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BAILEY
“Come on, Bailey!” Kristie’s muffled yell makes its way through the front door of my penthouse before she knocks a second time. “Let's go party!”
I skitter into the living room wearing an electric pink dress that hugs me tightly from chest to ass, exposing my tanned shoulders and leaving very little to the imagination. I’m careful not to trip on the shag rug covering the floor, and I pray my freshly-painted toenails are dry enough to escape smudging.
When I fling open the rose-colored door, I find Kristie standing there, hand mid-air, like she’s about to knock again, a mildly annoyed look on her face.
“Fashionably late only works for the first hour,” she says, looking me up and down. “After that, it’s a party foul.”
I chuckle and move to let her in, the multi-colored duster she wears over her blue tank top and white shorts floating behind her. Her pitch-black afro is pulled back into a fluffy ponytail, and her dark skin shimmers with gold body glitter.
As always, she's fucking stunning.
“We’re not going to bethatlate.” I step over to the shoe rack by the front door, finding it laden with pink heels and sandals I’ve procrastinated taking back upstairs. I should probably just build a downstairs closet at this point; it’s not like I don’t have enough clothes for two walk-ins. “The beach isn’t very far.”
“No, but there will be traffic,” she huffs. “It was crazy enough on the way over. Literallyeveryoneis in town for the surfing competition this weekend.”
There are plenty of small surfing contests no one ever bats an eye at, but this is the first time Exalted Waves has come to Malibu in a decade.
Even to those who don’t care for surfing, it’s a pretty big deal.
"I'm hurrying," I assure her, settling for a pair of rhinestone-encrusted flip flops. They're comfortable enough for the beach but won't clash with my dress. They even match the lip-shaped earrings I'm wearing.
I check my high ponytail in the mirror next to the front door, checking that every hair is in place, and reach for my hot pink crossbody bag. There's just enough room inside for my phone, keys, and lip gloss–all the essentials for a beach party in Malibu.
I grab my favorite pair of heart-shaped sunglasses, even though the sun will be setting soon, before I spin around to Kristie, wagging my eyebrows in her direction.
“How do I look?” I ask, peeking at her over the frames of my glasses with a hopeful expression.
“Perfect.” She gives an approving nod.
"Are we taking your car or mine?" I ask.
"Yours," Kristie answers with a laugh. "You know I’ll never miss a chance to ride in the Pinkmobile."
The Pinkmobile, as she so accurately dubbed it, is my one-of-a-kind, pink, rhinestone-encrusted Lamborghini that's been featured in multiple magazines. It’s the one people ask to take pictures of any time I take it out for a drive–definitely one of my most prized possessions.
Of course she wants to take it.
I don’t blame her.
When you’re a beta like we are, you have to do something eye-catching if you want the attention of rich beta men, or even a bored, curious alpha. Having money and shiny things normally does the trick.
If being late doesn’t get us attention, the Pinkmobile definitely will.
"You sure you don't want to take the van? Or the jeep?" I tease, already knowing her answer.
"Nah, we're riding in style today," she says, shaking her head. "Now come on, before the hot surfer guys get trampled by every single woman in Malibu."
That puts a little extra pep in my step. I march my way toward the door with Kristie on my heels, heading for the elevator to take us to the parking deck below.
My row of pink cars is waiting for us at the front of the parking garage, the Lamborghini twinkling with crushed crystals. They’re impossible to miss, and they make the rest of the cars in the deck look a little boring, to be honest. Who wants a normal car when you can have a hot pink Jeep or a fuchsia Volkswagen van?
Not me, that’s for sure.
I click the unlock button on my key fob and we pile in, my legs burning against the black leather interior.
