Page 73 of Devil in Disguise
“Giraffes have amazing eyelashes and a graceful carriage. Giraffes are hot, and so are you. You’regorgeous.You have long blonde hair and blue eyes and are five-ten and have muscle tone and major curves! You’re like a beach volleyball player, andeveryguy’s hot for beach volleyball players.”
“I am not gorgeous,” Annabelle said. “I don’t even know how to domakeup.I didn’t have amom.And I know, I could’ve asked your mom. It’s just …”
“That my mom has no fashion sense? Excuse me, though. YouTube? Or you go to one of those stores, MAC or Sephora or whatever, have them do makeup on you—tell them you want a natural look, probably, not dramatic like me—and buy the products. And then watch the video if you need to. How do you think I got so good at applying my trashy black eyeliner? Not from Jennifer, I’ll tell you that. ”
“Aren’t those stores really expensive, though? I was thinking more regular stuff.”
Dyma sighed. “Why am I the only one in this family who’s not rich, but also the only one who knows how you’re supposed toberich? Isn’t Harlan giving you an allowance?”
“Well, not exactly. He just pays for things when they happen, or he’ll ask if I need new clothes or whatever. But …” Annabelle hesitated.
“Oh, boy. You know why I like you? I just realized. You’re exactly like my mom. You’re basically her spirit animal. Let me guess. Oh, oh, oh …” She put her fingers to her temples. “Thought-wave coming in. You don’t want to ask him or even say yes if he asksyou,because you’re already in the middle of his and Jennifer’s new family thing, and besides, if you ask him for money, you’ll become—well, somebody else asking him for money. Anyway, you probably don’t deserve it and should just feel lucky to have anything.” She took her fingers away. “Excuse me? He loves giving people things! Also, he loves you like crazy. You don’t call somebody ‘Bug’ if you don’t love them. And buying a normal level of clothes is, well—normal.Just because you couldn’t do it living with your dad doesn’t mean it’s not normal. You can do thrift stores. You can do the Saturday market.”
“But how do I …” Annabelle began.
Dyma was still talking. “So here’s what you do. You go up to him sometime this week, when he’s home with the baby—when he’sholdingthe baby, because he’ll be feeling really mushy and paternal right about then—and say, ‘Harlan, I really want to buy some new clothes and makeup, figure out a sort of makeover deal, but I’m worried that if I ask you for money, you’ll think I’m shallow and materialistic, and then you won’t love me anymore.’ And then he falls all over himself to tell you to go ahead and do it, or maybe even helps you shop, because Harlandoeshave fashion sense. Probably involving the use of his solid-platinum credit card.”
“Why would he do that if I just told him I’m shallow and materialistic?”
“Hello? Because that’s like my mom, and he loves my mom for her unassuming nature? You don’t even have to worry that you’re being manipulative, because it’s actually true!”
“And this helps me how?” Annabelle asked. “If the problem with me and friends is that I’m so incredibly gorgeous? Which I’m not. Gorgeous girls are those … flashy ones. Cheerleaders. With the hair and all.”
“No,” Dyma said. “Gorgeous girls are the ones whothinkthey’re gorgeous. And have ridiculously high standards of grooming. You don’t have to go full-cheerleader. You shouldn’t anyway, because if you did, they’dreallythink you’re snobby. You’ve got too much raw material for that. You just have to find clothes you like, that express your … sporty nature, or whatever, and use a little more makeup and hair product—oh, and find a better stylist, too—so you feel more confident and sort of bouncy.”
“Bouncy,” Annabelle said dubiously.
“All right, not bouncy. But confident. Happy. Shoulders back, boobs out, ready to take on your day. And not shy. Wait. That’s (C). It’s—see, you’re shy, but people think you’re stuck up instead, because of the beautiful, tall, rich, Harlan Kristiansen thing. You’re intimidating, so you have to go out of your way to let them know you want to be their friend. Like—bouncy.”
Annabelle looked even more dubious, so Dyma said, “Relatively. My roommates say, ‘Oh, mygod,’in about every third sentence. It’s extremely annoying. Bounciness is overrated. You don’t have to be some kind of wind-up pet. You just have to beyourself,and believe that people want to be your friend, because you’re awesome. Which you are, see? It’s not even a lie! But even before you do all that, you can say the thing about missing the homework and take it from there. Just remember to smile.”
32
Touchdown
It was after ten,and Owen wasn’t asleep. Sure, he’d told Dyma to stay with Annabelle, but he hadn’t meant all night!He thought about texting her, but what would you say?Get your butt over here right nowdidn’t exactly come across sensitive and romantic. If you added,because I need to fuck you,it moved you all the way into ex-boyfriend territory.
He got that she’d had a traumatic day, full of impossible highs and too many fears, that she was emotional and probably tired. Even the Energizer bunny ran down sometime. Mentally, he got that. Emotionally, he got it. Physically, his body was saying,But here she is where I can grab her, and I need to do it.
He’d done a long ice bath/hot bath routine, climbing into first one tub and then the other, expecting to hear the doorbell every minute. He’d taken another shower and shaved carefully around his beard, thinking about how she loved it when he rubbed his face against her sensitive places. He’d changed into sleep pants with a drawstring, thinking about her ripping them off him, or better yet, about dropping them himself the second he had her up against the wall. Or bent over the back of the couch. Or wherever. He had some ideas.
He thought some more about those ideas while he watched the replay of the late game with half his attention, and played himself at pool with a fraction of the other half, thinking about how Dyma looked draped over a pool table. Height difference, solved. He’d challenge her to a game, maybe. Then … surprise her. Not tonight, obviously, but sometime.
He wondered what she’d be wearing.
When he finally heard the chime of the doorbell, he jumped. Then he headed up the stairs.
Be sensitive,he told himself.It’s not about you.
It felt so much like it, though, because he was nothing but need. And then he opened the door, realizing at the last minute that he was still holding the pool cue.
She was standing in the doorway wearing jeans and a jacket.
He wanted to say, “Everything OK over there? You all right?” Instead, what came out was, “I thought I told you to wear something special.” Maybe because of the challenge in her eye.
She said, “I did.” And stepped into the entryway, where she let the jacket fall to the floor.
What was under it? A Bucs T-shirt, that was what. It was so short, he could see a half-inch of skin between the hem and the waistband of her low-rise jeans. It was so tight, he could see the outline of her breasts, the hard little nipples pointing north, because she sure wasn’t wearing anything under that shirt. Her jeans were just as tight, her eyeliner was black, her shoes were battered Chuck Taylor All-Stars worn without socks, and all of her looked like the kind of sexy little bad girl you pulled straight into the back seat and had your way with.
