The door whined, straining against its own rust as it was yanked open. An old, wrinkly man with white hair wearing a heavy-duty vinyl butcher apron nodded hello, leading us to his backyard silently. He smelled of raw meat and sweat, not exactly like Macy’s. We followed him as he stomped toward a shed. I was about to ask my friends if this was a spontaneous escape room when he unlocked it, opened the door, and motioned us inside without coming in.
“Everything is seventy percent off retail. No receipts. No returns,” he said sternly, turned around, and tramped away.
I stared at my two friends, bewildered.
Belle shrugged, tearing her sunhat off her head and boomeranging it to her sister. “Retail is just another word for devil, and the devil wears Prada. Coincidentally, I cannot afford Prada. But I can afford this.”
“How does he get his hands on these clothes?” My eyes flared, not that I had the right to be preachy. My father ran a less-than-clean shop, and Sam followed his footsteps. The difference was, I had nothing to do with their affairs.
“He’s got guys who raid vessels before they reach the port. Super Wild West. They know where to look, what to…extract.” Emmabelle snickered, flipping the light switch on with a familiarity that suggested she was a regular visitor, and sauntered deeper into the room. The place was full of racks. Rows and rows of wedding dresses, ballroom gowns, and upmarket frocks I’d only seen Hollywood starlets wearing. I opened my mouth, about to tell them this wasn’t a good idea, when Persy pressed a finger to my lips, shutting me up.
“Look, I’m not a huge fan of this, either. But you hate shopping malls and busy streets and…you know, people. This is our best shot.”
“This is wrong,” I whispered.
I always turned a blind eye to what my dad and Sam did. It helped me love them wholly. But that didn’t mean I agreed with how they chose to make money.
“C’mon, Sailor.” Emmabelle chuckled, her upper body already obscured by lush fabrics as she sifted through the dresses. “The only people who get screwed over are top designers who charge two grand for a dress that costs fifty bucks to make. The US economy will not collapse if you buy one evening dress.”
I nodded, taking a deep breath.
“Okay, just choose whatever you think won’t make me look like a fancy dessert.”
Persy clapped her hands, making her way past her sister to the XXS rack and browsing through it. I gnawed at the dead skin around my thumbnail as they plucked garment after garment they wanted me to try on, hanging them on their forearms.
My phone pinged in my back pocket. I took it out and read the text message.
HHH: Don’t forget about Saturday’s fundraiser.
Sailor: Who is this?
HHH: How many people are you planning on going to a fundraiser with?
Sailor: Hunter? You added yourself to my contacts?
HHH: The fact that I’m there is pretty self-explanatory.
Sailor: How dare you touch my things!
HHH: Easy, killer. I didn’t touch your phone.
Sailor: Then how did you get here?
HHH: I asked a hacker friend to add me into your contacts.
Sailor: WHAT?
HHH: You’re more easily scandalized than a 16th century British duchess. Calm your tits, Carrot Top. I didn’t look through your shit.
HHH: (not that I would find anything interesting there)
Sailor: Do you realize how illegal that is?
HHH: Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t remember your daddy being one of the nine justices of the Supreme Court.
HHH: Older bro doesn’t seem to be working toward a law degree, either.
Sailor: I’m going to kill you.
HHH: Stand in line, sweetheart. You’re not even one of the first twenty people waiting.
HHH: And you still haven’t answered me about Saturday. Btw, you can’t wear yoga pants and a hoodie there. Especially on my arm.
Sailor: Let’s take a little detour—what does HHH stand for?
HHH: Hot, Handsome Hunter, naturally.
Sailor: I’m speechless right now.
HHH: A picture is said to be worth a thousand words. Send nudes.
Sailor: I don’t think I’ll be able to stand you for consecutive hours.
Persy and Belle burst out laughing from the corner of the room, drawing my attention. I looked up from my phone, having a light bulb moment. This could alleviate some of the fundraiser problem. I started typing before Hunter had the chance to send me another snide comment, the three dots next to his name already dancing.
Sailor: I want to invite two of my friends to the charity event, but you’ll have to foot the bill.
HHH: I smell a negotiation.
Sailor: I’m not letting you drink or hook up with someone in our apartment.
HHH: You’re not exactly selling this arrangement to me, CT.
CT? Carrot Top. Goddammit.
Sailor: What do you want?
HHH: What are you offering? ; )
I thought about it. Belle and Persy were talking about how they’d do my hair and makeup in the background. Yes. Having them there would take the pressure off, and I’d have someone to hold me back when I was ready to pounce on Hunter and kill him. Plus, they loved fancy events. They’d have so much fun.