Chapter 2
TOTALLY READ THAT WRONG
FAWN
“I think we should get dressed up for Halloween and go out tonight. We never go out on Halloween anymore,” my sister Mackenzie complains as she flops down onto the couch next to Muffin, who then takes an opportunity to lick her face.
“We went out last year,” my little sister, Libby, mumbles while frowning at her cell phone.
“Yeah, we went to one of your stupid snooty clubs. The whole night was a complete bore,” Mac says, glaring at Libby, who lowers her phone to glare right back.
If I didn’t know for a fact that we were sisters, I would think we were switched at birth because we are all so different. Mackenzie, better known as Mac, is the oldest and a complete tomboy. Okay, a tomboy who looks like a model when she dresses up. Mac has long, natural red hair and big green eyes, just like our dad. Our baby sister, Libby, is the beauty queen of the three of us, with dark-brown hair that ends at the middle of her back and crystal-blue eyes—she looks just like our mom’s high school prom picture. Then there’s me, the classic middle child and the nerd, with untamable curly blonde hair and odd blue eyes that look more like river gray than Libby’s ocean blue. Our parents still question where I got the blonde hair, and there’s a running joke that my features match the postman’s, which would be funny if it wasn’t true.
“I wanted to order Chinese, watch Hocus Pocus, and hand out candy,” I say, knowing neither of them will likely listen to me or what I want to do, even though they both chose to come to my house for the night. Where my sisters love to go out, I enjoy hanging at home. I would much rather spend an evening in my pajamas than get dressed up to go anywhere.
“You always want to stay in,” Libby mutters, gaining a nod of agreement from Mac.
“There is nothing wrong with staying home,” I grumble under my breath, defending myself.
“No, there is nothing wrong with staying home . . . occasionally . . . but you would never leave the house if you didn’t have to,” Libby says, tossing her phone onto the coffee table, then looking me over and barely concealing her obvious disappointment in the fact I’m not like her and could really care less about my appearance. Those crystal blues travel from my hair—tied up in a ponytail—to a tee stating I went to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to my ripped jeans that I’ve had forever before resting on the grubby red Toms that I refuse to part with. “When was the last time you went on a date?”
I sit back in my chair and put my hands up to my scrubbed-clean face. “Nope, not happening. I’m not going to let you hook me up with someone again.” I shout the last word, and her nose scrunches up like I’m being dramatic. The first and last time I let her set me up was a disaster. The guy was an actor who thought he was god’s gift to women.
“You didn’t even give Phil a chance.”
“In Fawn’s defense, Phil is high maintenance,” Mac chimes in, gaining a disapproving glare from Libby.
“He’s a nice guy,” Libby defends her friend.
“He asked to use my compact during dinner,” I growl at her.
“So what’s wrong with that? Maybe he had something in his teeth.” She waves her hands around dismissively.
“Yeah, I thought so, too, until he used my powder, saying that the lighting was making him look shiny.” Mac starts giggling, and Muffin stands above her, wagging her tail happily thinking that she wants to play.
“He’s an act-or,” Libby states, like that fact alone should make it okay for a man to use a woman’s makeup, when in all actuality, it’s not okay for a woman to use someone’s makeup without asking for permission.
“Well, then, cross actors off my list,” I grumble.
“What kind of men are you interested in?” Libby asks, and for some stupid reason the hot detective next door comes to mind, but I push that thought aside, since for the last two weeks I have avoided any contact with him—going so far as to hide in my room when he’s knocked on my door.
“I’m focusing on work right now, so I don’t really have time to date,” I lie, watching her eyes narrow.
“You’re not still stuck on Jayson, right?” Mac asks, and my stomach turns.
“God, no,” I practically yell. Jayson was my last serious boyfriend, and he was also a serious dick. I don’t know what I saw in him, but I do know that because of him I’ve decided to be more cautious when dating and warier of attractive men.
“You know what, Mac? I think you’re right. I think we should go out,” Libby says, looking at me.
Rolling my eyes, I look at Mac, who is grinning ear to ear. “Fine, let’s go out. What’s the worst that could happen?” I shrug, knowing they won’t give up, so I might as well go and, hopefully, be home early enough to at least watch Hocus Pocus.
