Page 50 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
I’m so relieved I want to sigh out loud, but I pretend nonchalance instead. “Just point me in the right direction.”
The salesgirl ushers me into the dressing room and helps me into the gown. When I turn and look at myself in the mirror, I’m pleasantly surprised. The color and style are very flattering on me.
“You won’t need any adjustment to the length,” the salesgirl purrs, fussing over me. She’s pleased by my height. She’s also obviously pleased by the fit around my waist and chest, because she says, “It’s not often we have girls who can fit into the sample sizes. Usually if they’re as tall and slender as you are, they have those hideous bolt-ons to go with.”
Grimacing, she spreads her hands in front of her chest like she’s holding a pair of watermelons. This is one area where the salesgirl and I agree. I think fake boobs are false advertising. Or maybe I’m just jealous. Unless you’re a runway model,
B-cups aren’t exactly all the rage.
They did come in handy for volleyball, though. I played on a team all through high school and college, and never once did I have a nip slip.
“Let’s go show your girlfriends, dear.”
The salesgirl—whose nametag reads “AINE,” a word I have no idea how to pronounce, so I don’t even try—leads me into the main dressing area by the wrist. She announces, “Here we are!” and golf claps like I’ve just won Best in Show.
I curtsy, because it seems like the thing to do.
Kat squeals in delight. “Oh my God, it’s perfect! You look fucking amazing!”
Grace, sounding impressed and also a little disgruntled, says, “If anyone has the genes to wear couture, it’s definitely you, sweetheart.”
Kenji says, “Bitch.”
Kat sends Kenji a sour look. “Oh, stop, Gookemon. Don’t be a hater.”
“You stop, Rucky Charms! How am I supposed to be my fabulous self with all this—” he waves to Grace and me—“going on? I can’t be outdone! I’m a stylist! I have to look the best of the three! If I can pull it off, I’m going to look better than you, too!”
Kat deadpans, “You’ll never look better than me. I’m magicrry derricious.”
Kenji replies, “Whatever you say, Bruce McLee.”
I turn to the salesgirl, who is watching this little exchange in total confusion. “It’s their BFF thing. Don’t worry about it.”
She tries on a tentative smile, and flits away to refill Grace’s champagne glass.
Kat’s half Irish, half Japanese, and Kenji is half Japanese, half Thai. They’re always lovingly calling each other random ethnic slurs, trying to one-up each other with originality.
Kenji struts to the middle of the room. The dress drags behind him like the train of a wedding gown. At four foot nine, he’s going to need a lot of help from the seamstress if he’s really going to wear that thing, as he’s repeatedly insisted he will. Even his signature zebra-print platform boots aren’t much help.
He announces, “In light of current events, Kenji must reevaluate his wardrobe selection.” He lifts the dress over his head, and flings it dramatically to the floor.
Aside from the platform boots, he’s wearing nothing but a pair of Spider-Man briefs. His body is nut brown, slender as a young boy’s, and entirely hairless. I wonder if he shaves it, like he does his head.
Hands on hips, he executes a perfect catwalk turn, then sashays off to the dressing room, where he slams the door.
Kat yells after him, “You left an eyelash out here, Chinker Bell!”
She’s right. One of his big fake eyelashes is stuck to the neckline of the dress. Kat, Grace, and I look at each other, and laugh.
The salesgirl is in the corner, chugging champagne.
“You girls sound like you’re havin’ fun. We interruptin’?”
The amused voice comes from the doorway. We turn to find Nico leaning against a mirrored armoire near the entry, arms crossed over his chest, grinning.
“Baby!” Kat leaps from the dais and flies into his open arms. I should have known he’d be here; he can’t let her out of his sight for more than thirty minutes at a time.
Then I freeze. We. He said “we.”
