Page 22 of Savage Hearts
She says hopefully, “Did you bring contact lenses with you?”
“The glasses stay on.”
She’s crestfallen, but quickly recovers. “Okay, but let me just… a little swipe of lipstick and mascara…”
I’m too starving to have another argument, so I relent. “You have exactly sixty seconds. And none of that goopy foundation shit!”
Sloane runs gleefully back into the bathroom, emerging in a flash with one purple tube and one silver tube in her hand. She works quickly, one small mercy, then hops up and down in front of me, clapping in delight.
I say flatly, “Sister, you have totally lost your mind.”
“So will every man who sets eyes on you tonight.”
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks not even one man will look twice. Unless he’s in the market for a sad and degrading sexual experience with a paid stranger, but that doesn’t count.”
Sloane tilts her head and smiles. “I’d take that bet, but I doubt you could come up with the cash.”
“Fine. I’ll bet you two boxes of Twizzlers and a watermelon Sour Patch. But when I win, you owe me…”
I look around the room for inspiration, then point to a round side table that’s covered in expensive-looking baubles. “That cute little box with the peacock on top.”
“That’s a Swiss silver fusée singing bird box circa 1860. It’s worth more than eighty thousand dollars.”
I smile. “What’re you, chicken?”
She sticks out her hand. We shake on it.
Then I march purposefully behind her as we head out of the room.
Halfway down the hallway, she has to grab my arm so I don’t fall.
“When was the last time you wore heels?” she asks, steadying me.
“College graduation.”
“I’m shocked you didn’t fall flat onto your face on the stage when you went to accept your diploma.”
“Who says I didn’t?”
“God, you’re hopeless.”
“Please be quiet. My inner demons are demanding that I kill you, and I want to hear what they have to say.”
“Okay, but before I’m quiet, I just have to add this one thing.”
“Of course you do.”
“Thank you.”
She sounds so sincere, I have to shoot her a suspicious sideways glance so I can see what her face is doing. Surprisingly, she looks sincere, too.
“What’re you thanking me for?”
“I know you’re only doing this for me.” She looks at my lady-of-the-evening costume. “You could’ve refused and put on more of your hideous gray athletic wear, but you didn’t. So thank you.”
Grr. She’s being nice. I have no defense against my sister when she’s nice.
It’s like if Dracula took a moment before he ripped open your throat with his fangs and sucked out all your blood to say a few polite words about your lovely taste in interior design.
