TESSA

“Are you ready?” Abby calls out from the hallway of our apartment complex.

“It’s open, come on in!”

I’m standing outside my closet, staring into the full-length mirror while holding a dress up against my body. It’s olive green with long sleeves and a scoop neck.

The apartment door flies open and Abby walks in, wearing a one-shoulder black chiffon dress that clings to her killer body. It makes me cast another disapproving glance at my boring ensemble.

“That looks like something you’d wear to a funeral,” she observes correctly.

“I bought it when we buried my grandpa. My life isn’t exactly conducive to galas at the Museum of Modern Art.”

She huffs as she walks up to the closet and starts rifling through the hangers. “Are you going through a gothic stage I don’t know about?”

I have an adorable wardrobe. I know a thing or two about fashion. As a makeup artist, it’s part of the job to know what works with my skin tone and body type. But, since my days are spent at a high-end salon where the dress code is head-to-toe black, it leaves my style choices a tad bit … limited.

I let out a sigh. “Perhaps this is a sign I shouldn’t be crashing the party.”

She waves me off. “None of us should. It’s for the who’s who of San Francisco, but Christine said it’s no problem since her boss is one of the benefactors.”

Leaning against the closet, I ask, “How exactly is that entry for us to a party we haven’t been invited to?”

Her mouth scrunches as she raises her shoulders. “Hell if I know. All I do know is, there’s free champagne and caviar. Two things I happen to love and can’t afford, so”—she grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door—“we’re raiding my closet.”

I met Abby a few months ago when I moved into the building. Our mail kept getting crossed, and one day, she invited herself into my apartment, saying she was—quote—“fascinated with my life.” We bonded over a cup of coffee which quickly turned into a glass of wine, which turned into an absurd amount of Chinese food and a Henry Cavill movie marathon.

And, now, here’s Abby, dragging me into her apartment across the hall and taking control of my appearance for the night.

“This isn’t necessary,” I say as she pulls out a stack of dress-clad hangers, throwing them on the bed.

Picking up the top one, she says, “Of course it is. You go out once a month. I think it’s vital you look incredible. You might meet the man of your dreams tonight!” I give her my best motherly scowl, which makes her add, “I know; I know. You don’t need a man in your life.”

The dress in her hands is green, and although it’s a lovelier shade than the one I was going to wear, I shake my head.

She looks at it and shrugs. “Agreed. It’s really a bridesmaid dress. I hated it even when I had it on.”

Taking in the excessive amount of tulle pooling from the waist, I add, “I bet the bride said you could shorten it and wear it again.”

“I’ve been in four weddings and have never re-worn one of these things.” She flings it back onto the bed and goes back to work, pulling a dress out of the middle of the pile. The next dress is silver and long but not formal. “We can pin your hair up and add some nice jewelry,” she suggests as she twirls the hanger in her fingers to make the dress dance in the air.

I sway my head from side to side, taking in the spaghetti straps and silky material. I could add some charcoal eye shadow and a white shimmer hue to the inner corners of my eyes to mimic the light reflecting off the dress. “It might work. Any other options?”

She looks at the pile of unclaimed dresses and tosses a few to the side. “I wore this one to my prom.”

I scrunch my nose at the taffeta ballgown. “You don’t throw anything out, do you?”

She gives it a wary glare. “Kinda sentimental.” With a flick of her hand, that dress, too, lands on the discarded pile. Another catches her eye. “Oh! What about this one?”

Lifting a hanger up with one hand, she rips the plastic wrapping from the dry cleaner and holds it out to me. I lean forward and grab it with two hands to bring it up to my neck.

The dress is garnet red with a plunging neckline. It’s sexy and daring—far more daring than anything I’ve ever worn. While I pride myself on knowing fashion, I also know when I can work an outfit and when I can’t. This Jessica Rabbit number is a little racy for my taste.

I’m about to tell her I’ll pass when she starts walking out of the room. “Before you say anything, try it on.”

The door closes behind her, and I’m left alone.

I hold the dress out at arm’s length to take in the spaghetti strap dress, right down to the crisscross on the back accented in tiny rhinestones.

I suppose it can’t hurt to try it on.

