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Something is different about this one.
Wasn’t just Preston inviting her along—or even going the extra mile to confirm with her daily (chipping away at her sanity with every text), or that he bought her a backup dress, wanted to take her shopping, groomed her on what to expect. No, it was his mom. Mother.
Fucking Bunny.
Billie feels the warning burn of sick in her mouth at the mere thought of the affectionate nickname she’s taken up in life. Bunny. That’s no name for a mom or a woman in her forties. Fifties? Billie isn’t sure what age is behind the botox and collagen.
And to Bunny, Billie is no girl for a guy like her son, her pride and joy, her precious Elliot Preston.
Of all the Prestons, the one to officially invite her with paper thicker than any Billie’s ever touched and cursive golden ink fancier than she’s ever seen, was Bunny. The very same woman who’s been determined to end whatever fucked up relationship has tied Preston and Billie together for all these years.
Makes Billie suspicious.
Women like Bunny don’t just change their tune on someone like Billie. But it doesn’t matter much, now.
Because she’s here.
In the hive of wasps, standing in a sea of creamy silk dresses and blouses, black suits with sharp ties, a sea of formality that Billie sticks out from like a jagged mossy rock.
Clutching a glass of champagne, she stands among them, but not one of them.
Nerves have her hand leave her fancy crystal glass to reach down and tug on the lacy hem of her white summer dress. For good measure, she smooths out some wrinkles (thanks to how she stuffed it into her bag earlier).
It does little good when a duo of super-model-slender-silks glide right by her, sneaky smirks on their subtly painted lips, and a knowing glance shared between them.
A whisper is all that Billie hears from them, a single word, ‘homemade’. Her face is aflame and, with a harsh swallow, she bites back the retort aching to spit out of her.
Homemade dress her ass. Cost too much for that. And she has it on good authority that it came off the back of a truck headed to the city.
But, biting down on her cheek, she hits out at the hem, as though it’ll lengthen or smooth the un-ironed kinks, then straightens up. Shoulders stiffer than how she likes her morning drink, she takes some liquid courage from the horrid champagne nearly empty in her skinny glass. The bubbles tickle her nose too much for her liking. No need for all the fancy flavor.
Fuck, Preston. Where are you?
Abandoned her in this hell dimension.
Left her to fend for herself.
But—
Think of the devil, he will appear.
Something her cousin Jim says from time to time.
She only thinks of it now as, just as she wonders where he is, he appears. Stepping into her personal bubble from the side, he balances two crystal tumblers in his olive-skinned hand.
As she takes a drink from his offering hand, and looks up at him, she sees that she’s not the only one at the party who doesn’t blend in. But where she sticks out like a thumb hit by a hammer, in her stupid summer dress and kinked hair she didn’t bother to do more to than brush out, his difference from the others is more refined—
In the current of plain colors, of pastels and creams, he’s cloaked in black. A black cashmere sweater fitted enough to reflect the muscle definition traceable along his arms and down his chest; black slacks belted with leather, and fucking rich people shoes, those sleek polished brogues he only wears for events like these. Dressy events. Otherwise, he’ll sport a pair of black or charcoal-toned boat shoes, some shit only rich people wear, but think they’re casual.
More than the way he dresses, it’s how he looks. He’s not porcelain or ivory or milky white. Not blond like the others. He wears his late dad’s sunkissed complexion, smooth like caramel, and dark tendrils as black as his eyes.
Shestands out like a sore thumb, sure.
Hestands out like a diamond in a room of gold. Rich, but different.
Different to her, too.
One of the reasons she avoids these parties. At the best of times, she knows how they look together—and how she sometimes feels about it.