“Great. I just happened to bring a few costumes.” Mac jumps up and heads to the front door, picking up her duffel bag she dropped there when she came in.
“You just so happened to bring costumes with you?” I ask, and she grins, carrying her bag to my room. Following her, Libby and I sit on the edge of the bed as she starts to pull the costumes out of her bag.
“This dress is yours.” She smiles, handing Libby a piece of red fabric that looks more like a tube top than a dress. “And this one is yours.” Taking it from her, I notice that it is the same style as Libby’s, only it’s dark blue. “And this one is mine.” She grins, holding up a piece of white fabric in front of her.
“This is a dress?” I question, holding out the supposed dress. I can’t imagine that the thing can cover more than one of my vital parts at a time, and I will have to choose between the twins or my vajayjay.
“Exactly what are we dressing up as?” Libby asks, stretching out the material.
“Hoes.” Mac smiles proudly.
“Hoes?” I repeat.
“There’s a pimps and hoes party tonight at Jack’s, so we’re going as hoes.”
“Can I be a pimp instead?” I ask, stepping on the dress and pulling it up, trying to make it longer, but it ends up snapping back and hitting me in the face.
“You’re not going to get a man if you’re dressed like a pimp.” Libby rolls her eyes like I’m ridiculous for not wanting to wear a dress that wouldn’t fit one of my fifth graders.
“I don’t want a man, and if I did, I wouldn’t want one that wanted me because I’m dressed like a prostitute.” I sigh, flopping back on my bed and looking at the ceiling.
Why didn’t god give me brothers?
“I’ll do our makeup,” Libby chirps happily, and I groan against the palms of my hands as I cover my face.
“Come on, it will be fun,” Mac says, tugging my hands away from my face. Glaring at her one last time, I give up and let her pull me out of bed and into the bathroom. Looking at myself in the mirror, I sigh and tug at the hair tie just barely containing my blonde mop. Unleashed, my hair looks how I imagine a lion’s mane does on a bad hair day.
“That is the perfect look.” Libby smiles in the mirror behind me as I frown and look at myself. Setting her makeup bag down on the counter, she aims a can of hair spray in my direction.
“No more.” I cough as she sprays and sprays until I wrestle the can from her evil grasp. I now look like I have a fro and am in major need of a deep conditioner.
“Now let’s do your makeup.”
Looking at my sister in the mirror, I shake my head no. “I’ll just do my own makeup.”
“When was the last time you wore makeup?”
“I wear makeup every day.”
“You wear mascara.”
“Mascara is makeup,” I defend as she closes the lid on the toilet and pushes me down to take a seat.
“Close your eyes.” Letting out a huff, I shut my eyes and allow her to do my makeup, which I realize is a huge mistake a few minutes later when I stand to look at myself.
“Could you at least make me look like a high-class hoe?” I pout at my reflection; the blue eye shadow wouldn’t be so bad alone, but the black liner, the bright-pink lipstick, and my hair, combined, make me look like a twenty-dollar hooker from 1989.
“What can I say? I’m good at what I do.” Libby smiles, happily adding a touch of pink shadow to her eyes.
“This is going to be a disaster,” I tell her, and Mac elbows me in the ribs.
“Oh, stop. It’s going to be fun—you’ll see.” She grins, shimmying into her so-called dress.
“Is Edward going to be there, by any chance?” I question, and her cheeks get pink, giving me my answer.
“He had a baseball game tonight, but the guys usually show up after.” She shrugs like it’s all the same to her, but I know that’s a lie. Edward is my sister’s sometime physical therapy client and full-time crush. He treats her like one of the guys, which drives her crazy. Really, I don’t even think he knows that she’s a woman, which means he’s an idiot and must be completely blind.
“So you’re going to dress like a hooker to see if he’ll notice that you are, in fact, a girl?”
She chews on the inside of her cheek and shrugs again.
“Leave her alone. At least she’s trying,” Libby snips, meeting my eyes in the mirror.
“I just want to know what kind of night I’m in for,” I defend myself, snipping right back at her.
