It’s funny. Mack was the one who dragged me to a class. Who went on and on about how much she wanted to learn sexy moves. To entice her boyfriend.
She quit when she realized it was more about strength, flexibility, and pain.
It’s literally painful. There’s no getting around it. Holding onto the pole hurts. Period. End of sentence.
And it’s necessary for any static pose, climbing, hanging upside down.
For the first six months, I was covered in bruises. But, somehow, my skin got used to the pressure.
I spend a lot of time at the studio. It’s my main indulgence. Well, besides matcha lattes.
Speaking of—
My mug is empty.
I check my edits one more time. Me on the beach, in a gauzy black dress, fabric and hair blowing in the wind.
It’s not my usual vibe—it’s hard to mix beach and goth princess—but it works.
There. I tweak the color. Make it just a little brighter. Then I crop. Tag. Post.
My gaze shifts to the closet. The dress is still hanging on the edge. It’s beautiful. Well made. Sexy in a classy way.
And expensive.
But I don’t buy my own clothes anymore. I did when I started. When I hit ten thousand followers, designers started sending me free stuff. Rarely at first.
Then all the time.
Now, I have more clothes than I could ever wear. I even make a little money from the ads on my blog. It’s not enough to sustain me. But it’s enough to pay for shoes, haircuts, makeup, eyelash extensions.
I guess I’m an “influencer.”
It’s a horrible term, but it’s not the worst thing in the world. Hell, it’s the only thing I’m really good at. Well, the only thing with even a hint of career potential.
And the world could certainly use more plus-sized fashionistas.
More non-white “influencers.” (Dad is Korean. Mom is white. The two of them are disgustingly in love. And all my friends think he’s hot).
I close my social media. Head downstairs. Fix my second matcha latte.
Mmm, almond milk (I inherited Dad’s lactose intolerance), green tea, honey, vanilla extract.
The perfect mix of sweet and savory.
A rare moment of bliss.
I enjoy for as long as I can. Then my phone buzzes and my bliss vanishes.
Mackenzie: Are you and Forest really together? That’s great news, Skye. I’m so glad he got over his thing for thin women. Some people can’t shake their type, you know?
Bile rises in my throat.
I swear to God, every time we talk she reminds me I’m not thin.
It shouldn’t bother me—I love my body, I do—but it does.
I shouldn’t let her affect me. That’s the only way she wins.
But I—
God, I hate her so much.
I can’t let her do this.
I’m not letting her do this.
I don’t think.
I pick up my cell and I text Forest.
Chapter Seven
Forest
My phone buzzes against my thigh.
A text from Skye.
But I’m not ready to answer it.
I have half a dozen hours to think of a better idea. Of some way to protect her that doesn’t risk everything.
One more appointment—some girl-power lyrics—then I can devote all my brain power to figuring this out.
Right now, I need a clear head. No thoughts of Mack’s smug smile. Or Skye’s hurt frown.
Or Skye’s perfect tits for that matter.
I’m concentrating.
Working on a mock-up.
Something.
I reach for my sketchbook, but the bing-bong of the door interrupts me.
My kid brother, Holden, saunters through the door.
He hugs something to his chest as he shakes his head this is a real tragedy.
From his spot behind the counter, Chase glances at Holden. He shrugs Holden is Holden. Returns to his mock-up.
My brother’s gaze shifts to me. “Fifty bucks says you have a meltdown at the ceremony.” He holds up a square envelope addressed to The Ballard Family. “A hundred says you show up at her room the night before the wedding, begging her to call it off.”
“Nice to see you too.” I roll my eyes, but I don’t sell the apathy. The key to dealing with Holden is convincing him you don’t care. He’s like a toddler. He always wants more attention. Whether I’m trying to get him to back down for my sake or his, I always do it with a shrug.
My brother chuckles okay, sure. He looks to Chase. “You want in on this action?” He drops the envelope on the counter. Pulls out his wallet. Then two hundred-dollar bills. “I’ll give three to one odds. Forest makes a fool of himself before that bitch walks down the aisle.” He turns to me. “She invited all of us.”
“And?” I shrug like I don’t care.
He chuckles as he copies my shrug. He leans against the counter, the picture of cool. “Yeah. Sell that story.” He turns back to Chase can you believe this?
Chase’s gaze flits from him to me. Then back to him. “You think I’m on your side here?”
“Shit, forgot who I was talking to.” Holden shakes his head. “You made it. You moved on. You were even more miserable than Forest.”