"Uh uh," Daya snipes, shaking her head at me. "Get ready. We're having a girls night."
I slump, the whiteboard and sticky notes going poof. But I don't argue. I'm an indie author, so I publish when I'm ready to. I hardly set deadlines for myself because the pressure suppresses my creativity. I can’t write when I’m too ridden with anxiety to get the book done by a specific time. And as great as my readers are, there’s always that pressure to get the next book out.
Of course, Daya knows this and now wields this knowledge as a weapon.
Dick.
Groaning, I let her hurdle me up the stairs and into my bedroom, my eyes immediately finding the mirror and chest—they always seem to do that now after finding out what really happened in here.
Those two pieces feel like beacons in the room now, glaring at me as if to say I know who killed her.
It doesn’t matter that I slapped some black paint on them. The bones are still the same.
The walls and floor are smooth black rock now, with white ceilings and large white rugs to lighten up the room. I also installed a heating system in the floors. Otherwise, getting up in the middle of the night to pee and stepping on ice-cold floors would just be cruel and unusual punishment.
I decided I love the sconces in the hallway so much that I wanted a few in my room, too. Placed artfully on the wall my bed is against, surrounding a massive, beautiful art piece of a woman.
Straight ahead of the bedroom door is my favorite part—the balcony. Black double doors open up to a terrace that overlooks the cliffside. It has a way of making you feel small and insignificant when you’re standing before a sight as beautiful as that.
The entire house has now been modernized, though I kept most of the original style. The sconces, checkered floors, black stone fireplace, and black cabinets, just to name a few. Most importantly, I kept Gigi’s red velvet rocking chair.
I'm living in a Victorian gothic dreamhouse.
"We're going to make you look hot and find you a delicious man to take home tonight. And if the stalker comes around, he can kill him, too."
I roll my eyes. "Daya, it's hard to find a man these days that can even fuck right. You think I'm going to find a man that will kill in my honor, too? That's cute."
"You never know, baby girl. Crazier things have happened."
The bass pumping through the speakers vibrates throughout my body. My black, ripped skinny jeans cling to my curves, and the plunging low cut red tank shows off my ample cleavage along with the small glistening beads of sweat between my breasts.
It’s fucking hotter than Hades’s ballsack, and the alcohol pumping through my veins doesn’t help matters.
For a solid hour, Daya and I stick close to each other and dance. We both briefly separate to dance with a few men, but I tend to tire of the groping hands quickly and always find my way back to my best friend.
Suddenly, a heavy presence crowds into my back, his hands sliding around my waist and pressing in close. A whiff of spearmint and whiskey invades my senses right before I feel his breath on my ear.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his spearmint gum stinging my nose now that he’s closer. I wrinkle my nose and turn my head to see a tall, attractive man leaning over me.
He has strawberry blonde hair, pretty blue eyes, and a killer smile.
Just my type.
I grin. “Why, thank you,” I respond sweetly. Social situations nearly send me into hibernation, but I’ve always been skilled at flirting. Too bad most times, I can’t stand to do it.
Men have a unique way of killing my mood every time I come within ten feet of them.
“Come upstairs with me,” he yells over the music. His voice isn’t aggressive by any means, but it’s not a question either. It’s a demand that leaves little room for argument.
I like that.
I cock a brow. “And if I don’t?” I ask.
His smile widens. “You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
The other brow joins its twin, hiking halfway up my forehead.
“Really,” I say demurely. “What kind of plans do you have for me that I’d regret missing out on for the rest of my life?”
“The kind that leaves you naked and sated in my bed.”
“Bitch, let’s go already,” Daya cuts in. My head turns to her, but I feel the man’s eyes linger on my face, caressing my cheek like a feather tracing across skin.
Daya is standing in front of us, impatiently waving her hand towards the stairs that lead to the second floor. She must've been eavesdropping, and she doesn't look the least bit ashamed.