Page 1 of Babies for the Big Shot
CHAPTER ONE
Sara
“This is aterribleidea,”I say for the third time, stepping over a rogue bra and a pair of sequined heels.
Laura doesn’t even look up. She’s too busy trying to wrestle her boobs into a slinky black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline and enough shimmer to guide ships to shore. “You said that last time and we onlybarelygot kicked out.”
“Exactly. You promised a chill night,” I deadpan, “and we ended up on a party boat with a mariachi band and a guy named Taser Jeff.”
“Taser Jeff was a vibe.”
“He tried to sell us moon water and then bit his own wallet.”
Laura shrugs. “New York, baby.”
I sigh and twist my hair into something resembling a sleek low bun, the kind that says I tried, but not too hard. Then I smooth down the dress Laura provided for me, a navy wrap number that hugs in the right places if I don’t breathe too hard.
“Where are we even going?”
“That fancy Midtown ballroom attached to the Armand Hotel. My boss had tickets to some fundraising gala thing upstairs. Bougie charity auction, free booze, bad jazz. She bailedlast minute. Said the crowd was too ‘horny and ambitious.’” Laura smirks. “So naturally, I thought of us.”
“So it’s afancyshindig,” I clarify flatly. “Have you seen the apartment I’m moving into next month? It’s not fancy, and if I don’t get a job soon there’s no way I’ll be able to afford even that!”
She tosses me a sparkly clutch and a pair of earrings that look like disco balls in miniature. “It’s free food. Free drinks. And you’ve spent the last week in a spiral of unemployment, ramen, and that cursed hoodie that reeks of defeat.”
“Ilikethat hoodie.”
“You cried into it while Googling ‘can you list Etsy store reviewer as a reference?’”
“Okay,” I mumble. “That was one time.”
Meatball, my French bulldog and grumpy emotional support beast, waddles into the room with something pink in his mouth. I squint.
“Did he just eat my Spanx?”
Laura squawks and runs over. “Meatball,no! That’s compression technology!”
He growls, then flops dramatically onto the floor, a picture of cosmic injustice.
I narrow my eyes. “He’s pretending to be dead again.”
“He knows we’re going out without him,” Laura says, solemn. “It’s protest theater.”
Meatball rolls onto his back, tongue out, tail twitching.
“Fine,” I say, stepping over his furry tantrum. “I’ll go. Butone drink. We sneak in, look fabulous, and ghost out before anyone asks us to donate money or dance.”
“Deal.” Laura grins, slipping her heels on. “Let’s show Midtown what two underpaid women in unchewed Spanx can do.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m in a bar clearly designed by someone who’s never experienced the soul-crushing despair of an overdraft fee.
The ballroom is peak old-money opulence. Gilded crown molding, massive chandeliers that probably crushed a debutante or two in their day, and servers weaving through a sea of tuxedos and backless gowns with trays of champagne. It smells like roses and money and the kind of cologne that costs more than my rent.
I clutch my borrowed clutch tighter and try not to trip over my own feet in these criminally high heels. Laura’s already halfway to the bar, beelining like a heat-seeking missile in search of vodka. Damn, I love her.
“This place isso us,” Laura yells, as she reaches for something in a martini glass that might contain actual gold flakes.
“I don’t think they serve ramen here,” I murmur.
