“Ah, yes, how could I forget, I became your target.” I speak with playful energy. “How dare I watch you from across the room.”
“More like, ‘she dared to watch us from across the room’.”
I laugh at Beretta’s Shakespearean flair. “How bold.”
“How rare.”
My laughter fades and I look away to simmer the sudden curving of my lips.
“So.” I cross my legs. “Which one of you looked me up on social media?”
With unhurried movements, my gaze skitters across the three.
“What makes you think we did?” Beretta nods.
“I know you did. It’s the exact reason I was threatened with a photo I know doesn’t exist.” I speak with confidence. “No phones came out to play in that glam room, I’m sure of it. You looked me up, found nothing... nothing but a way to get me here, and here we are.”
“Odd for a girl your age.”
I look to Beretta. “What are you, fifty?”
He ignores me, offering me some candy and shrugging when I shake my head to decline. “Your friends document everything from doctored morning pics to slinky new night numbers before bed, and you, Jameson Filano, have not a single account, on any platform, and there are no more than a handful of pictures of you on other people’s socials. Boring ones at amusement parks and group gala shots.”
“So, you are stalkers,” I tease, humor lighting both my tone and expression. I know it’s simply the way it goes. Everyone watches everything on social media; it’s what it’s there for. To make you feel seen.
“Social media is a shark tank. You swim, it’s only a matter of time before you’re bit in the ass.”
“Do you not enjoy that?” Beretta’s grin is broad and mischievous.
I roll my eyes, and Ransom leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He cocks his head, licks his lips, and as he desires, my attention becomes his.
With each passing second, his unblinking blues prod deeper with an unreadable intent, his words delivered slow but sure. “You’re smart, careful and controlled. You’re keeping your rep clean for a reason, I’m sure. Surprised you came.”
“Surprised you wanted me to.”
“Surprised you almost let your friends find us in your dressing room.”
My eyes move between his, and his body dips closer, the corded muscles of his neck stretching as he does. “You weren’t exactly in your right mind, were you?”
I hold still, staring into the sharp gaze demanding the truth of what he knows is an undeniable fact.
I had a momentary lack of sanity.
My lips curl into a smile before I can stop them. “Got that pen?”
His coarse chuckle is delayed, low and perfectly pleased.
Ransom pulls the Stiizy from his pocket and passes it off to Arsen, who pushes to his feet, walks over, and bends in front of me. He holds it near my lips, just far enough to force me to come to him.
I do, and his grin is just as satisfied as the boys behind him.
Unexpectedly, he tugs his shirt from his back, and my focus falls to his naked chest, holding there until he gives a teasing flex. I only get a hint of his smirk before his shirt is gently tossed over my face.
As it falls to my chest, he nods to the makeshift armrest, so I thank him, ball the thick cotton up and tuck it beneath my head as a cushion.
I know they’re toying with me, testing my reactions, and that’s fine. They can think whatever they want; it makes no difference to me. It doesn’t change my reality or theirs, whatever theirs may be, but it does make me wonder if this is the way their game begins.
Do they entice, give a gift, then get inside?
So, I ask, and I think they’re surprised by the question as all three silently stare.
After a few moments, Beretta decides to answer. “Believe it or not, Trouble, Sammie got the dress so we could see your reaction, and for no other reason than that. And she needed no enticing.”
I roll my eyes. Of course, she didn’t. It’s like I said, rich girls love bad boys, even if only in secret.
I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or not and honestly, it makes no difference, yet to see what his response will be, I ask, “Why would you care how I reacted?”
“Because even though you gawked our way for half of that party—”
“I did not gawk.”
“—you didn’t try to get our attention. You didn’t drop onto your back the moment we slipped into your dressing room, and you didn’t find a way to slip us your phone number while pretending to act annoyed at the club.”
“They really do that?”
“All the time.” He laughs. “We’re dirty little secrets they wish to have but refuse to tell their friends about.”
I flick my eye to the blue sky above. “Now that you put it that way, it sounds about right.”
Pathetic, but right.
Cali and Scott both said they use the whole blackout bit to hook up, so I’m sure there are many more ‘Sammies’ where she came from. Minus the dresses, or so Beretta claims.
We don’t talk much after that, and before I know it, we’re pulling up to my house, my car somehow already parked in the driveway.
My gaze slices to theirs, but all I’m met with are blank expressions.
I shake my head, fighting a grin as I gather my things, but I don’t ask questions.
Arsen steps out, and instead of lifting his seat, he reaches for my hands and motions for me to step up on the edge of the car. I do and his free hand finds my hips, gently lifting and setting me on the ground.
He pushes my hair from my shoulder, winks and slips back inside.
“Well, I owe you guys a thanks,” I say with my eyes on my house, slowly looking their way once more.
Ransom’s head falls back on the headrest, a single brow lifting. “For?”
I pull my lipstick out of the side pocket of my bag, quickly gliding it along my lips. I rub them together with a light pop and tap my palm on the frame of the door, redirecting their eyes up to mine.
“Good night, boys.”
I turn and walk away.
Inside, I toss the little black tube in the air, catching it on its way down, and head toward my bedroom, but before I reach my door, my sister appears, leaning a shoulder on the frame of her own.
“Well, look at that.” She crosses her arms with a grin. “She does smile.”
Was I smiling?
I keep my shoulders straight. “Smiles are not rare, dear sister.”
“No,” she says lightly as I continue past her, but it’s not until I reach my room that she adds, “only the real ones.”
My muscles freeze, but only for the shortest of seconds, and I jolt forward. Tossing my bag on my dresser, I fly into the bathroom, yank the drawer open, and tear into the small glass box.
In the mirror, I stare at my own eyes, a hazel-like color not all that different from Beretta’s, at the maroon liner framing the black painted wing curved along my eyelids, a shade rivaling the natural highlights of Arsen’s hair, at my lips... painted a rich, creamy red.
Kiss From The Devil, my go-to shade.
Ransom’s favorite color, or so he claimed.
I lift the makeup remover wipe and swipe it over my mouth until every little hint of the lipstick is gone.