feet tall and I don’t have the type of body that only eating leafy greens and doing a hundred crunches before bed will achieve. But I don’t give a flying fuck, because I like how I look. Well, I’m impartial about it, at least. Worrying about the little pouch of fat that hangs over the waistband of my panties has never paid my bills. Obsessing over the fact that my thighs rub together has never given me a winning Blackjack hand.
And being judgmental about other women’s bodies has never made mine miraculously perfect, either.
“Penelope, isn’t it?”
Gritting my teeth, I slide my eyes over to Anna’s reflection and nod. For whatever reason, she smirks and goes back to applying her makeup.
Skin stinging from thinly veiled insults, I focus on dusting powder over my nose and removing a mascara clump. It’s easy to feign indifference, until the conversation turns even lewder and my cheeks turn crimson.
“Why do you think he only fucks from behind?” bra-and-panties chick muses.
“I’m guessing because he likes using hair as a leash,” Anna retorts, swishing her own long locks over her shoulders for dramatic effect. “I’ve heard he fucks rough. Which is so hot, considering he’s such a fucking gentleman.”
Bra-and-panties eye’s meet mine in the mirror. “What about you, new girl? What do you think?”
I think I’m thankful for low lighting and full coverage foundation. I snap my compact shut and hold her gaze. “I think I’ll just ask the man himself.”
“What?”
“Uh-huh. Where’s his office?”
“But—”
“Where’s his office?” I repeat, calmly.
