Page 78 of Roulette Rodeo
"Ruby Slippers"—cute, but I'm not trying to click my heels and go home. Where would I even go?
"Blood Orange"—more orange than red, doesn't feel right.
"Candy Apple"—too sweet, too innocent for someone who's been where I've been.
"Wine Not?"—the pun alone makes me consider it.
"Venetian Sunset"—pretty but pretentious.
"Stop Sign"—bold, decisive, might work.
"Matte About You"—matte finish, sophisticated.
"Glitter Bomb"—because who doesn't want sparkly toes?
"Classic Red"—safe, boring, everything I don't want to be anymore.
I pick up two bottles, holding them to the light filtering through the frosted window. Both red, but different. One's got micro-glitter that catches the light like tiny diamonds. The other's matte, sophisticated, the kind of red that means business.
"My girl, my girl, my girl...talking 'bout my girl..."
Duke apparently takes my singing as an invitation and brings his mangled rabbit over, dropping it next to the tub with a proud wag. It's soggy, missing an ear, and definitely seen better days.
"Good boy," I coo, reaching out with a bubble-covered hand to pet him. "You killed it real good, didn't you? Protected me from the vicious stuffed animal."
He huffs in agreement, then returns to his rug to continue the carnage.
The bath water is still hot, steam rising in lazy spirals that fog the mirror. My body feels like it's melting, muscles I didn't know were tense finally releasing. Three years of constantly being on guard, of never knowing when someone might decide the rules didn't apply to them, of sleeping with one eye open—it's all slowly dissolving in this vanilla-scented water.
I lift one leg out of the bubbles, pointing my toes like a ballerina. The movement makes water cascade down my calf, and I try to imagine what the sparkly red would look like. Flashy, attention-grabbing, the kind of thing that says 'look at me.'
Haven't I been looked at enough?
But then again, this would be different. This would be my choice, my decoration, my decision to sparkle or not to sparkle.
The matte option is classier, understated. The kind of thing a real lady would wear, not a casino attraction. But am I trying to be a lady? After everything I've done, seen, survived?
"Fuck it," I mutter, then immediately feel guilty. "Sorry, Duke. Forgot you're a baby and I shouldn't curse in front of you."
Duke doesn't seem concerned about my language, too busy with his rabbit genocide.
I smell him before I see him—that signature scent of leather and gunpowder, cherries and bourbon that makes my body respond in ways that are definitely not appropriate for bath time. Or maybe exactly appropriate, depending on your perspective.
Shiloh appears in my peripheral vision, moving with that silent grace that probably served him well in whatever military stuff he did. He doesn't announce himself, doesn't knock, just exists suddenly in my space like he belongs there.
I turn my head just slightly, and there he is, looking over my shoulder at the nail polish collection with the kind of confusion usually reserved for advanced calculus.
"It's the same red," he mutters, and I can hear the genuine bewilderment in his voice.
I groan, rolling my eyes hard enough that it might be audible.
Men.
"They are not the same red." I pick up two bottles, holding them up for his inspection. "This one is 'Scarlet Letter'—see how it has blue undertones? Makes it cooler, more sophisticated. And this one is 'Cherry Bomb'—warmer, with orange undertones that make it pop."
He squints at them like they might reveal their secrets if he stares hard enough.
"They're both red."
