Page 34 of Gilded Fake

“That’s right,” Dixie hisses through a clenched smile. “Don’t you forget it, whore.”

Gloria cracks an ironic smile. “Such class.”

“Like you’d know anything about that,” Dixie snaps. “Shouldn’t you be in the hotel lobby trying to pick up a John with all the other hookers?”

“Not my style,” Gloria says with a shrug.

“Yeah, your style is more homewrecker,” Dixie says. “You should change your lock screen. You’re not Jackie Kennedy. You’re Monica Lewinsky.”

“I think it’s a Jackie or a Marilyn,” Gloria says. “Though I kind of like the idea of being a Monica. She rocks.” She gives Dixie a wink, ignoring my girlfriend’s furious, red face, and turns to blow kisses to the crowd of her former admirers-turned-bullies.

Her pink lips pucker in a way that leaves me wrestling a spontaneous erection again. She waves to a chorus of cheers and boos, then makes a flirty, mocking bow toward the crowd, a position that exposes the back of her thighs right up to the place where they meet, stopping just short of showing whatever panties she’s wearing under that tease of a dress. I know I won’t stop thinking about that all night, wondering what’s hidden under there, picturing my hands sliding them down her thighs and my cock plowing into her juicy little cunt from behind.

Gloria struts off stage in her baby pink heels to the echoing sound of boos, stopping just long enough to kiss her middle finger and hold it up toward the crowd.

Harper cups her hands around her mouth and whoops from her position near the front. “Bitches can suck it,” she yells, dragging Gloria into her arms in a gesture that can only mean she’s been drinking. Harper’s not the touchy-feely type without some alcohol in her system. She’s gone full bombshell in a tight, cherry red dress with a slit that shows her thigh tats, bright red lips, and a pair of red-bottom heels, no doubt funded by Royal Dolce, who pulls her into a possessive embrace when she’s gone hugging Lo.

“I’m so proud of you,” Precious says, bringing my attention back to the stage when she stands on tiptoes to kiss each of my cheeks. “You look so handsome tonight. And even more so with this crown on your head. You’re right where you belong.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, since that’s what I call her somewhat playfully, seeing as she should have been my mom. She was married to my dad when I was conceived, anyway. It strikes me then that my mother should be the one crowning me, and that’s another thing that’s just a part of the nostalgia of the past. Devlin’s parents are back in Faulkner now that he’s home, but my mom will never be back—at least not all of her.

“We did it,” Dixie crows, sliding her arm through mine.

“How does it feel to be king?” Duke asks, slapping my back.

“Good,” I lie, before turning to my girlfriend. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait,” Dixie says as the other couples start to leave the stage. She stands there in the lights, beautiful and sparkling, looking out over the crowd with a smile of triumph and a face that glows. In that moment, I’m happy for her. I step back and let her bask. Prom is a popularity contest, and she’s finally the most popular girl in school, with the badge of honor to prove it. She’s earned this. She deserves it.

I remember a fight in the car before we got here, and swallowing more pills along with the guilt of what I did with Gloria Walton. What I’ve been doing since that night, even though it hasn’t gone that far again. We’ve kept it confined to the Envy room, where she tempts and teases me to the point of madness and then throws the stack of hundreds back in my face before walking away every time. No matter how much money I try to give her, she won’t take it, and she won’t leave that place.

If her teasing doesn’t drive me out of my mind soon, knowing she does the same to other men will.

Dixie’s been raging at me ever since, as if she knows. But she won’t break up with me, and each time I try, she refuses to accept it. Maybe now that she’s gotten what she always wanted—to win prom, wear the crown, be the official queen of Willow Heights—I’ve outlived my usefulness and she’ll let me go. She keeps saying that we can’t break up before prom, that I have to let her have this, that I owe her this much.

And I do, even if I can never give her what she truly deserves.

So, I stand back and let her soak up the spotlight. Before he leaves the stage, Duke swoops in and picks up my girlfriend, spinning her around. She shrieks and kicks her black boots, hanging onto his neck and giggling. “Give it up for your queen,” he yells, pumping a fist in the air.

The crowd cheers, and Duke buries his face in her cleavage and makes a motorboating sound. Dixie howls a protest, going bright red again, and he sets her down, hooting with laughter. Then he runs in a circle around her, crouched down to fluff the edge of her puffy black dress as she swats at him, trying to keep her skirt down so he doesn’t expose her thighs. When he’s done clowning for the crowd, giving them something to cheer and laugh about, he claps and then bows, leading them in another round of ovation that’s for him as much as Dixie.

I wait for Dixie to show her fury that he took the attention off her and hogged the spotlight, but she’s looking at him like she’d jump on his dick if given half a chance. I shake my head and frown at him, but he just gives me a wide grin, challenging me to do something about it. Then he struts off stage and is immediately swarmed by a dozen Dolce girls hoping he’ll grant them their greatest wish and let them warm his bed for the night. Prom night is meaningful in our circles, so whoever ends up on his dick will elevate her own position at school. Even if he’s not prom king, he’s still a respected member of the elite, and factoring in his charisma and tragic family history, his status is hardly suffering this semester.

Dixie retreats from the spotlight at last, looking a bit awkward at having stood up there so long. “Are you mad?” she whispers as we descend the stairs.

“Why would I be mad?”

“Because Duke touched my boobs,” she hisses.

“Duke’s touched everybody’s tits,” I point out.

“Oh,” she says, looking disappointed that I’m not going to go all caveman on her like Royal Dolce would. “You’re not jealous?”

I shrug. “No.”

“Dixie,” squeals Susanna, running over with her cousin and a couple other girls she sat with in her pre-queen days. “Congratulations! I knew you were going to win. Remember, I said that on the first day of school. We all voted for you. We’ve always got your back, even if we don’t hang out anymore.”

“Oh, thanks,” Dixie says, giving her former friends an apologetic smile as the Walton twins pull her away to fawn over her.

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