With a quick change, I’m in the dress, zipping it up and taking a look at myself in the mirror. The gown falls to the floor, so I rise up on my toes to get a feel of how it will fall once I have on heels. The neckline is low … way lower than I’m used to, and I’m thankful it’s snug enough that my boobs stay up without a bra.

There’s a knock on the door, but Abby doesn’t wait for my response when she walks back in.

She places a hand on her hip and leans back with her brown eyes shining. “Damn! That looks amazing on you.”

I drop flat on my feet and run my hands along my stomach. “It’s not too much? Maybe too sexy for a benefit?”

She shakes her head with wide eyes. “You’re a twenty-four-year-old woman with a body like a back road and an ass I can bounce a quarter off of. You look sophisticated and practically feline.” With her hands out, she paws in the air like a cat while squinting her eyes.

I let out a laugh. “Please don’t make that face again.” Running a hand along my chest, touching the bare skin all the way down to the bottom of my sternum, I let out a shaky breath. “I feel exposed.”

Abby stands behind me and sweeps my long brown hair around, so it falls over my right shoulder. “Feel empowered. You spend too many nights being Cinderella, and tonight is the ball. You can turn back into a pumpkin tomorrow.”

I point at her through the mirror. “A ball we’re crashing because we haven’t been invited.”

“Potato, potahto.” She twirls her hand in the air as she walks over to her vanity. She grabs a pair of dangly gold earrings from a tray and places them in her ears. “Maybe you’ll meet some new clients, wow them with your style and have them booking appointments at the salon. You know, these society girls spend bank on their appearances.”

She does have a point there. My manager has been on me about bringing in more clients.

“Go finish getting ready. Christine will be home—” Abby’s words are interrupted by the slamming of the front door, followed quickly by the slamming of what I presume is Christine’s bedroom door. “Speak of the devil.”

I spin on my heel and quickly walk out of the apartment, barely missing out on her antics. I’ve met Christine a handful of times, and it’s enough to know she is a major drama queen.

From the sound of her incessant cursing, I already know she’s going to start the night with a problem. She’s the type of girl I hung out with in high school and then realized I didn’t have the time or patience for them. Maybe if I were a typical twenty-something, but I’m not.

When I’m back in my apartment, I close the door and lean against it, wondering why I’m even going to this party. I turned down Abby twice this afternoon but caved because she is a persistent little thing, and honestly, I like her. She’s fun without getting into trouble.

Some nights, when I’m craving adult conversation, she miraculously shows up to tell me about a date she went on or some guy she likes at work. It’s exciting to live vicariously through her.

I comb through my already-blown-out hair and pin up one side, liking how Abby threw it all over one shoulder. It kind of makes me feel like I’m covering my very exposed chest even though my hair isn’t hiding a damn thing.

It takes me twenty minutes to prime and contour my face. My eyes are lined in black, and I use a metallic shadow to make my eyes pop. Then, I add some nude gloss to my lips. With one last look, I slide on my heels, grab a clutch, and head across the hall.

I knock on the door and let myself into Abby and Christine’s apartment to see Christine downing a shot of tequila. She’s dressed in a hot-pink strapless dress, and her makeup is smudged.

“So, there I was, wearing nothing but my bra and panties, when he walks in, and before he knows it, I’m reaching in to whip out his incredibly huge—no, monstrous cock. It was thick and long. I wasn’t sure if it would fit in my mouth.”

My feet almost trip on the carpet. I have to brace myself on the TV stand to keep myself from falling.

“You okay there?” Abby asks as Christine lets out a burst of laughter at my clumsiness. She turns to Christine. “I think you scared her with your sexcapades.”

Christine pours another shot and salutes me. “Girl, I have many, many … many, many, many, many stories to tell.”

As Christine downs the drink and sloppily wipes her mouth with her forearm, Abby explains to me, “She seduced her boss tonight.”

“Your boss?” I stare at her, doe-eyed. My jaw practically hits the ground. “I’ve never met someone who actually did the dirty with their boss.”

There’s a temporary pause as the girls stare at me with bewildered expressions.