“Just go put on your dress.” She pushes me out the door, then takes Mac’s hand and pulls her to take a seat on the toilet. Rolling my eyes, I go to my room and pick the dress up off the bed. I have tank tops that look longer, I think as I kick off my red Toms and jeans, then take off my shirt and tug the dress over my head. Pulling the dress down as far as it will go, I sigh when it snaps back right below my ass. Giving in to the whole look, I go to my closet and find a pair of heels and a long coat to cover the whole embarrassing ensemble.
“Are you guys America?” our cabbie asks in a thick Hispanic accent as the three of us pile into the backseat twenty minutes later.
“We’re actually hookers,” I tell him with a straight face, gaining an elbow in the ribs from Libby, whom I elbow right back.
“American hookers?” he asks, looking at us over his shoulder.
“Yep, American hookers.” Mac laughs, and Libby sighs.
“Two of my favorite things,” he says, then turns to look at the dash and starts the meter. Struggling into my coat, which I didn’t have time to put on before we left, I sink down low in the seat and pray the night ends quickly.
The ride to the bar doesn’t take long. When we arrive, I pull out a twenty-dollar bill, and in a fit of generosity/humiliation, I tell the driver to keep the change. Once I’m on my feet, I attempt, with little success, to pull down the skirt of my dress again.
“Let’s go,” Libby says, grabbing my arm and dragging me with her.
“Hey, darlin’.” A giant of a man with tan skin, dark blond hair, and blue eyes greets Mac with a southern accent as soon as we reach the door.
“Hey, Tex, how’s it going tonight?” She smiles, tipping her head back as he leans down to press a kiss to her cheek. If his accent didn’t give away that he wasn’t from around here, his plaid button-up shirt, worn blue jeans, and cowboy boots would. Not many men in Manhattan could wear what he was wearing and look hot doing it.
“Been busy.” He smiles at her; then his eyes come to Libby and me and he asks, “These your sisters?”
“Yep. Libby and Fawn, meet Big Tex.” Mac waves her hand toward him, and he smiles.
“Nice to meet you,” Libby and I greet him in unison, and his smile turns into a grin, taking his look from hot to over-the-top hot.
“You, too, ladies.” He looks at Mac again and asks, “Have you been saving your money for the next home game?”
“No, but I already know where I’m going to spend yours.” She smiles, making him chuckle.
“Wanna raise the odds?” he questions, and her face lights up. Mac loves a good bet, and it seems this guy knows it.
“Name your price.”
“Dinner. I win, you cook, you win, I’ll pay,” he states, and she tilts her head back toward the night sky, then looks back at him.
“I look forward to eating on your dime.” She grins, and suddenly I feel bad for Tex, because clearly my sister has no idea that he is into her.
“We’ll see, darlin’. Now, go on in—it’s cold out,” he tells her, opening the door to the bar.
“Thanks, Tex,” she replies, heading inside, followed by Libby.
Getting up on my tiptoes, I press my hand to the hard wall of Tex’s chest so I don’t tip over in my heels, and his startled gaze comes to me. “Keep at her. She never sees what’s right in front of her,” I tell him, and his eyes narrow in a way that looks almost dangerous.
“I’m married,” he growls.
Blinking, I fall back on my heels and ask, “You’re married?”
“Very fucking married. To her friend.” He lifts his chin toward the door.
Oh shit. Whelp, I totally read that wrong.
“Oh,” I mumble under my breath, then nod and smile through my embarrassment, because what else can I do. “Keep up the good work, and congrats.” I pat his chest, then scurry inside, only to stop dead when I clear the door.
There are a lot of men and women inside, so many that the entire room is packed, but absolutely none of them are dressed up.
Not one.
“Well, this is awkward,” I mutter to myself, watching Mac and Libby head toward the back of the bar. Catching up with them, I press my lips together as they set their coats in an empty booth. “I think I’m just gonna leave my coat on,” I say when Mac turns toward me and holds out her hand, wiggling her fingers.
“You’re not leaving the coat on.”
“Did either of you happen to look around? No one is dressed up—not one person,” I cry, batting Libby’s hands away when she tries to untie the belt of my coat.
“It’s still early,” Libby informs me.
I look at her, then back to Mac, and ask, “Are you sure this costume party was scheduled for tonight?”
“Tonight’s Halloween. When else would it be?” She looks around. Following her gaze around the room, I stop on a poster behind the bar announcing the pimps and hoes party has been rescheduled for tomorrow night.
