Page 12 of Filthy Little Regrets
I push out of my apartment, breathing in the warm summer air and trying not to choke on the exhaust. The city is great, the pollution? Not so much.
Rose is leaning on the limo she got for the ride over to the gala she’s dragging me to, but she straightens when she sees me, eyes bugging. “Ho-ly shit, Cassia!”
She’s wearing a pretty midnight blue Medusa ’95 draped dress that molds to her curvy form. If anyone deserves aholy shit, it’s her. Rose’s brunette hair is swept back into a simple chignon, a few strands hanging loose. Her eyeshadow brings out the green in her hazel eyes, and she’s wearing a simple nude lipstick. Her skin is perfectly moisturized, and with her flawless eyebrowsand a touch of mascara, she looks like she belongs in designer clothes.
Me, on the other hand? I always feel like an imposter. “Yeah?”
The driver hops out of the car and rounds the extended length of the vehicle.
Rose’s head nearly falls off as she nods and takes my outfit in. I stop beside her, eyeing my reflection. The onyx leather of the dress peaks at the top of my hips, as if to sayI’m thick and curvy and sexy as fuck. The straps rest at the edges of my shoulders while the top cuts dangerously low over my size D boobs. The black material pairs nicely with my dark red hair and looks great with smoky eyes and matte burgundy lip stain. I look beautiful, I love my body, but...
“I’m still not sure I’ll fit in.” Not even with the designer cuff heels and matching clutch.
“Please, you look amazing. I’d hit it.” She gestures to the driver. “This is Andy.”
“Hey.” I wave to him and slide into the car, my heart jumping at the sight of Remy. “Jesus Christ!”
“I’m not that ugly,” he grumbles.
Rose sighs and takes her place beside me. “That’s a face only a mother would love,” she teases.
Remy flips her off. “Fuck you, princess.”
“Watch it,” she warns him. “Or I might tell Analise?—”
“I swear to god, Rose. Dare won’t even be able to save you?—”
I pointedly clear my throat. “Okay, children. Let’s take a deep breath and apologize.”
“He started it,” Rose says, crossing her arms.
Remy mimics her, and it might be the funniest shit I’ve ever seen, coming from the six-foot-something solid stackof muscle who’s usually so serious about his job. If this is what he’s like behind bulletproof glass, I’d pay to see him outside of work, but I’m thinking mercenaries-turned-bodyguards don’t usually have downtime.
I grab a flute of champagne. “Should we cheers?”
“Absolutely, yes.” Rose snatches a glass of her own. “What are we cheers-ing?”
“To this dress. Seriously, it’s amazing. Thank you.” I still think it was too much, but I learned a long time ago not to tell Rose she shouldn’t have. If I did, she’d walk me through a ten-slide PowerPoint on all the reasons she should, and I’d have to apologize for apologizing, which would only lead to another lecture from my very loving and sometimes terrifying bestie.
“Pfft. Thank you for coming with me. I know how much you hate these things.”
With recent changes in their business, there’s been speculation of trouble in the conglomerate Rose and her husband operate together. As stupid as it sounds, going to the fancy galas and flaunting is one of the best ways to shut people up. It would be better if Dare was here, but he had business to attend to.
Although I hate galas...and most humans, I’ll suffer through one night of socializing if it means she won’t have to face the scrutiny alone.
“I’m not nearly as menacing as your husband, but I promise to be scary if some asshole tries to say something.”
Rose’s eyes sparkle. “Maybe we can meet them under the bleachers and you can kick their ass.”
“Oh, come on! That was one time.”
Remy chuckles, but quickly clears his throat to cover up the sound, returning to brooding out of the window.
Rose arches an eyebrow. “Twice, actually.”
“Are you sure? I know I introduced Monica to my fist?—”
“And Angela,” she says. “She threw your backpack in the trash.”
