Page 61 of Never Sleep with the Enemy

Goldie slams on the gas and the car jerks forward.

As we race down the street and around the corner, I can’t help but laugh with them. I even miss the reality of what just happened.

The Electrics kidnapped me.

16

KATRINA

“No.No.No.” Tesla mutters to herself, her eyes laser-focused on the clothing rack in front of her.

I’m not sure exactly what she’s looking for, but I get the feeling she doesn’t, either. I suspect it’s more of anI’ll know it when I see itsituation, so I don’t ask. Instead, I maintain a safe distance behind her, my eyes scanning the clothes and displays as we go.

This is the third thrift shop we’ve hit over the last hour. I quickly understood why Tesla said Las Vegas had some of the best thrift shops in the world. So many stage shows get put on here, and all those wonderful, discarded costumes have to end up some place.

And that place is Tesla’s shopping basket, it seems.

“Ah-ha!” Tesla says, breaking the long rhythm of nos. She whips an item off the hanger and tosses it into her basket before I can get a good look at it, but it was white and lacy.

“God, I love Vegas!” she says, her blue hair hitting her cheeks as she whips back to look at me. “Don’t you?”

“It’s home,” I say with a nod. A dress catches my eye and I reach for it, a stunning work of emerald green velvet that seems right up my alley, but I put it back. “Don’t they have shops like this back in New York?”

“They do, but not nearly asdaring.You can find some decent off-Broadway cast offs, though, if you dig deep enough. Did you want that?”

I halt my absent stride when I realize she’s paused. “Oh,” I say, noting her eyes on the emerald dress. “No. It’s not my size.”

“I can take it in for you,” she offers. “Fit like a glove when I’m done.”

“Oh, no.” I wave a hand. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Okay.” She snatches the dress off its hanger and stashes it away in her basket, all the while never breaking eye contact with me, her smile as wicked as Logan’s.

I chuckle. “Okay, then.”

“Sorry not sorry,” she hums as we continue forward, her eagle-like eyes back to scanning each item ahead. “Clothing is my love language.” She bobs her chin at my basket. “Find anything else you like?”

“Not yet,” I say, my basket empty. “But I picked up a few things at the last shop we were at, so I’m good.”

Tesla eyes me a moment before moving on. “You don’t thrift much, do you?” she asks.

“Not really, no,” I answer. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it! I’m just not much of a shopper, I guess.”

“Childhood trauma?” she asks without a hint of judgment, only mutual understanding.

“You know, I haven’t really thought about it, but probably.”

She chuckles. “I hear that. To my mother, the only thing worse than buying used clothes was making your own like some little match girl.” She peeks at me and sighs, but there’s no weight to it. No hesitation in over-sharing. “Money really messes with people, doesn’t it?”

“It sure does.”

“Honestly, I assumed you had stylists on call telling you what to wear every day. Or your own flock of little cartoon birdies helping you do your makeup in the morning.”

“Oh, no,” I say, laughing at the visual image. “No, I dress myself. Unless there’s a specific photo shoot or a video or something. Then I’m just along for the ride until I can crawl back home and chill.”

“Glad to have been wrong, then.” She pulls out another item and holds it up to me. This time, her eyes sparkle before she drops it into her basket. “Yo, Gold!” she shouts toward the changing room in the corner behind us. “How’s it looking in there?”

A simple groan is Goldie’s only response.

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