Page 55 of Beautiful Sinners

Understatement of the year.

Instead of saying,now why would you think that, I just ask, “Why?”

One minuscule three-letter word that feels bigger than the universe because I’m not asking her why Tristan and I should be confused. That one interrogative represents all the other millions of whys I want to know.

Andie rushes into the room dressed in a new outfit of black leather skintight pants that fit every curve of her shapely, toned body, and a red halter top that does wonderful things for her chest.

“Nope. All that shit can wait until after I get thoroughly tipsy and maybe do some bad karaoke.” She says to Alana, “You look fine.” Andie thrusts an outfit at me. “You, however, need to change. Quickly.”

I stand there like an idiot, holding the sexiest black lace bustier cami top I have ever seen and a pair of black high-waisted liquid leggings.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

CHAPTER 19

I am officially Alice at the bottom of the rabbit hole after she scarfed down the “Eat Me” cake and grew nine feet tall, and every creature in Wonderland could see her from a mile away. That’s how exposed I feel in this outfit. My disgusting burns are on open display, and I want to both cringe and preen because if it weren’t for the scars, I’d think I’d look hot as hell.

The bar Andie whisked Alana and me to isn’t that different from the Bierkeller, if you don’t count the four gorgeous female employees doing a Coyote Ugly on top of the bar. It’s barely past six o’clock, and the place is already packed, mostly with men wearing suits fresh from a long day at the office. It’s weird being on the other side of things as a customer and not a waitress. I’m a fish out of water, and my blatant gawking makes that extremely evident.

“You look beautiful!” Alana yells at me over the small high-top table Andie told us to sit down at while she ordered our drinks.

I made sure to sit at an angle, so my left arm faced the wall and was out of direct view. The ambient temperature in the bar borders on stifling from all the body heat being given off. Sweat beads between my breasts and along the dip of my spine.

I shrug a bare shoulder in response to Alana’s comment and continue to look around. We’ve barely spoken to each other since Andie ambushed us with this out-of-the-blue girls’ night out to a bar. I hate the wall that has sprung up between us, its reach so high that it seems insurmountable. I used to be able to tell Alana anything, and now I can’t even summon a single syllable to say.

Regardless, whatever conversation we’re going to have, it’s not going to be in a public bar surrounded by strangers. So why am I here again? Oh yeah. My pushy cousin who doesn’t understand the word no.

The upbeat country song ends, and the bar erupts with raucous male shouts of appreciation as the women who’d been dancing blow kisses, send winks, and get back to serving drinks.

I jump when four shot glasses get slammed down on the table.

“Drink up because the guys will be crashing our fun soon.”

I look expectantly toward the entrance but only see one of Andie’s bodyguards who followed us here. There are several others wandering around, ever vigilant and watchful. It’s sad that she can’t go anywhere without an entourage of armed escorts.

Andie takes one of the drinks, throws her head back, and consumes the entire thing.

I contemplate the clear liquid in front of me. “You know I’m not legal, right?”

But I’m tempted. Alana didn’t keep alcohol at the house, and my party life at school was nonexistent, mostly because I wasn’t invited to any of them. I yearn to experience this rite of passage that every other young adult gets to have. Drink, dance, be loud and silly and reckless.

“They won’t card you.” Andie holds up a second shot glass, waiting for us to lift ours.

“It’s alright if you want to,” Alana tells me.

“I don’t need your permission.”

I feel like shit as soon as I say it. I don’t mean to be a bitch, but I can’t get past that she lied to me and hurt Tristan in the cruelest of ways.

Lifting the small drink, I mumble, “what the hell,” then proceed to choke as it burns its way down my esophagus.

“Oh my god,” I cough. “Is this tequila? My throat is on fire.”

Because I’m not twenty-one, I’m not allowed to make drinks or work the bar at the Bierkeller, but I can deliver them to the tables.

“Yes, and you need at least three more of them.”

Alana daintily sips hers like a fine wine, whereas I’m about to spontaneously combust. That was awful. How do people drink this crap?

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