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Grabbing bottles out of my makeup bag, all the little actions come back to me like riding bike. After concealing, contouring, and highlighting, I line my eyes, swipe some mascara on my eyelashes, and call it done.
Tossing the bag of makeup into the trash, I check my watch and head for my closet.
What does one wear when they’re taking an unplanned trip to hell to meet with the Devil?
I suppose it depends on the part I want to play.
My mother looks at fashion as an art. She thinks what you wear somehow reflects the type of person you are on the inside.
I think that’s bullshit.
Clothing is nothing more than a costume we wear to fool others. Hoping they’ll see us as we want them to see us.
Not as we truly are.
Yanking hanger after hanger, I mull over what to wear.
Do I want to appear sweet?
Innocent?
Or play it safe and go the boring professional route?
Throwing clothes everywhere, I can’t make up mind. Like my makeup, I haven’t touched my closet in months.
Pushing toward the back, it’s almost like going back in time.
A reflection of the stupid girl I once was.
A girl who only cared about people thinking she was sexy and beautiful.
I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing half this shit now.
And I sure as shit don’t know why I was so obsessed with pink.
Growing frustrated and knowing I’m wasting time, I’m about to say fuck it and wear the first thing I pick up from the floor.
But at the very back of my closet, literally pressed against the wall, I finally come across an outfit that might work.
Twisting away from the closet, I hold the outfit in front of my body and stare into the mirror. Picturing what it will look like.
It’s perfect.
The last thing anyone would expect me to wear.
But it’s definitely going to need red lipstick.
Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I pull up to what looks like an old, abandoned warehouse.
The GPS tells me, “You have arrived at your destination.”
What the fuck? I think as I stare through my windshield.
“This can’t be right,” I mumble and grab my phone. Double checking the map and address.
According to both, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Peering through my windshield again, I seriously consider leaving.
The hairs standing up on the back of my neck tell me there’s something off about this.
It has to be a trap.
There’s no other explanation…
Unless it’s another test.
Fuck.
If this is a test, Matthew Harper and his associates are sick.
The last time I was in a fucking warehouse, I was being held against my will before I was auctioned off to the highest bidder.
They, of all people, know that.
I stare hard at the warehouse, my ears straining, searching for some sign of life. When nothing stirs, I sweep my gaze over the gravel parking lot. It’s empty but there are marks in the gravel that lead toward the back.
There’s nothing around except for other warehouses. All appearing abandoned and in much worse shape. Their windows are broken and old graffiti is scrawled across their walls.
At one point, a fire burned in the barrel in front of the building to my right.
The longer and longer I take everything in the less any of it makes sense.
Why here of all places?
I should leave.
That’s what a smart woman would do.
But my curiosity is getting the better of me.
I was sent here for a reason.
There has to be some kind of meaning behind this…
Knowing I’m behaving like the stupid bitches in horror movies, I grab my purse and get out of my car before I lose the last of my nerve.
The walk to the building is hard in the heels I’m wearing, but I manage to make it to the door without breaking an ankle.
Knowing what to do next is a whole different ball game.
Staring at the door, I’m not sure if I should knock or just push it open.
Listening closely, I still hear no sounds of life.
Doubt nags at me.
There’s probably nobody here…
Huffing out a breath in frustration, I rap on the door a few times.
Then I glance at my phone screen and check the time, assuming I’m in for a long wait.
But the door suddenly bursts open.
I stumble back in surprise and nearly embarrass myself by falling on my ass.
“You’re late,” a man wearing glasses sneers at me.
My own lips pull away from my teeth, returning the sneer.
But before I can snap back at him, he orders, “Follow me.”
The man turns away and the door slams behind him.
The fucker couldn’t even be bothered to hold it open for me…
Growling in irritation, I cast one last glance back at my car then yank the door open and follow after him.
Without glancing back or waiting for me, he walks briskly down the hall. Taking it for granted that I’m going to do what he says.
