She tugged hard at the knot. It felt like a warning. “Look,” I said, trying to catch her eyes in the mirror, “I know who he is.”
“You don’t know jack, little girl.” She pointed the straightening iron at me. “You’re going to get him killed.” “I wouldn’t do anything to put Reece in danger.” “Wouldn’t you?” The accusation cut deep and all the color drained from my reflection. He’d told her. He’d told Gena I’d almost blown his cover at school. Had he told her that we’d kissed each other too?
She set the iron down and leaned over my shoulders, staring down my reflection. “Reece feels protective of you. He likes you.” She looked at the pendant. “Maybe more than I realized. Emotions make people do stupid things, and Reece is definitely doing some stupid things. He’s like a brother to me. He asked for my help, so I’ll give it. But I don’t like it.
Not one bit. And if you hurt him, I will hunt your skinny ass down and kill you. Are we clear?”
I should have been concerned about the “kill you” part, but the words like a brother whispered in my ears like a warm wind. The rest of her admonishment blew out of my mind.
I nodded. Gena resumed her cool composure as she laid out an arsenal of powders, paints, and glosses.
“Take off your glasses,” she instructed, dabbing a brush onto a palette.
I held the frames tight to my face.
The kill-you expression was back. Gena snatched them off my nose and held the lenses up to her own eyes to examine them before dropping them in my lap.
“You’re not wearing these tonight,” she said. “Lonny needs to believe Reece would actually date you. You look like a damn librarian.”
I ignored the jab and folded my glasses, closing my eyes as she brushed powder on my face. Her hands were warmer, and the smoky taste of her distrust wasn’t as strong as it had been when I got there.
“What kinds of girls does he date?” I asked. Were they all brash and shimmer and curves, like Gena? Or like the girl who hung out on Lonny’s porch? I tried not to cringe as she painted me, hoping it wouldn’t be my mother staring back at me when I opened my eyes.
“The kind that get him in trouble.” Before I could look, Gena ushered me to her closet and tossed me a black satin triangle on a string.
“Put this on.”
I turned the fabric over a few times until I found the tag and figured out where the stringy parts went. I wiggled my legs into them under the towel, and they awkwardly settled in, but Gena didn’t give me time to fidget. I sucked in a breath as she slapped on a strapless push-up bra and fastened the back tight enough to crush my ribs. Before I could exhale, she yanked a stretchy piece of black fabric over my head and smoothed it over my body. With a quick flash of her fingers, she freed the pendant from the front of the halter dress and let it fall back in place between
my . . . Wow . . . I looked down into my cleavage—yes, there was definitely cleavage there. Gena smacked my hands when I tried to pull the dress higher to cover it.
“Leave it. You look great,” she said, bending low to rummage in her closet. She tossed a pair of shoes behind her, muttering in Spanish. A pair of clunky high-tops spilled onto the floor. The shoes were much too big to be hers, and the long red laces were a dead giveaway.
The cologne in her bathroom. The shoes in her closet.
They belonged to Oleksa.
Oleksa was Gena’s boyfriend, and his hatred of Reece suddenly made sense. He was jealous. But did Oleksa know he was dating a narc, or was Gena getting close to Oleksa for the same reasons Reece had gotten close to me? Gena emerged from the closet with a pair of strappy black heels. I stepped into them and she turned me toward a fulllength mirror. I stepped close enough to see, and resisted the urge to touch my own reflection, afraid the slightest movement might ripple the mirage. Not my mother’s reflection. Not Gena’s. It was my own, but not a version of myself I’d ever imagined before. I wasn’t just a flat, hazy version of myself, I was in full focus; I had definition, an outline. I leaned closer, but a door slammed and I startled.
Reece emerged in the doorway. I turned, lungs failing at the look on his face. I felt his gaze travel hot over the length of my body and climb slowly back to mine.
“Wow,” he managed in a throaty whisper. “You look . . . wow . . .” He frowned and turned away. With a shake of his head, his fascination was gone. He scrubbed his face. “Where’s her phone?” he asked Gena.
Gena planted a hand on her hip. “Sweetheart, where the hell do you think she’s gonna fit a phone in this dress?” “There’s got to be a pocket somewhere,” he growled. Gena drummed her nails.
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” I insisted, sensing an argument brewing. “We left the house in such a hurry, I left the phone on my bed. I don’t even have it with me, so there’s no point fighting over where to put it.”