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I sighed. “All right. I’ll go.”
“Yay!” She bounced up and down in the hallway, her curls going wild around her gleeful face. “This is gonna be awesome! I’ve already mentally picked out what you can wear. I’ll do your makeup and hair. You won’t have to worry about a thing!”
“Goodnight, Tor.” I pushed into my room, leaving Tori in the hallway, alone with her plans and schemes.
All I could do was hope I didn’t regret caving in.
As I fell asleep, the final thought rolling around in my mind was that the Chocolate Soufflé better be as amazing as the food critic reviews promised…and that I wasn’t forced to run screaming for my life before it was prepared.
Chapter Three
Everlie
As promised, Tori had everything arranged and laid out for me when I got home from work. When I walked into my bedroom, there was a tiny micro dress on my bed with a pair of black stilettos next to them. I set aside my gym bag and picked up the dress. It was tiny, and I knew that once I had it on, it would leave no curve, fat cells or hollows to the imagination.
“Tori…” I muttered under my breath. I put the dress back onto the bed and went to my closet, determined to find something—anything—else to wear. Vivacite was a very high class place and I refused to go in, looking like a cheap hooker from the strip. My own closet was limited. I worked six days a week, and my uniform was usually a tank top, pair of shorts or leggings, and ballet shoes. I lived in dance clothes, in and out of the dance studio. It was comfortable, familiar, and what I’d grown accustomed to, since starting dance classes at the age of five. However, buried in the back of my closet, I did have a few dresses that I’d purchased for things like job interviews, weddings, and—on rare occasion—dates.
When was my last date?
I retrieved an emerald green cocktail dress from the closet and held it up to my body, spinning around to look at my reflection in the full length mirror I’d mounted on the far wall of my bedroom. I remembered wearing it to a Circ de Soleil show with a guy I met at the dance studio. Ben. He’d been there picking up his little sister from her dance class and we’d got to talking while she was dawdling with her friends. His family was new to the city and he’d asked me to go to the show with him. He was cute, nice, and was very sweet with his little sister, so I’d said yes, and we’d had a great night. As I ran my hands down the soft fabric of the dress, I wondered why he’d never called me to set another date.
I didn’t have a terrible track record with men—I’d never officially been in love, which had the fringe benefit of never having had my heart broken. In high school, I’d been so wrapped up in the ballet world that I hadn’t ever slowed down enough to pay attention to the guys in my class. A lot of my friends tried to set me up, especially around Homecoming or Prom season, but I’d always managed to side step it, knowing even at a young age, that it would only interfere with my practice time, and if I was ever going to make it as a dancer—I couldn’t afford the distraction.
After graduation, my mom had married my asshole of a step-father—not that I ever called him that—Jerry, and I’d moved out on my eighteenth birthday to get away from them. He treated her like crap on the bottom of his shoe, but he had money, a big house, and for whatever reason, she couldn’t say no. When she moved in with him, I went my own way, crashing with friends until I could scrape together enough money to move even further away. Several states away, in fact. We spoke on the phone a couple of times a month, but never for very long, and never about anything important. She spent most of our conversations gloating about her fabulous life in Kentucky, which, I figured was her plan on how to get me to move back home. I didn’t tell her much about my life in Vegas, but made it clear I had no intention of ever moving back to Kentucky again.
Since being in Vegas, finding a relationship was the last thing on my mind. As I neared my twenty-fourth birthday, the clock was ticking on my ballet career. I couldn’t dance forever, and if I ever wanted to see my name in the program under something other than the ensemble cast, I didn’t have time for dating.
And that was a fact Tori just couldn’t wrap her mind around. She was a dancer as well, a lead at the Cherry Cabaret, a popular burlesque club. She was amazing, and very passionate about what she did, but for her, she’d already reached the top of her career, and was free to enjoy herself, where I’d felt like I was on a treadmill to the top, and if I slowed, or stopped, for even a minute—I’d fly off and land back at the bottom again.
“Everlie Harmon! What the hell are you wearing?” Tori scolded, marching into my room, her expression screwed up into an angry scowl.
I had slipped into the emerald dress and was lost in thought while looking for the matching shoes. Her sharp tone startled me and I dropped the pair of shoes in my hands. “Tori, don’t start with me.” I picked up the shoes. “I’m not wearing that, to a four star restaurant!” I gestured to the micro dress she’d picked out. I hadn’t even bothered trying it on, it still lay slung across my bed where she’d left it for me.
She balled her fists and placed them on her hips, glaring at me, her blue eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “What are you trying to say? That my dress is trashy?”
I sighed. Tori and I got along like sisters ninety-five percent of the time, but there were times when the fact that we were polar opposites threatened to rip us apart. “I’m just saying that on me, that dress would be halfway up my butt cheeks, and I’m pretty sure there is a dress code at Vivacite.”
“Hold it up, let me see,” Tori insisted, grabbing the dress and handing it to me. I rolled my eyes, but did as she asked, holding the dress against my body so she could see how short it would be on me. Tori was a few inches shorter than I was, and while in killer shape from dancing, she had a curvier build. She stepped back to survey the dress and finally nodded. “All right, fine. But, you’re not wearing that thing.” She pointed at me, her lip curled back slightly as though the dress were made of brussels sprouts.
“What’s wrong with this dress?” I protested, spinning back to the mirror. It was a deep, rich green dress with a scoop neck, three quarter sleeves and a modest hemline. It was form fitted enough to show off my figure, but not to the point of making it hard to breathe or keep my boobs contained.
“It has sleeves, first of all…” Tori huffed. “Ev, I’m telling ya, this guy is hot, hot, hot! You have to step it up. He doesn’t want a grandma.”
“I hardly think this is a grandma dress.”
“Seriously, babe, trust me. You’re one rhinestone broach away from being cast as an extra on Golden Girls.”
“Oh my gosh…” I flopped on my bed. “I’ll have you know, I wore this on a date before, and he liked it. He said it brought out my eyes.”
Tori folded her arms, giving me a skeptical glare. “Oh really? And did this date of yours kiss you? Try to get in your panties?”
“No! It was a first date!”
“Okay, did he call you for a second date?”
I faltered with my answer and Tori smiled. “Well, no, but…”
“Exactly!” She pounced before I could come up with an alternate explanation for his sudden MIA status. “Ev, you’re so fucking gorgeous it’s ridiculous. Come on! Long blonde hair, sapphire eyes, killer legs, and amazing tits! You’re the full package, but you’re wasting all that by wrapping yourself in an ugly-ass dress!”