“You’re an adorable mother hen,” Christine says. It comes out in an endearing tone, but I know she’s ridiculing me. “When’s the last time you had sex? I haven’t seen a man at your apartment in … wait, do you like women?”

I narrow my gaze at her. “That’s none of your business.”

“I bet men are going crazy, trying to buy admission to take a ride. You need to let your freak flag fly, girl. Get crazy and show up in a man’s office in nothing but your bra and panties and seduce the motherfucker!”

I watch her pour another shot and offer it to me. I politely decline. “No, thanks.” As she gulps it down, I ask, “Is that what you did tonight? Showed up in your boss’s office in nothing but your skivvies?”

She nearly spits her drink out as she lets out a burst of laughter. “She said skivvies!” She holds on to the end of the couch like she needs support as she barrels over in a fit of hysterics.

Abby rises and puts an arm around me, whispering, “Don’t mind her. She’s all talk and three ponies into the Patrón. Something tells me, things didn’t go her way with the boss.” She walks over and pulls Christine off the couch. “All right, you lush, let’s get you out of here before you get too drunk to highbrow it.”

With unladylike grace, Christine pulls her top over her exposed bra. “Let’s go, girls. I have a date with Mr. Sexton tonight.”

I raise a brow to Abby in question.

“Her boss,” she clarifies. With her hand on my back, she guides me toward the front door. “Tonight is definitely gonna be a shitshow.”

The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art is an impressive building of curved white fiberglass panels to give the illusion of rippling water and fog.

The inside is equally impressive as we step into the atrium, which is illuminated in lavender lights, making the room seem more like a nightclub than the main entrance to one of the world’s most prestigious art galleries. There’s a DJ at the far end, playing modern dance music, while waiters move about the room, bringing trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

Christine pushes past me as she sets out on her mission to find her boss, the guy she gave a blow job to just a few hours ago. She seems content on being the side piece to a guy who lets her fall to her hands and knees.

“I don’t see him, but I see his little brother,” she says, pointing toward a man over by the bar. “Abby, look.”

He has wavy brown hair styled back perfectly, dark stubble on a masculine jaw, and a set of piercing blue eyes that I can see from halfway across the room.

“That’s Austin Sexton. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

Abby doesn’t even have a chance to object before Christine is pulling her toward the bar.

Feeling self-conscious in my low-cut dress, I cross my arms to cover the exposed skin. As a waiter passes, I grab a flute and take a large swig of champagne.

Maybe some liquid courage will do me good in this dress.

It’s not just the dress. The room is huge and packed with people. Large crowds aren’t my comfort zone. It’s overwhelming and suffocating—as bizarre as that might be since this atrium is tremendous in size and ceiling height.

Christine has Abby across the room and at the bar in nanoseconds, leaving me sandwiched in between two groups of people, unable to get past.

“Excuse me.” I tap a woman’s shoulder. She doesn’t seem to notice I’m here, so I tap again. “I have to get through. Do you … never mind.”

I sidestep around the group and smack into another woman. My champagne splashes and spills all over her dress.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize as I start palming the silk as if my hand is going to absorb the champagne from her gown. It’s no use. The pale blue fabric looks ten shades darker in the splatter marks cascading down the front of it.

“You klutz!” Her eyes are wide as she stares down at the damage. When she looks up at me, her face is a mix of agitation and shock.

“It will dry in a few minutes. You won’t even notice it. I hope.”

She’s an incredibly attractive woman. Not much older than me with light-blonde hair and a gorgeous complexion. Her dark eyes are accented in pink, which does nothing to soften them. I want to tell her to use a cobalt blue or turquoise to bring out the amber flecks in her eyes … but I won’t because that would be weird. And, right now, she’s looking at me like I’m the last person she wants makeup advice from.

“This is a seven-thousand-dollar Dior. You don’t simply let it dry and carry on,” she hisses like a snake about to bite.

“I’m so sorry. I just got here and am looking for a friend—”

“Who are you?”

I pause. “Tessa Clarke.”

“Who did you come here with?”

I swallow as I look around the room, my eyes landing on Christine and Abby as they talk to the roguish-looking man at the bar Christine pointed out earlier.

“Austin Sexton,” I lie.