“We’re a day early,” I point out, and she looks around again and bites her bottom lip.
“So we’ll make the best of it and have a good time tonight,” Libby says, and I hope she knows that if it were possible she would be dead by now, lit on fire with the lasers I’m trying to shoot from my eyes. Unfortunately, she doesn’t read the threat.
“Do you know how ridiculous we look right now?” I ask, looking between the two. Mac, at least, has the decency to look apprehensive, but apparently Libby has set her mind on doing this, because she just raises a brow and wiggles her fingers in a silent command for me to give up my coat. “Well, then, you both are in for it, because I’m now going to drink away my embarrassment, which means you will both be responsible for making sure I get home safely or you can face Mom and Dad and explain to them why their favorite daughter was found dead dressed like a prostitute.”
Mac’s eyes narrow, and she yell-whispers, “I’m Mom and Dad’s favorite.”
Snorting, I shake my head no, then give in and slip off the coat.
“You both know I’m their favorite. I’m the baby,” Libby chimes in, tossing my coat onto hers and Mac’s in the booth.
“You wish,” I mutter, and she glares at me.
“Come on, let’s just go get a drink, and next time we see Mom and Dad, they can tell us who their real favorite is,” Mac says, stepping between us.
“Fine,” I agree as Libby curls her lip up and repeats.
“Fine.”
“I see this is going to be a tequila kind of night.” Mac sighs, dragging us toward the bar.
“I can’t bewieve someone stole our jackets,” Libby slurs four hours later, stumbling into me and causing me to stumble into Mac as the three of us huddle together in an attempt to keep warm as we rush down the street toward the train station.
“At least we have a MetroCard.” Mac giggles, stumbling into my other side and making me bounce against Libby.
“You guys are good sisters,” I tell them, happily ducking my face down into the huddle to ward off the cold I feel biting my cheeks.
“The best,” Mac agrees, and I frown, wondering who put a disco ball outside as red-and-blue lights flash around us. Then my body freezes when I hear the all too familiar bweep, bweep.
“Oh no,” Libby whispers, voicing my fear as we turn to look over our shoulders and watch two officers get out of a squad car that has pulled up behind us.
“Ladies, if you could walk back toward us, that would be appreciated,” one of the officers says, placing his hand on the butt of his gun as he stops beside the hood of the squad car.
“Just play it cool,” Libby says, straightening her spine and shoving her shoulders back before sauntering toward the cops, which I realize a little too late is a bad, bad idea. “What can we do for you, Officers? Is there a problem?” she purrs, but the words are slurred and she stumbles in her heels, taking her from sex kitten to klutzy drunk in two seconds flat.
“Is this your normal track?” the cop on the driver’s side asks, and Libby stops and tilts her head to the side, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
“Pardon?”
“Is this your normal track?” the cop on the passenger side repeats, and Libby looks at Mac and me, frowning.
“Do either of you know what they are asking?”
“They think we’re prostitutes,” I chime in blandly, not surprised. That old saying if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck comes to mind, and seeing how we look like prostitutes, are dressed like prostitutes, and have no coats in the dead of night when it’s freezing out, I’m sure the cops are putting two and two together and coming up with ten.
“We’re not prostitutes. We just dressed up like them,” Mac says, and both the officers look at her.
“Do you ladies have IDs?”
“Someone stole our coats, and our IDs were in the pockets,” I explain. The cops look at the three of us, and I know they don’t believe us at all—not that I can blame them, because I wouldn’t believe us, either.
“A prostitute was murdered two blocks over. Do you know anything about that?”
“No.” I shake my head, wrapping my arms around myself, feeling a chill that has nothing to do with the cold creeping over me.
“Can we go? It’s kind of cold,” Libby whispers, and the officers look at her, then me and Mac.
“We’re gonna have to ask you ladies to come down to the station to answer a few questions.”
“We’re really not prostitutes,” I tell them, and they nod, like, yeah, sure you’re not as they open the back door to the squad car.
“At least we’re not out in the cold anymore,” Mac says once we are all tucked into the backseat, and I turn my head and look at her in disbelief. “What, just saying.” She shrugs. Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the window, thinking this can’t get any worse.
I really should know better.