Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #1) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,74

feeling that if I do, we'll throw down, and I'm not ready to throw down in the middle of a bridal shop.

“Well, I'm here to help. Are we looking for an initial consult or—”

“She knows what she likes, and we need to find a dress today,” Oscar says, down to business as usual. The woman turns her attention to me and folds her hands in front of her khaki skirt, seemingly unbothered at being interrupted. I’d have punched Oscar in the balls for that.

“What sort of styles are you into, honey?”

“The most expensive ones,” I say, and Oscar lets out a low laugh as the woman tries to keep smiling through my deadpan disinterest.

“Sure, of course,” she says, blinking through her confusion. Have to give her credit though. She was born for customer service. “I'm Zoe, by the way. Just follow me.”

“Planning on re-selling the dress after the ceremony?” Oscar asks, and I shrug. No point in trying to hide it.

“Something wrong with that?” I ask, but he just makes this clucking sound under his breath and releases me, leaving these little warm spots where his fingertips pressed into my skin.

We follow after Zoe to the back corner of the store—probably to get us out of view of any other customers that might happen in—and she shows me a rack of dresses wrapped in plastic.

I notice that some of them are slightly off in color, in various shades of champagne or gold or whatnot. I mean, they're close enough to white.

“These are from a French designer,” she begins as I search for the tag on one of the dresses. Fifty-five hundred bucks?! For a dress. Holy crap. My fingers touch the tag, and something inside of me shifts. I don't really care about weddings or ceremonies or tradition, but buying a dress with the sole purpose of reselling it makes me feel like a total asshole.

“Do you have any black dresses?” I ask, lifting my gaze from the tag to Zoe's surprised face.

“A black wedding dress?” she says, like I've just suggested she cut off her own fingers and use them as lace on my gown. “I, um.” She pauses again, clearly thinking on her feet. Zoe snaps her fingers. “Okay, I have an idea. I'll set you up in a fitting room.”

“A black wedding dress?” Oscar repeats, the sea of white gowns reflecting in the lenses of his glasses. “Aren't we the little rebel?” He gives another one of those deep, low chuckles. “Ophelia will hate it.” He pauses a beat as we head toward the fitting room. “But Vic, he'll love it.”

Zoe leads me into a room, and then scurries off excitedly, like she's just thought of the perfect dress. I don't bother to wait for her, undressing and kicking off my boots, pants, and jacket. I stand there for a moment in the lingerie Vic gave me, my eyes narrowed on my own reflection.

Tattoos trace over my right hip and down my thigh. Both arms are coated in ink, and I’ve got pink demon wings across my chest. My pink-tipped white-blonde hair hangs just past my breasts, and the rings in my belly button glint in the fancy studio lighting of the fitting room. Every inch of me is marked in invisible scars, wounds that bisect my soul but not necessarily my body.

There’s a light knock on the door.

“Come in,” I say, glancing over my shoulder as Zoe slips in the door with a dress draped over her arm. Her pale blue eyes sparkle as she hangs it on a hook and unzips the opaque white garment bag.

“I think I’ve found the perfect dress for you,” she says, beaming at me as she reveals the glittering black fabric. It looks like the sky on a velvety country night, when the Milky Way is a splash of stars against the cosmos. “This is a Lazaro gown,” Zoe continues as she takes the dress from the bag and holds it up. “Strapless sweetheart neckline with a lovely pleated skirt. There’s an optional feathered piece that goes around the neck as well. We can try it with and without.”

Zoe brings the dress toward me, and as she walks, it shimmers and glitters, like the designer reached up and cut the fabric from the stars.

I know as soon as I see it that I’ve found the right dress.

You’re seventeen, Bernadette, and this whole marriage is a sham. You haven’t found shit.

I tell myself that this is a business transaction, and that