I take my time dressing for the party. It’s black tie, but that’s really all I know. Daria rented me an Armani knockoff evening gown that is gorgeous. Strapless, floor-length, sheath style, in a deep emerald green, with a slit up the side. Combined with three-inch heels, I look tall and statuesque. Like how Daria always looks. It makes me want to wear this outfit all the time.
I fashion my hair in a curly half-updo, and put on a deep red, long-last lipstick. My heels are platform, so I feel stable enough to walk fast—or even run if need be—and not that I’m about to topple over at any moment. I feel like the belle of the ball.
I’ve properly coiffed, tweezed, moisturized, and accentuated everything that should be. I only cut my legs once while shaving and have yet to chip a nail. It’s as good as its going to get.
Daria gave me a dossier which I found out is just a fancy word for file, with step-by-step instructions on everything I’m to do. I kind of can’t believe that two short days ago she barely employed me as a barback, and now I’m one of her hired assassins.
I mean, technically, I’m not an assassin yet, but that is my job tonight. I’m taking down a bad guy. Ridding the earth of his scum. Some guy who’s been kidnapping women and then delivering them to human traffickers who either keep them as forced sex slaves or sell them off on the black market.
This guy deserves to die.
Daria spent the last two days showing me how to shoot a gun and giving me tips on how to blend in a crowd. That’s the only part I have down pat, it’s the rest (read: shooting a gun) I’m still unsure about. Mostly because I’ve never shot a person before. If I’m honest, I’ve barely even fired the gun. When I did, I rarely hit the target. But Daria says I’ll be at a close enough range it won’t matter. I’ll just trust that she’s right.
I keep waiting for it to bother me I’m about to shoot someone, but so far it really doesn’t. We shouldn’t let certain people coexist with the living. And if even half of what Daria has told me about this guy is true, he’s one of them.
Daria told me she’ll have someone around in case I need help, and I just need to send her a quick message on my cell phone to let her know. But it didn’t occur to me until right now why that person couldn’t be the one to carry out the job. I’m not complaining, doing this for Daria makes me feel important, and who doesn’t love feeling important? Right?
I make sure everything I need is in my clutch, then head outside to wait for my ride. Daria is sending a car for me, which sounds fancier than it is, I think it’s just a Lyft or some kind of pay-per-ride deal. She hasn’t told me whose party it is or who my target is. All I know is he’ll be the first speaker in the rounds of toasts and that if I follow my instructions everything will go just fine.
I tried to get her to tell me who it was, but she said it’s better if I don’t know. So I won’t have time to personify the guy. That even if he is a scumbag, he’s still a person, and the more you know about someone, the more real they become. The less you want to kill them. It makes sense, human nature and all that.
Regardless, I’m beyond excited to be doing this. I know killing someone shouldn’t be appealing, but I’ve been in awe of Daria for a long time, even though she’s my best friend. And when I found out she was doing this whole vigilante thing, I was jealous that she had something with other girls that she didn’t have with me. I also know, it’s petty and ridiculous, but it’s how I felt. The idea of getting to join that club, and no longer feel left out, is both thrilling and gratifying.
A car pulls up in front of my building. It’s sleek and black, like a town car. I like it. The driver gets out to open my door for me. I’m a sucker for chivalry. I smile and thank him. He doesn’t smile back.
Note to self, ignore rude driver.
I settle into the backseat of the car and pull my instruction cheat sheet from my clutch one last time to review.
Step One - Dress the part . . .