Page 15 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Those panties are going to leave a line.” Lucinda runs a critical eye over my nearly naked body.
“Yeah, well, it’s a midday interview. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be sitting the whole time, anyway.”
“What if—”
“Sorry, but I’m not baring my ass or my trauma today,” I tell her with a roll of my eyes. “Even if it is forVanity Fair.”
Lucinda mutters something uncomplimentary under her breath, but she doesn’t argue as she hands me a pair of fishnet stockings. “Put these on while I get your skirt ready.”
I stare at the stockings dubiously, imagining the half dozen missteps it usually takes me to get them on. “I was thinking I’d wear jeans.”
“ForVanity Fair? When they’re crediting me as your stylist?” She shakes her head. “Bite your tongue.”
“How about I wear jeans and a T-shirt and take the stylist credit myself?” I ask just to wind her up.
It’s her turn to roll her eyes as she holds out a black midi skirt. “The clock is ticking.”
Ten minutes later, she’s still fastening me into the most complicated spiderweb of a shirt I’ve ever worn. It’s uncomfortable as fuck, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate the nod to my stage persona.
A knock sounds on the outer suite door right before I hear Bryan chatting with two people I can only assume are theVanity Fairteam.
Lucinda does up the last button and hands me a Dolce & Gabbana blazer to put on top. It settles over my shoulders like armor—the sleek, expensive kind. But protection like this isn’t built to save you. Just to make the bleeding look like part of the show.
“Don’t forget your shoes,” Lucinda orders as I head toward the living room.
I take one look at the sleek, pointy-toed Louboutins and opt for the giant tarantula slippers a fan tossed onstage during the first night of the tour. They might be the most comfortable thing I own.
“Don’t you dare!” Lucinda hisses, but I’m already breezing through the bedroom door and into the living room.
“Sloane,” Bryan gushes the moment he catches sight of me. “You look ravishing.”
I don’t bother to answer. The Black Widow doesn’t respond to empty compliments.
I eye the reporter, who in turn eyes my tarantula slippers, her brows slightly raised. But when she feels my scrutiny, she jerks her gaze back up to mine and steps forward, hand extended.
Dread crawls down my spine as I step closer—usually my people warn them about this. Before I can force myself to take her hand, Bryan deliberately moves between us. “Sloane, meet Vittoria Quasarano fromVanity Fair. Vittoria, meet the one and only Sloane Walker.” His smile is so big and fake I’m a little surprised it doesn’t swallow him whole.
Relief swamps me, and I give her a nod before making my way over to the table in the corner, where coffee service is already set up.
I’m dying for another cup. I own the fact that I’m absolutely coffee’s bitch, but that doesn’t mean anyone else needs to know. Having a weakness is one thing. Letting someone else see that weakness, especially a reporter, is something else entirely.
Pauline taught me that.
So instead of pouring myself a cup of coffee, I reach for the decanter of weak tea sitting next to it and try not to gag. “Bourbon?” I ask, brows raised in question as I pour myself a glass.
It’s a calculated risk—if she says yes, I’ll have to fumble the bottle and find a way to pour the tea all over the floor—but it’s one I feel pretty good about. Reporters always want their wits about them when they take on the Black Widow.
I may have acompletelyunearned reputation for being difficult.
Vittoria is no different, because I’ve barely poured my own drink before she shakes her head. “A little too early for me, I’m afraid.”
“It’s noon somewhere,” I answer with a shrug.
“It’s noonhere,” Bryan tells me with a smile that grows a little more pained with every second, like he doesn’t know all too well that this is how things go once I’ve hit my limit on interviews. I might feel worse about it if he didn’t spend so much of his life torturing me, and if I didn’t pay him quite so much to do it.“We’re in Vegas.”
“Indeed we are.” I flop down on the closest chair, draping an arm over its back and letting my legs sprawl out in front of me. The more ill at ease I am, the more room I make sure to take up. Feel one thing, project the opposite. All part of the Black Widow’s web.
As Vittoria pours herself a cup of coffee, Bryan’s eyes urge me to sit up and say something nice. Since that’s what the old Sloane would do, I stay exactly where I am. And I don’t say a word. She who speaks first is always the loser. Something else my mentor taught me way back when.
