Fall for Me (Ladder Company #1)
J.C. Emery
Chapter 1
Melanie
As I sneak through the large room, I do my best to avoid being seen by anyone I know. If I have to endure anymore idle chitchat about stuff I don’t care about while rocking this gnarly wedgie, I’m going to lose my cool. There is absolutely only so much pain one can endure before they forget their manners and tell old Mrs. Goldstein to push her obviously-gay-to-everyone-but-her grandson off on someone else, because I like sex and, while I’m not opposed to trying a three-way just once, I’m absolutely opposed to marrying some poor dude just to be his beard.
No, just no.
So I take the long way around the ball room and hope to avoid anyone else who may try to sidetrack me on my way to the ladies room to evict this supposedly amazing satin thong from the crevices of my ass.
Halfway to my destination, I catch my sister’s eye and wave her off with a serious glare that hopefully says everything it has to—don’t even think about following me. Because while Claire could provide good cover, she’s also slow as hell in those stupid heels she insisted on buying. They’re no less than five inches tall, and my dear sister isn’t exactly well-versed in wearing heels. Cleats are more her style, but Mom and Daddy would have a fit if she showed up ready to rock third base at a society event. Not that she plays anymore. Much to her chagrin, there’s not much of a career in softball unless you’re the crème de la crème, and while my sister is good, she’s not that good, and she knows it. So she hung up her cleats some time ago. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss it, though, because she totally does.
I was never into sports, so I spent my teen years trying—mostly unsuccessfully—to be sexy while rocking heels and making my way around the Upper West Side, which means I can make it across this room in twice the time Claire can.
When I reach the ladies’ room, tucked under an expansive curved staircase whose only real purpose is to show off the debs as they officially enter into society, I find a long line trailing from under the stairs. The event happens literally once a year, and yet the committee of the public trust felt the need to redo the staircase some years back so their daughters—sorry, bartering tools—had a more elegant way of entering society. It’s ridiculous since half the girls make their official entrance into society on their backs while working some stupid rich brat to pay their way rather than on this staircase. But whatever. I opted out of the meat market for a reason. I’m not the kind of girl who can endure epically uncomfortable circumstances in favor of being a lady of society. Not that New York society is all too keen on my people anyway. We’re new money, and the only thing old money hates more than the poor is the recently poor but now rich.
“Some line, huh?” I ask a young woman who can’t be more than a year older or younger than me. She tosses her dark hair over her shoulder and slides her bright blue eyes that are done up with a smoky-eye look up and down my frame. Her gaze softens when I bounce uncomfortably on my heels, and she nods her head. Ladies don’t dance like cats in heat while waiting for the restroom. They also don’t say “huh” at the end of their sentences, and they don’t start random conversations with people in line. So, in short, I’m no lady and this chick knows it, and she seems cool enough to be cool with me and not judge me for not being a lady. In fact, she seems relieved.