I don’t know why I said his name. Probably because it sounded better than, I crashed the party with the girl who lives across the hall, who happens to be the assistant of a major benefactor of tonight’s event, who also happens to be someone she gave a blowy to earlier.

She narrows her eyes at me with a sinister glare pouring from her irises. If I’m not mistaken, she even lets out a slight growl like she’s about to pounce.

I step back in retreat when a hand falls on my shoulder.

“How is everything going over here?” a gentleman, about sixty years old, appears next to me and asks in a manner that sounds cordial, but his tone is laced in interrogation.

I look up at his silver hair and overly tanned skin. His eyes are trained on the woman in front as his fingers dig lightly into my shoulder.

She’s seething from her teeth as she whisper-hisses, “This twit destroyed my Dior.”

“Now, now, Missy. It’s only a dress. You have an entire closet filled with gowns. Why don’t I have Mark grab you something else to wear?” he says as he pulls out his phone.

From his inner knowledge of her wardrobe, I can only deduce that this is her father.

“I need to look spectacular, and I’m not having my assistant raid my closet.”

The man seems to agree with her. “Appearances are important, but I’d hate for you to leave. I could have one of the chauffeurs drop by the house. Just tell the maid what you need.”

She pushes her shoulders back and gives me a snide look out of the corner of her eye. “I’ll go myself. Why would I stay here when they’ll let just about anyone in?”

I don’t miss the insult.

Missy places her hand on the man’s chest and utters, “Tell your son he needs to keep a better eye on his bimbos.”

My jaw drops.

“Your son.”

Holy shit.

I should be outraged by the bimbo comment, but this is hardly the time to argue the point.

As Missy leaves, I turn around and start to make my way toward the bar when the hand on my shoulder pulls me back.

“Not so fast,” who I assume to be Mr. Sexton says.

I turn around, ready to apologize for my lie. He obviously knows who his son came here with, let alone who he’s dating. Being referred to as a bimbo is insulting but not as embarrassing as him realizing I am a fraudulent faux bimbo.

When I’m facing him, I look up into his coal-like eyes, only to see them staring down the low neckline of my dress and widening at the sight of my breasts heaving with shaky breaths. His head slightly leans back with his torso as he does a complete once-over of my body. My nervous energy morphs into anger as I realize this pervert is eye-fucking me.

“You’ll have to excuse my wife. She is protective of her appearance.”

Now, it’s my turn to stare at him, open-mouthed and dumbstruck. “Your wife?”

His hand travels up my arm. I slap it away, which doesn’t seem to make him happy.

“Playing hard to get?” He seems amused.

“I don’t date married men, and I don’t let men touch me without my permission.”

He laughs lightly. “In that case, may I touch you?”

“No.”

His smile falls. “That’s not how women talk to me.”

“You haven’t met a real woman then.”

I turn to leave, but he grabs my bicep, the anger in my eyes burning into the sight of his hand.

The room is packed with people so engrossed in their own conversations, their own worlds, that no one seems to notice a man of power is grabbing a woman without her consent.

“I suggest you let me go, or I’ll scream so loud everyone in this room will look. You and I both know it will not bode well for you,” I state firmly.

He releases my arm but not without his own threat. “I don’t care for being refused, nor do I care for being shown up. You’re a waste of my time. My wife is right; my sons only choose bimbos.”

I have a thousand things I want to say, but I want to leave his presence more.

Moving fast, I make my way through the crowd. Abby and Christine are still flirting with Austin Sexton at the bar. Missy is at the door, talking to someone and pointing at her dress and then toward me, and in the middle of the room is Mr. Sexton, staring at me with beady eyes.

I distance myself from all of them and run up the grand staircase. At the top, I look back toward the crowd and decide there must be a way out of this building that doesn’t include going back the way I came.

I enter a gallery of modern paintings and pass through another bearing statues of impressionist movements. There’s an exit door, so I run toward it.

My chest falls as I realize the exit hasn’t led me anywhere that will get me out of this building. I’m in a sculpture garden. It’s enclosed with high walls, and the only way out is back through the museum.

I lean against a marble statue to catch my breath. My first night out in months, and I’m escaping the advances of a married man.

Looks like my mother was right. Men are scum.