Page 139 of Silas

She rolls her eyes at me. "Half my wardrobe is your work, babe. Tom and I wanted a Roaring 20s wedding, and you can't fake real vintage, not even you, Boston's most talented dressmaker."

She found the dress at a resale shop and brought it to me four days ago, begging me to work my magic on it. It wasn't in good shape—it had ripped seams, missing beadwork, and was a size and a half too big for her. And it was boring. So, I got to work. I replaced all the beads, took it in to fit her ridiculously slender frame, and then hand-sewed all the pearls on, which took hours and hours of eye-straining, hand-cramping labor. But for Emily, I didn't think twice.

It's just that a custom gown from scratch probably would have been easier. I have the patterns for it, for one thing. But what Emily wants, Emily gets—I’ve never been able to say no to her, no matter how wacky, wild, ludicrous, or illegal the request.

See, for all that Emily is a good girl from the right side of the tracks, she has a wild streak as deep and wide as my own. Or, nearly. She just doesn't have the street smarts to pull her ideas off...which is where I come in.

I'm a bad girl from the wrong side of the tracks. I'm a Southie chick, born and bred. Daughter of a Boston Irish frame carpenter and an equally Irish hotel maid, I was partying with my dad's friends by the time I was seven. Mom died when I was five, see. Dad lost his fucking mind, and quit trying to take care of me. He couldn't. All he could do was drink himself to sleep and go to work. I got myself ready for school. Fixed my own food, walked to school, walked home, made dinner, did laundry, and cleaned the house.

Fought off bullies.

Fought off Dad's drunk friends. Sometimes, I couldn't fight them off and the inevitable happened. After the third time, I learned to stay away from the house when Dad had friends over.

Except, that led me to hanging with a rough Southie crowd twice my age: teenagers who liked to party hard, do illegal shit, and didn't care that I was a little kid with no business hanging around them.

I learned to fight early, and learned to identify the guys who would cause me trouble even earlier. By the time I became a teenager myself, I was a hardened street rat. I could throw down with the toughest of the boys with fists and feet and bats and chains. I could do keg stands, drain handles of vodka, smoke pot and cigarettes, and fuck like a porn star.

The only thing I ever did for myself, the thing I tried—and failed—to keep secret from my hood rat friends, was my love for clothes. Since I couldn't afford the things I liked, I learned to make them. I'd steal the fabric and materials, figure out the patterns, and make my own clothes; my mom had a sewing machine which I claimed as mine.

By the time I was sixteen, I was selling pieces to my friends or trading them for food, booze, drugs, or a place to crash for the night.

By eighteen, I had a reputation and a steady clientele. Now, at twenty-six, I'm an established name in certain Boston circles. I even made a gown for the mayor's wife for a fundraiser ball last Christmas.

I feel Emily's eyes on me, and I can guess at her train of thought. "What, Em?"

She sighs. "I just wish you had a date."

"I'll walk with Yates, and pose with him for pictures," I tell her, like I have a dozen times already. "I don't dodates."

"It's not the same."

There's a knock at the door, and Emily glances at me.

"I'll get it," I say.

I hurry to the door, expecting it to be Tom, begging for a sneak peek at Emily…again.

I yank open the door, speaking before I even have it half open. "Tom, for the last time, youcan’tsee her before the wedding. Don't you know anything about—” I cut off, mouth flapping open and closed. "Kaleigh. You—you're here. I thought you had a work event in Florida?"

She's panting, out of breath, and has her bridesmaid dress over her arm. "It got canceled--there's a hurricane or something. Am I too late? Can I still walk?"

I back up and let her in, suppressing a sigh. "No, you're in time."

She looks me up and down, then smiles at me. "You look amazing! God, I wish I had your figure."

I snort. "Yeah, okay, Barbie."

She frowns at me. "What? I do!" She grabs and shakes her A-cup boobs at me. "What am I supposed to do with these little mosquito bites?"

I can't help but laugh. "Eat cake and stop running for five fucking minutes and maybe they'll grow a little?"

"But Ilikerunning," she laments. "It centers me."

I sigh, shaking my head in disgust. "You'd better get changed fast. Emily is getting antsy."

"Who is it?" Emily calls, emerging from the bathroom while fixing teardrop diamond earrings in her ears. "Kaleigh! You're here! How?"

"Hurricane," Kaleigh explains, stripping out of her matching PINK tracksuit, revealing perky albeit microscopic boobs she never bothers to wear a bra over, narrow hips, and perfectly chiseled abs any Instagram model would be jealous of.