Page 21 of Vicarious

“Don’t let her out your sight,” Viper instructs. “No telling who Pray has on the lookout for her even not knowing she’s escaped that facility yet. And you know how easily Phae gets into trouble when she’s curious about something.”

“I was already going to do that,” I assure.

He just doesn’t need to know I’m going to do that while she’s in the city with me.

I would kiss him goodbye if Phae weren’t standing just behind us. But I can’t totally resist, and end up pressing a kiss to his cheek. He obviously hasn’t had time to shave. Because I can feel the stubble of hair growing in on my lips. I can’t say I hate it, though, I also can’t imagine Viper with facial hair.

“See you when you get back,” Phae says softly, and then does the same and kisses Viper on the cheek.

I pretend not to be annoyed by that and instead read a text from Cres asking if she can come now.

He’s pulling off, I text back.Give it thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes later, after I’m sure Viper has made it to his jet and is in the air, Cres pulls up the estate. She doesn’t have to be discreet. She’s Viper’s public girlfriend, after all. Her personal hair and makeup stylist is with her.

When I see her, I say to Cres while making sure the stylist can hear, “She understands what happens if she breaks the silence we’ve generously paid her for, right?”

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” Phae says.

Both Cres and I ignore her as Cres says, “We can trust her. I trust her with my life.”

I don’t have to say that Cres’s life is on the line if her stylist can’t be trusted. She knows that. Otherwise she wouldn’t have brought up her own life. But Cres and her people have kept their mouths closed all these years. There’s no reason not to trust her. But in this business, no one can be trusted completely and everyone needs a periodic reminder of the consequences of betrayal or carelessness.

“Now,” Cres says, looking at Phae. “Time for a makeover.”

10

Dele

I try to be patient as Cres insists on Phae making an entrance before we leave for the city. But I’ve never been one for grand entrances like this. I’ve been complaining for weeks about the grand entrance I’m supposed to make for the grand opening of my salon in a few months even if I understand the necessity of it. All to add to the persona of Addy Bianchi. A woman who thrives in and lives for the spotlight as a rich, privileged socialite. Everything that the real me isn’t.

“Ready?” Cress yells from where she stands halfway up the spiral staircase.

“I’m ready,” Phae’s voice comes, managing to be soft and quiet even while talking loudly.

I hear her footsteps coming, and then she rounds the curve of the staircase and I lay my eyes on what Cres’s stylist has done.

Gone are Phae’s long, brown curly locks. The locks that Lady inherited from her. They’ve been chopped off, dyed black, and styled in a sharp, spiky, pixie cut that highlights her the lines of her jaw and cheek structure. And rather than the flowing dresses and tops and jewelry that I remember her wearing when I was younger, she's wearing a pair of black baggy cargo pants, a bedazzled bra, and a thick denim black jacket to keep her warm from the cold. Her makeup is a combination of black and silver and grays with the only pop of color being red lipstick.

It's a look closer to something I would have worn a decade ago. That is to say, totally opposite of what Phae would normally gravitate to.

Perfect. Someone would have to get right up on her for her even begin to look familiar even if they were looking for her. But no one’s getting that close.

Phae stops after she rounds the curve. Her eyes widening some and her mouth falling open when she sees me.

“What?” I ask.

“Wow,” she says.

“Wow what?”

“You look so different.”

“Dif—”

Then I remember that I’m now dressed up as Addy Bianchi. My long wavy blonde wig. A pink sweater with a brown leather vest over it. Brown suede boots. A bunch of bracelets and bangles. And a hat to match. One of the many hats that the public understands Addy to be fond of.

“Oh. Right,” I say as she comes the rest of the way down the stairs. Then I smirk, hold my hand out, and say, “Hi. I’m Addy.”

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