Page 89 of Cinderella Is Faking It

Del furrowed her brow and the soft haze behind her eyes tipped. “Tag,” she whispered.

“Tag? Who is Tag?”

“Tag,” she hissed, more fervent, pulling her hands off me and grasping her neck. “Tag!” She scratched at the high neckline of her dress, nails digging into the fabric. Her breathing grew panicked as she tried to claw her way out of the collar, and it didn’t click until fabric ripped. Tag. So much for keeping that dress around.

“Hold on, hold on,” I pushed her forward and unzipped the back of her dress. The culprit was a thin black piece of scratchy fabric that I tore out with a single yank. A bigger paper tag slipped out of the dress, still attached to the fabric one. If you asked me, $1200 was too cheap for a dress this devastating. But with her aversion to any tags in her clothes, this seemed like an unlikely oversight.

She sagged back, sighing in relief, eyes fluttering shut, and I slipped the tags into my pocket before getting in the driver’s seat.

A few minutes later, Del snapped upright, gasping: “You’re driving.”

“I prioritized speed over comfort tonight.”

“Look at all those lights.” Her hand snapped for the dashboard, and I gently pushed it back into her lap before she could put on the warning signal.

“Hey, look at those lights,” I pointed towards the window and had her distracted for the rest of the ride with that, my thoughts spinning back to her words.He won’t bother me anymore. He won’t bother me anymore. He won’t bother me anymore.

I put Del to bed.

I kicked the shit out of the punching bag on my sun deck for twenty minutes.

Then I picked up my phone.

Beck:

I need you to find someone.

It was past midnight, but the reply came immediately.

Julian:

Who?

THIRTY-SIX

“So,I don’t remember the full extent of how I ended up here. Were you driving?” I leaned in the doorframe and narrowed my eyes at Beck. He sat at his dining table, laptop and papers in front of him, a full breakfast spread on the other side of the table. My stomach gurgled in protest just at the thought of having to digest solid foods right now.

“I was,” he replied and closed his laptop to look at me.

“Were you wearing lipstick?”

“No but you were trying to get me to. You thought that would help me blend in at the Marigold.” A smile flashed over his lips.

“Ah yes,” I nodded, “all that separates you from the prim and proper ladies at the Marigold Club is a bit of makeup.”

“You need to drink a lot today.” Mr. Change-the-Topic reached over and pushed a bottle of water across the table. “Stay hydrated, flush the systems.”

“Thanks.” I finally pushed myself out of the doorframe and walked over, the hardwood floors warm against my naked feet. I hadn’t been able to find my dress, but I was sporting my old Taylor Swift shirt - the one so deformed it almost reached my knees now. My memories may have been patchy, but it didn’t take much to piece together that he had taken care of me last night. And was still doing so now. “I’ve been high before, you know?”

“Really?” Actual surprise quirked his brow. “A prim and proper lady like yourself?”

“Defne wanted to try microdosing last year after breaking up with her fiancé, widen our horizons, and find answers to our troubles in the universe. She wasn’t great at mathing out the micro- in microdosing though.”

“And? Did your horizons widen?”

“I was convinced I was in a musical episode on TV and could only communicate through song, Tabitha spent half her monthly income on cheese and Defne was mainly crying in the bathtub in her wedding dress.”

“How did the three of you meet?”