Page 73 of Brazen Mistakes

I’m reminded of Jasmine with her sleek creams and rusty reds, of how the way her clothes fit told me before she even opened her mouth that she’d come from money.

If that’s what Trips is hoping to get from me, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull it off. But looking at the burgundy gown, I’m starting to understand what Summer said about clothes being armor. In something like this, I might be able to fake it. Maybe.

She helps me into the red swath of gauze, and I’m perplexed when the thing has built-in underwear, like a swimsuit and a nightgown had a baby.

The bodice is a halter top, with swirls of loose fake roses gathered at the center of the defined waistband and over one shoulder. Summer ties a bow behind my neck before spinning me back to face the mirror.

We both stare at my reflection.

The dress is entirely see-through, the built-in underwear the only point where modesty remains. The skirt pools on the floor, and I pop up onto my toes and take a few steps, watching as the fabric ripples around me like water, or a cloud.

Or like wine poured over textured glass.

“Shit,” I whisper.

“Fucking fierce. This is your dress,” Summer says, taking me in from head to toe.

“My nipples are just out there.”

“So?”

I swallow, not sure how to answer. Because I look fierce. I look like the kind of woman who wears a dress that shows her nipples and doesn’t freak out about it.

This dress speaks power. It’s violence and grace, femininity on a warpath, strength that bends and flows as I move.

“I can’t meet Trips’ scary dad with my nipples out,” I breathe out, disappointment crushing as I acknowledge the truth in that statement.

Summer’s faint smile disappears. “Give it a spin,” she says.

I do, and it flares out from my legs before drifting back against my skin. “I love it. But it’s not what we need,” I say, turning away from the vision in the mirror, pulling the string behind my neck, stepping out of the dress, and handing it to Summer.

She takes it from the changing room, but I don’t turn back to the mirror. I want to keep the vision of that woman locked in my mind for as long as I can. Because she’s everything I’ve always wished for myself. And she’s everything that I’m missing as this scraped out shell I currently am.

The urge to throw a punch surges through me, anger at my weakness flooding my body, making me shake.

Summer ducks back into the room, and I swallow all the emotions down, forcing a smile on my face as I turn to her.

“Okay, I spoke with Trips, and you’re right. That dress, while undeniablyyourdress, isn’t what you need to meet his family. I think I found something else, though, that won’t have the whole room staring at you like you’re a vampire queen about to declare war and instead will let you look like a boring, rich college girl. Which, I’m going to say, is a total waste of your badass bitch energy, but who am I to judge needing to adapt to fit in?”

She drops a dark, plummy-pink dress over my head, the material cool and silky against my skin, reminding me of the slip RJ got me.

“How did you end up mixed up with the guys?” I ask, as she pulls strings over my shoulders, crossing them behind me and tying them closed at my waist. Then she fiddles with something at the small of my back.

“I’ve known Jansen since he was a snot-nosed, busy-body tagalong. When I found out he had something to do with these mysterious high stakes poker games that started up a few years ago, I reached out and got myself an invitation. That’s really all there is to the story.”

I process exactly what she said and what she didn’t. “If you knew Jansen as a kid, how did you end up running in the same circles as Trips?”

“Life is funny sometimes. Okay, spin.”

I turn to the mirror, taking in this more docile attempt. The silk dips in a low cowl neck across my chest, but the depth is not nearly as scandalous as the burgundy dress. The purple-pink silk slides down my body, giving me curves where I usually have none, pooling at my feet with a whisper. I step onto the podium in front of the mirror and twist to look at the back, finding tiny buttons from the small of my waist to my tailbone, strings crossing my back in an X, simple bows keeping them in place.

“You could have the ties go straight down, if you’d prefer. But I thought the cross back suited you better.”

The color still looks good on me, the dress hangs beautifully and feels nice against my skin, and if I hadn’t tried thesee-through blood-wine dress first, I’d think this dress was perfect.

Maybe because it’s perfect for the girl I was a few months ago. Pretty, inoffensive, sweet, and eager to please.

The open back and deep neckline are the only hints of the person I’m changing into. That and the fact that I’m even wearing a silk evening dress at all. One that doesn’t have a price tag. Although, the Saint Laurent tag clues me in to exactly how absurdly expensive this dress must be. The Dolce and Gabbana tag in the other dress isn’t any better.

---