One
If going to this event is what gets me killed, at least people will remember who I was.
This dress ensures I’ll be unforgettable.
Maybe I like the idea of standing out for once, right until the familiar concern twists along my spine, and then I don’t like it anymore. Actually, I loathe it. Showing my face at an event is risky.
Scratch that, being alive is risky. A depressing thought that I try not to dwell on all hours of the day.
Not going to this event is a far safer option—but sitting at home, staring at the walls of my apartment for another night does sound like hell. I’m not sure what to do, but I do know that the gown my friend has picked out is far riskier than what I’d choose for myself.
I glance over it again.
The nude polish of my nails is stark while running my hands down the black satin gown. I touch the top of the collar, gliding my finger along the thin black seam, in doubt.
“I don’t know, Roxie,” I say, tilting my head. The silky collar almost grazes my jaw as I tilt my head. That part is fine. It’s when I turn to the side that I grimace. “The back on this thing—–”
“Is fantastic, Olivia. Don’t even think about not going. Talk about a waste if you opt out.” A burst of Roxie’s dyed burgundy hair catches in the reflection. Her tall figure looms over me after she rushes to my side. “Look at the wonders it does for your butt.” Her hand skims down the length of the fabric. “You could turn Kim Kardashian pea green in this thing.”
I shake my head. “That isn’t the problem.” It does make my booty look like I’ve lived my life doing nothing but squats. And I like that. But … “It's so low.” I gesture at the non-existent coverage on my back. Black satin hugs and scoops down to what feels to be about a mere inch above my butt crack. “What if I have a wardrobe malfunction?” Roxie picks out hot looks, but they always come with a risk.
“You won't.” She presses the expensive fabric into my spine, looking at it intently. “That's what you have me for.” Golden eyes brighten with a gleam. “You know you’re talking to the sewing expert, right?”
“Like you don’t remind me about it daily,” I retort.
Roxie Richards, one of my closest friends, could put any seamstress to shame. It helps that her mom is one of the hottest celebrity stylists in Hollywood.
All the fashion expertise pays off any time she invites me to an event like the one happening in a few weeks. Event, however, is an understatement. The excitement surrounding the party makes it one of the most exclusive events in the city.
Even more reason to be leery of attending. I’m sure cameras will be present.
Ice trickles in my veins at the idea of my real identity being revealed. My jaw locks in anxiety—something Roxie clearly doesn’t notice.
She gives me another once-over and nods. “This is the one. Buy it.”
“Roxie.” My voice lowers as my eyes scan around the store, ensuring we’re alone. “Maybe I shouldn’t go.”
“Stop right there.” She waves a long, delicate hand in the air. “If you’re already freaking out about publicity, then you should know photography is prohibited and security is tight.”
I shake my head, staring at her wide-eyed because of her correct assumption. “I didn’t say anything about being nervous about publicity.”
“No, you didn’t.” Her hazel eyes, glowing more gold than green in the overcast light, narrow in on me. “But even if you won’t tell me why, I’ve been able to deduce what’s going to keep Olivia Tucker from an event. So … with it being a no-photo zone, will you go? Please!”
There isn’t a reason not to go now, minus this dress, which only qualifies for half of one. My shoulder pulls up in a half-hearted shrug, and Roxie already understands what it means.
“I’m going to fix your gown.” She smiles wide, teeth gleaming. “I promise you’ll be completely safe and clothed for the gala.”
I couldn’t ask for more than those two things, and given how opulent the event is going to be, it’d be silly not to go and enjoy myself ... Something I rarely do.
With a tightness flushing out of my chest and ease replacing the sensation, I return her smile. “You’re such a sweet talker when you want to be. Fine, I’ll go.”
“Hell yes!” Her outburst isn’t appropriate for the high-class boutique we’re in.
We both duck our heads and giggle at the older lady at the counter with graying hair, and high bun. She’s glaring at us while adjusting the heavy frames that are slowly sliding down her nose.
Not that Roxie cares. She throws a wolf whistle my way and comments on my ass as I return to the dressing room, making me hide my laugh to not encourage her.
Twenty minutes later, a small grin remains affixed on my face as I’m walking out of the store. Why I’m smiling I’m not sure. This gown is heavy against my shoulder, and there’s a burning sensation in the deepest part of my quads while following my tall friend through the bustling Seattle sidewalk.
The noon hour has a crowd thrumming around me as I weave around people. I’m careful not to brush against anyone since most are holding brown cardboard coffee cups and fast foods.
Finally, I come to a clearing that gives me a straight and easy shot back to my friend.
By the time I’ve reached her, the metal bulb on the hanger is digging into my shoulder. I try to ignore the bothersome poke and hike it up higher.
“Let’s take a taxi,” Roxie says, bundling her white fur coat around her.
“What about Uber?”
A penciled brow raises in disdain after she glances over her shoulder. “You feel like talking to some random stranger about their five cats and recycling habits? All for the sake of a good review?”
“Well, when you put it that way.” I come to an abrupt stop at the end of the sidewalk. “No.”
True, Roxie’s scenario isn’t appealing, but neither are Taxis. At least for me. The last time I rode in one, I was leaving behind everything I knew—loved. Thank goodness I haven’t had to move in a while. Five years to be exact.
Still … Taxis. No.
If Roxie wasn’t here and Ubers didn’t exist, I’d walk the twelve blocks back to work, weighted gown and all.
“Taxi!” Roxie yells out, shattering my train of thought.
A yellow cab rolls along the curb and then stops promptly in front of us. Not surprising when Roxie is the one summoning it. She has that commanding way about her, unlike me.
I climb in after her as she rattles the address to our driver. Black satin enclosed by clear plastic spills all over the carpeted floor that emits the stench of cleaner and old cigarette smoke. The smell of these cabs hasn’t changed. Another reminder that I shove out of my mind.
I struggle to free my nude pumps from the plastic around my dress, careful not to poke holes in it. After smoothing my hand down the bag, I look at my friend and focus on lighter subjects. “Remind me why you're not in Milan this week with your mom?”
Fashion week and Roxie are something that should go hand in hand. Regardless of my safety, I might be willing to show my face if it meant going to Milan. Fashion to die for—so to speak.
She twirls the head of the hanger, scoffing. “Because I'm not about to sit with a bunch of uppity snobs pretending like their clothes aren’t borrowed.” Her nose wrinkles. “Seriously, some of those people act so elite, when at the end of the day we all shit the same way.”