“What am I going to wear?” Charity called as Sam ducked away again. “Earlier tonight you called me a hobo tramp.”
Metallic black material flew into the room. It shimmered and sparkled before landing on Charity’s desk, washing across the surface, and then slinking down to the floor. Samantha popped her head back in, shooting Charity a pointed stare. “Don’t you dare spill anything on it.”
“Why do all of your going out clothes resemble something a cross-dressing rock star would wear?” Charity mumbled, picking up the dress. “Besides, I can’t wear your clothes. What if I do spill something? I can’t…”
She cut the sentence short, not wanting to admit that she could barely afford her hoodies, let alone an extravagant, fashionable dress. Some things were too awkward to voice, especially around people who didn’t understand the value of money, or how lucky they were to have it.
“Hurry up,” Sam called. “We need to be fashionably late, not late-late.”
Knowing a losing battle when she saw one, Charity lugged herself out of her chair and faced the smudged closet mirror. The shimmery fabric twinkled, light reflecting off the disco-ball material. She put the dress to her body, the fabric cascading over her baggy clothes, and took in her appearance.
A little color in her pale face would make her look like less of a vampire. A wider set to her flat brown eyes would definitely give her more wow factor. Maybe a curl to her mop of brown hair, or a highlight or two. Did they have time for a nose job?
She smirked at herself, moving away. Plain but perky. It could certainly be worse.
A shoe torpedoed into the room, smacking off the edge of the bed. Another shot in as the first was bouncing around the floor.
“Hurry up!” Sam shouted.
Charity fingered the dress and sighed. “How bad can this party be?”Chapter Three“Oh my God, he’s here?” Sam stomped on the brake, making the seatbelt dig into Charity’s pronounced cleavage.
“I already regret this dress,” Charity mumbled, pushing back in her seat.
“That is who I think it is, right?” Sam sounded giddy as she leaned heavily over the steering wheel to see through the darkness.
The one-lane dirt road surrounded by thick redwoods flared out for several feet before a private road branched off to the left. Two cars were parked before the turn-off—a Range Rover and another SUV. Dim light spilled out from the open car doors, illuminating a few people standing around the vehicles. Other lights peeked through the branches of trees beyond. The house clearly sat at some distance.
“Is that the driveway? Because there’s no more room to park down here. Jeez, why would someone live this far out?” Charity looked through the rear window of the Porsche. They’d traveled a half-hour to Scott’s Valley, a place generally known for wealth, only for GPS to guide them off the two-lane road onto this deathtrap. “I mean, if someone is coming in, and someone else is going out, one of them has to back down this skinny freaking driveway to let the other pass. That’s crazy. Fire season must make these people awfully nervous.”
“Shh,” Sam said, her gaze rooted to a guy with his foot on the bumper of the expensive SUV. A few people stood around him, all of them looking up at the ladies’ approach.
“That guy has no respect for fancy cars,” Charity whispered, trying to pick out their various appearances in the moonlight. “I like that.”
“That is him. That’s Devon!” The lights from the dash highlighted Sam’s smile as she inched along, the Porsche moving impossibly slow. “When I showed him the invite earlier, he didn’t say anything. It makes sense that he’d be invited given…who he is, but he never goes to parties. I mean, obviously he couldn’t say no to this, right? I wonder why he didn’t say anything, though? He is so incredibly hot. Mm, I love bad boys.”
Charity leaned forward to try to get a better look at the guy who had so completely captured her roommate’s attention. He projected lazy boredom in a stylized sort of way, as if he’d rolled out of bed, taken a shower, primped, and then used gel and hairspray to emulate the look of someone who’d rolled out of bed. But it was clear from the ripped jeans, raven stubble, and tight white shirt that he was definitely going for a badass vibe. James Dean of the modern age.
If he’d wandered through Charity’s neighborhood growing up, he’d have gotten his wallet and his shoes stolen.
“I take back what I said earlier,” she said, her mouth twisting in distaste. “I don’t like anything this guy is selling.”
Samantha leaned back in her seat, and her boobs popped, cut through with the seatbelt. She didn’t seem to notice.
“He’s a junior, I think.” She eye-goosed him. “Or maybe a sophomore. He is the available bachelor. Well, you know, if you like the dangerous type…”