Page 43 of Bombshells
I obey, if only to prevent getting stabbed with the applicator. Charli goes to work on me in short, confident strokes of the brush. Then I feel an eyeliner pencil and a mascara wand in action.
“Open,” she orders.
I’m treated to a close-up view of Charli’s serious green eyes as she does something to my bottom lashes.
“There,” she grunts. “If you don’t get laid tonight, then it’s a truly hopeless situation.”
“Harsh,” Fiona says. “Let’s see—” She blinks. “Whoa. Hot damn.”
“Should I be afraid to look?” I ask.
“No,” Fiona insists. “You look incredible. Charli! How are you a wiz at makeup? I’ve never even seen you in lip gloss!”
“I don’t like to attract male attention.” She shrugs. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how.”
Rising from the sofa, I walk over to the mirrors. I’m greeted by someone far more sophisticated than the girl I was a half hour ago. My eyes look bigger and bolder. She dramatized me without piling on the makeup.
“Whoa!” I call out. “You could do this professionally.”
“Thank you. Now I’ll do Fiona, if she wants.”
“Only if you also do yourself,” Fiona says. “Let’s knock ’em all dead.”
* * *
The event is held at the Green Building, a renovated brick warehouse deep into Brooklyn. We hand over our coats in the little lobby before entering a big, brick-walled room with rustic wooden doors and iron beams on the ceiling. There are vintage chandeliers, and tiny lights clinging to birch branches “planted” along the walls. Thousands of colorful autumn leaves twist overhead on invisible threads. It’s like stepping into a fairy woodland.
“Wow, is this funky or what?” Charli gasps. “It must cost a mint to throw a party like this. I don’t understand rich people.”
“Hush,” Fiona whispers, because Nate and Rebecca Kattenberger are just inside, receiving guests. Rebecca is wearing a dark red velvet gown in a vintage mermaid shape. She looks like a 1920s movie star.
“Well, hot damn!” she crows. “Look at you three. Thank you for coming out on your night off.”
“We wouldn’t have wanted to miss this spectacle,” Fiona says.
“Grab a drink. There’s food, too. I highly recommend the pork meatballs. There’s a silent auction, and the band starts playing dance tunes in a half hour.”
“Right after I make a boring speech,” Nate puts in.
Rebecca makes a face. “You’re really selling yourself, baby.”
“It won’t be boring on purpose,” he says. “It’s just the nature of speeches. I’ll keep it short.”
I think I like Nate Kattenberger.
“All you have to talk about is my winning streak,” Rebecca says sweetly. The Bruisers are in the midst of an unprecedented early-season winning streak. They’ve had four shutout victories in a row, and all the pundits are wondering how long it can last. “Just stick to the facts.”
“Yes, dear,” he says, waving us into the party. “Have fun, Bombshells.”
I quickly spot Bryce and his pals near the bar.
What is it about a man in a tux? I swear, every guy is doubly handsome when he puts on that pleated shirt. I love the way the crisp white color stands out against Bryce’s rugged jaw, and the bowtie looks so dapper.
I once believed that he would wear a tux for me on our wedding day, and that I would pull a bow tie off him on our wedding night. My rusty heart gives a little lurch. I’ve reached the point where I can no longer tell if that reaction is love, or just stubbornness.
He’s right in my path, so this is for all the marbles. I can’t rock another dress any harder than I’m rocking this one, and it had better do the trick. I need to give Bryce a little electric zap—to wake him up and see me.
Bryce finishes shaking hands with a man I don’t know. A donor, probably. The man moves off, crossing in front of the hockey players, and Bryce doesn’t see me coming until the path is clear again.
