Page 37 of All Saints: Pledge

“Tonight. This event. Tell me what you would have done.”

“I...” I scan the room, searching for a camera as if I’m being Punk’d. “Show up and serve things? Just like always?” I mime serving drinks, then motion to my outfit.

He rolls his eyes at my antics. “Yes, exactly, Helena. You dressed like a hostess to serve drinks, but this is an interview.”

“A test?” My spine straightens.

He waffles his head. “Yes and no.”

“Cut. The. Absolute. Bullshit.”

He looks me dead in the eye. “It’s not a full test, but it’s important to do well. Fail tonight, and it’s like failing a test. It's an interview. To make it to the next test, trust me that a little coaching is essential.”

“It's a...secret interview, disguised as a party?”

“It's a way for our benefactors to meet our applicants.”

Benefactors. That sounds slightly ominous. “So, what is wrong with my outfit? The app says I'll be serving drinks.”

“You will be. You’ll just be serving them in this.” He motions to the ball of sequins I hold in my hand.

I release my stranglehold on the wad, unfurling it into a tight black cocktail dress.

“No.” The dress looks like it will barely clear my butt.

“Try it on.”

“I don't want to look like a cheap whore. If that's what it takes to win your bet, you can think again.”

“You could never—” he says as he steps closer, “—look cheap.”

I crane my head up to look at him. That strange magnetism sparks between us, made of hate and secrets and an anger I don't fully understand. “You don’t get to choose,” I whisper. I don’t want to give him the power.

“Fine.” His fingers reach out, and I think for a moment he's going to tuck the hair behind my ear in some bizarrely satisfying display of tenderness. Instead, his hand hovers before dropping to my chest.

I suck in a breath as his fingers play with the top button of my shirt. Then, with a quick flash of violence, he rips the button right off. Before I can stop him, the next two buttons suffer the same fate.

“What the fuck?” I sputter, hands coming up to cover myself.

His eyes are locked on where my boobs spill out of the front of the shirt. His jaw clenches. “And now,” he growls, taking a step back, “your options are to go like this—” he waves to my gaping shirt, “—or wear the dress I brought you.”

“You're an asshole.”

“I'm aware.”

“Yeah, wonder where you got it. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? Did your daddy teach you to beat up innocent Mathematics majors as well?”

“He had it coming,” He growls, not even bothering to lie about Dominic. I swear Kendall might explode. Blotches appear high on his cheeks, and he rakes his hands through his already-mussed hair. I’m shocked when his eyes fall away from mine. Is that…shame? “We don’t have much time for you to choose,” he says finally, addressing the wall just slightly over my left shoulder.

I regard the bandage dress like a venomous snake. The dress has nothing resembling shapewear or support. It's literally a silky sleeve of sequins. “I'm not wearing a bra.”

He swallows and nods meaningfully. “I'm aware.”

We’re locked in a brief stare-down. The earlier shame is gone. He meets my gaze, immovable. I throw my hands up, which is a dangerous thing to do if one's boobs are a hair-trigger away from popping free of one's destroyed shirt. “Okay, fine, you win. Whatever.”

I turn my back to Kendall, angrily unbuttoning the rest of my shirt. Wishing I’d brought some Crisco down here with me, I wedge myself bodily into the bandage dress. Holy hell, the sequins hurt. I hiss as the dress scratches its way down over my chest. It's so tight I'm not sure I can get it over my pants. I’m very aware that Kendall is no gentleman, and hasn’t turned his back to me. And I can’t bring myself to be vulnerable and disrobe in front of him on purpose.

“You could have found me upstairs and I could have changed in my room,” I growl, locked in a death match between my pants and the skirt. No one is winning.

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