I make an unholy squeak and bounce on my toes like a bottle rocket. Freedom. Legal absolution. Court-sanctioned erasure of all my objectively bad decisions. A signed certificate that says you were right to take a bat to the car, baby girl, next time just don’t get caught. The full government-issued confirmation thatI was never wrong, just criminally ahead of my time. I feel like a prom queen and felon all at once.
I skip over to Jett and tap his back. “I’ve gotta go change. Be back soon.”
Because right now I’m dressed for cardio and sweaty voyeurism. Not for fuck you, Hank. Not for choke on this, Margo. Not for watch me walk into that courthouse like I didn’t dent your car, Chad.
Not for glitter bomb my rap sheet and make me a myth.
Time to glam the hell up.
When I get home, I throw open my closet like I’m raiding it for sins.
This is not a day for soft or subtle. This is not a day for forgiveness. This is a day for Hank to sit in his stuffy little courthouse seat, surrounded by beige and boredom, and know that I am still the best fucking thing he ever touched and the worst mistake he ever made.
I start with the pants. Blush pink. Tailored so tight they feel like a threat. I wiggle into them. The waistband bites my ribs and I purr. That’s right. Let the suffering begin.
No shirt. Just double-sided tape and a prayer. I shrug into the matching blazer. Cropped. Sharp. If I breathe wrong, it’s indecent exposure. If I sneeze, it’s a sex offense. This blazer is a legal liability and I love her.
Underboob. Cleavage. Suggestions of nipple. Sheer defiance.
I slip into the pink patent heels, five inches of spite and childhood trauma alchemy. I do a test strut across the room. Jewelry next. The earrings stay, they glint like promises I intend to keep. The heart-shaped locket swings between my tits like bait. I tuck a glittery purse under my arm and smirk. Full sparkle war.
I paint my lips to match my rage. Baby pink. High gloss. Wet-look. My hair matches my purse. I set it with the tears of my enemies and a hint of silver glitter.
I spritz perfume, two pulses at the neck, one between the thighs. It’s called “Sinner’s Silk.” Benji picked it.
Then I stand in front of the mirror and look myself in the eyes. I look like a scandal in progress. A pink apocalypse. A heart attack in heels.
I blow myself a kiss. Then I grab my phone and text the boys:
Me: Hope you’re dressed to match. I’m bringing pink vengeance.
Jett: On my way to your place
Benji: With Rhys on the way. Put on a tie. The one you left
I grin so hard my lip gloss sticks to my teeth. That tie is black satin and scattered with glossy pink lipstick kisses. I wore it once as a belt and then knotted it around Benji’s wrist and made him promise things I don’t intend to let him forget.
Jett: I didn’t get a fucking tie.
Me: Wear the scrunchies.
Jett: Rhys, you got on pink?
Rhys: Underwear. Hers.
Jett: Fuck me.
Me: After court.
I do one last twirl. The blazer lifts just enough to flash underboob and chaos. The boys are assembling. My harem, my havoc. The girlboss version of Voltron, but sluttier.
Then I hear the thunder of Jett’s bike rumbling up. My grin sharpens. Nothing says we won, bitch, like pulling up to court on the back of a motorcycle, dressed like a slutty Bond villain with a grudge and perfect eyeliner.
I sweep outside, sunglasses on, purse tucked under one arm. I toss it into his saddlebag. Jett’s just standing there, staring at me like I invented lust and then set it on fire.
“Fuck,” he growls. “We got time for a quickie?”
I laugh and adjust my blazer. “Not the way we fuck. I need to be able to walk into that courtroom. Preferably with all my bones still aligned.”
