He levels me with a mocking hard glare that has me laughing harder.
We eat in comfortable silence, just enjoying each other’s company. When it comes time to get dressed and do makeup and hair, we leave Greg in front of the TV with some sports shit to keep him happy.
Dee and I spend about two hours perfecting our hair and faces. Her shoulder-length brown locks are curled and perfectly in place, bouncing as normal. She curled my long hair and pinned it back to keep it off to one side, leaving it to fall down the front of my body, effectively keeping my back fully exposed. I have to admit, she may have missed her calling. Her makeup is done similar to mine, heavy and club worthy. She lined my big light green eyes with heavy liner and shaded my lids with a stunning combination of silver, black, gray, and white. My blush is perfect, but my lips are the focal point—lush and a bold fire-engine red.
Grabbing my new dress, I step into my room to put this piece of torture on. I may have realized she was right, and I do look good, but that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy showing off basically every inch of skin. Baby steps would be nice, not taking off running.
I stand in front of my closet for the longest time, just taking it all in. Tight red dress, perfect hair, and flawless makeup.
If I weren’t me, I would think this chick was stunning. But I’m me, and I’m currently picking out every single flaw. Breasts look too big, even with my height disadvantage I have way too much leg, way too fucking much back, heels too tall . . . I could keep this up for hours. Fortunately for Dee, she picks that moment to come walking in.
She looks stunning. Everything my dress lacks and doesn’t cover, hers does. She has a simple black dress on. The hemline hits her about the same place my dress does—vagina level. Or at least it would be vagina level if she ever were to bend over, sit, or generally take a deep breath. It’s form fitting, hugging her curves, and making her ass look fantastic. I have always been jealous of that girl’s curves. She is slender with everything right where it should be. A great ass and a great rack. Where my dress lacks a complete back, hers is dangerously close to playing with nip-slip central. The front is cut right down the center, ending with a point at her breastbone.
“Holy shit, Dee . . . If you move wrong, your tits are going to come flying out.” Gaping over at her, I’m sure I look ridiculous.
“Very funny, Izzy. Tape, honey. I have these girls so taped up there isn’t anything falling out of here.” She lifts her arms up and does some weird gyrating, hip-swirling move. I can’t tell if she is dancing or trying to fly, but true to her words, her tits stay put.
Whatever. More important issues here. Like, how the hell am I supposed to walk in five-inch heels? I am a ballet-slipper, flip-flop-loving girl. I haven’t worn heels like this ever. When I was married to Brandon, he wanted me to stay small. Heels weren’t allowed because they would make me dangerously close to his height.
“Is there any way I can wear my flat sandals, Dee? I swear I will end up breaking my neck tonight in these things. How are you walking in yours?”
“All in the mind, girlfriend. And no. You will not ruin that dress with flats.” She practically spits the words out.
Mumbling under my breath about the benefits of having health insurance for when I fall and break something important, I pick up my skyscraper heels from the bed and follow Dee out my door, down the hall, and into the living room.
Greg walks over with a smile on his face, looking pretty damn handsome himself. He is dressed in dark slacks and a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his strong arms.
“Looking nice, ladies,” he says, throwing a beefy arm over my shoulder and pausing mid-step into the kitchen.
It takes me a second to register that he stopped walking, so I end up a few steps ahead of him. I hear his sharp intake of breath and turn around. His face has lost the smile and a thunderous look has taken up residency.
“Iz, where the fuck is your dress?”
“You’re looking at it, G, or lack of it. Dee’s handy work. You know how she is. Last time I give her free range over my outfit, that’s for damn sure,” I reply with the exasperation clear in my tone.
He’s looking at me like I have grown two heads and started speaking in tongues. Quickly, I look down to make sure all my girly bits are still tucked in their rightful places. Looking back up, I meet the still pissed glare of Greg.
Confused, I ask, “What?”
“What? Fucking hell. How am I supposed to protect you when you are walking around naked?” he booms.