Page 4 of Gilt

Josie snatches it away. “That’s mine, thank you very much.”

As long as she isn’t going to make me wear it, I have no further comment on the issue. She strips down and pulls it on over her thong. It’s a skimpy, black romper that dips to her naval.

“I have no boobs,” she complains as she tugs at it.

“Look on the bright side,” I say as I snag a pair of panties from my drawer, “if you did, you wouldn’t be able to wear that.”

“I guess you’re right.” She twists around, observing herself in my vanity mirror. “How do I look?”

“Older than you are,” I say dryly. It’s the answer she wants to hear. Josie’s hair is a wild mop of curls that mesh nicely with her high cheekbones and wide, dark eyes. Her looks, combined with that outfit, will get her into any club in town. I’ll be riding her coattails, or rather g-string, to get myself inside. “Where did you find this?”

“Frederick took mom to the desert for the weekend. I borrowed a few things.” She pushes a dress into my hands. Josie and her mom are as close as I have to female role models in my life. I’m not exactly preening myself to become a trophy wife like my own mother. So Josie and Marion Deckard are the closest I have to a girl squad. That’s definitely how it works between the two of them. Considering Marion is only thirty-five, the two of them act and look more like sisters than mother and daughter.

“This dress is missing the dress.” I whip around to check the back of Josie’s pre-approved party apparel absolutely certain that my ass is hanging out.

Josie shakes her head, pressing a finger to her mouth like she’s deep in thought regarding my ensemble. “Emma, you look hot.”

“Perhaps,” I say slowly, because part of me digs the glittery, slip of fabric she’s talked me into, “but I’m going to have to walk with my thighs smashed together all night.” I demonstrate what it looks like to walk with my knees clamped together.

“Stop it!” She tosses a throw pillow from the mound of decorative accents I keep on my bed. “Make sure you have on cute underwear. Have you waxed lately?”

I scrunch my nose up. “The state of my lady bits isn’t up for discussion.”

“Your lady bits could use a little discussion,” she corrects me.

“They have nothing to gossip about. California isn’t the only one with a drought.”

A smirk curls Josie’s lips. “If you really want to end the dry spell, don’t wear anything underneath.”

“The old no-panties trick? So 1990s. I thought I’d fake a fainting spell instead.” There were easier ways to advertise a vacancy than putting it on display. Besides, in Vegas, what’s one more vagina crying out for attention? “So, what trouble are you getting us into?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head as she holds out a tube of lipstick. “It’s a surprise.”

I groan and press my hands together. “Please. I beg you.”

She only smiles. Whatever she has planned can’t be good if she has to drag me there. “Do I get a blindfold?”

“The party isn’t that kinky,” she says with a snort.

“So it’s a party!”

“No shit, Sherlock.” She rolls her eyes as she fluffs my hair. It’s a lost cause. We are the yin and yang of hair— her unruly, sexy curls and my stick-straight honey-blonde locks.

“Why won’t you tell me?” I ask her as she continues to make me up.

“That’s why you’re going easy on me,” she says. “Allowing me to put mascara on you isn’t going to get me to spill. I’m not that easy.”

I stick my tongue out and immediately regret the move when she smacks it with a make-up brush. “That’s not what I heard.”

“That all you got, Southerly?” She plants one hand on her hip and instantly looks just like her mother. I don’t mention this lest I get smacked with another make-up brush. “Because you need to bring it tonight.”

That’s exactly what I was afraid she would say.

CHAPTER THREE

It’s a bad sign when Josie wants to Uber. That means two things: she’s getting drunk, and we’re headed to the Strip. It’s weird being a duo when we used to be a trio. Becca and Josie used to outnumber me all the time. Now that Becca’s gone, we’re more evenly matched. Josie still wins most times. I guess she’s luckier than I am.

I once tried to see the heart of Las Vegas through the eyes of a stranger—the lights, the people, a million glittering attempts to grab your attention. But I couldn’t. Now all I can see is the reality. Behind the crowds of tourists and the Bellagio fountains, under the designer shopping and a-list shows, everyone is broken. It’s the ultimate twist of the American dream: pull a lever, and you might have it all. Ride out another roll of the dice, and you’ll become someone. Vegas was built on destroying people. It still is. I wish knowing that could save me, but you don’t get out of a town like this. Maybe my luck will change, but I’m not holding my breath.