| |
––––––––
I FROWNED AT MY REFLECTION in the emerald-green knee-length bustier dress. My eyes flicking over to the cell phone sitting on the lavender coverlet my half-made bed was currently drowning in. I had him on speakerphone while I’d slipped into the dress I’d bought—via mail order.
“God, Colton. This just... isn’t me.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
Colton had that distracted tone in his voice, like he was flipping through racing magazines while he talked to me, his mind a million miles away at the moment. It had been like this for several weeks now, and I knew the exact name of his affliction: Alyssa. An arrow to his heart he just seemed to enjoy the pain of getting shot with over and over.
Shoving the little witch out of my mind, I said, “It’s... not bad, exactly. But shit, it doesn’t leave a damn thing to the imagination.”
It showed off my ample curves nicely, but I’d look like I was offering myself up on a silver platter in this thing. It was overly suggestive bordering on being an advertisement. Squinting my eyes as I gazed at the top of the bustier netting, I shook my head. If I so much as turned the wrong angle, the mesh would expose my nipples for the entire world to see.
There would be press at the kickoff party, after all.
Um, no. I’d have to class it up or run down to Mina’s to get something else. Not that I really had it in the budget right now.
Shit.
Chewing my lip, I drew a deep breath and resolved myself to do just that. If I left now, I could catch Mina’s before they closed for the night.
“Take a pic of it. I'm sure it’s fine, Charlyse. You can make anything look good.”
God, he was sweet.
I sighed. “Fine.”
I snatched up my phone and took a quick selfie. I then catapulted the image into text space, bracing myself for the feedback I was about to get. Though, knowing Colton, he’d find a really nice way of telling me I was right. He didn’t have a cutting bone in his body.
Fidgeting with the netting over the bustier, my frown deepened. The damn dress hadn’t looked like this online. What had possessed me to buy something online, knowing it would take several weeks to send it back and get a refund? What a shame. It had looked so perfect in the digital catalog.
“I don’t know what you’re freaking out over. It’s sexy as hell,” I heard Colton say through the phone’s tiny speaker.
I snorted. “You mean slutty.”
“I don’t, actually,” he replied, sincerity lacing his tone. “This one’s got class, Char. Seriously.”
I laughed. “Yeah, until I bend slightly to pick up my wine glass, and the world gets a good look at my rack.”
Colton laughed. “It’s a good rack, though.”
I stomped my foot. “Colton!”
He laughed again. “You can tape that up, right? It looks good, babe. I say wear it.”
If he said so... I’d known him long enough to trust his word. He was the closest thing I had to a sibling—to family—save for Dad. I didn’t remember my mother, she had died when I was just a baby. So I’d gotten boatloads of nurturing and affection from Colton and my dad. I couldn’t imagine there being a tighter sort of bonding than there was for have-nots growing up very simply, with impossible race dreams. Colton’s dreams, anyway.
Colton had sort of been adopted by us at an early age. When he and I became inseparable friends in the third grade, I had made him get off the bus at my stop and meet my dad. Colton lived in foster care, having never met his real parents, and pretty much spent every day with us, going back to whatever home he was in after dinner. Until we were fifteen. It was then Dad had bought a bed and a dresser and set it up in our spare room, letting him pretty much live with us.
I was quite happy modifying stock cars (and sometimes building them from the ground up with the team). It fed into my need to take things apart and understand what made them tick. And I was good at it. Damn good.
Colton was the one with racing in his blood, as well as the chops to do something with it, if he’d just get out of his own way and stop looking out for everyone but himself. None of us were really sure where his talent for driving came from, but he was a natural behind the wheel, and Dad and I hoped he would be able to win the Grand Prix one day. Or... at least a few NASCAR races.
I gazed at myself in the full-length mirror again and sighed. “Okay. Compromise,” I decided. “I’ll wear it with a tight-mesh shawl. Class it up.”
Colton laughed again, his voice coming out tinny in my dropped-one-too-many-times smartphone. “You’re such a prude.”
“I have to be. If I don’t class it up a bit, everyone at this party will think the shop offers hand-jobs with our repairs. Appearance is everything, dude.”
Colton still didn’t grasp the concept of that sort of thing, but then that was what he had me for. I was the pragmatic triple-thinker. He was the slightly naïve do-gooder who saw the best in everything and everyone. It kind of made me worry about him when and if he made it to the higher levels of racing. Corporate interests had carved several snake pits into the racing industry. A lot of drivers, too green around the edges, wound up in the seedier circles, allowing their sponsors to pimp them out and throw races for the superstars they’d built their brands around.
The ones they wanted to be sure continued to shine.
Colton was a talent—a true one. He didn’t deserve to be pushed to the back for being too innocent to see a bad deal when he signed one, so I looked out for him when he would get approached about signing with someone. Nothing worthwhile had landed in his lap yet so far, though.
“Shit. It’s almost seven. I’m gonna hop in the shower,” I said, looking at the clock.
“Sounds good. I’ll swing by in a half hour.”
After hanging up with him, I carefully peeled myself out of the fuck-me dress I’d errantly purchased, and gave it a temporary home on a hanger haphazardly left on my doorknob before making my way to the shower. I’d only worked a half-shift, courtesy of Dad, but it was a grueling one with several wrecks coming in that had had their limits pushed in a couple of perilous practice runs. Not to mention the damned Trans Am I’d had to put to the wayside for the race car wreckers that had come in late in the afternoon.
Too many overachievers were burning out their engines before they had a chance to even see a starting lineup, but it was good business for the family, so there was no point in bitching about it. As with anything, it weeded out the hobbyists from the real drivers who had racing emblazoned in their hearts. The ones who knew how to play it risky without messing up their resources in the process.
After stepping into the shower, I added a hefty squeeze of shower gel to my loofah and scrubbed myself into abandon, the stirrings of excitement flitting in my belly as my mind returned to tonight’s party.
I wasn’t a socialite—not by a longshot— but events like this were akin to Christmas to a girl like me. Old hats, shiny new superstars, and glowing hopefuls made their grand entrances at parties like this one, and the midnight show was always something to remember. The event’s organizers always hired the best acts before the race. And now, instead of reading about the big event in one of the racing mags like I did every year, I would actually get to attend.
Truth be told, I was a fan of Dalton Enterprises. They had a reputation for playing it clean, and unlike too many corporate juggernauts, they didn’t prey on the smaller shops like the one my father owned. I looked forward to seeing what surprises lay in wait for tonight’s event.
Something told me it was going to be a night to remember.