Nightfall

by Douglas, Penelope

Picking up her bag, she digs out her phone and answers it, walking past me and leaving the room.

  I rub my eyes, listening to her chatter out in the waiting area about whether or not we should have a crêpe station for my school’s Easter brunch in two months.

  Looking up, I stare at my huge skirt in the mirror, bored with this entire look that’ll live forever and come back to haunt the shit out of me in years to come.

  I lift up the skirt, cringing at the white stockings and fugly satin heels, and then I spin, taking in the back of my gown and the obnoxious corset lacing that should really be buttons instead.

  God, I should’ve taken that Xanax. Why the hell do I want to make her happy when she’s out to hurt my feelings like this?

  Twisting the other direction, I see someone leaning against the archway and stop, meeting Olivia Jaeger’s eyes.

  My heart hammers in my chest.

  She holds canvas bags stuffed with tulle and ribbon, her aviators sitting on top of her head as she clearly struggles to hold back her amusement.

  I tip my chin up. “Come here,” I tell her, facing the mirror again.

  I hear her lose the bags, and after a moment, she comes around my front, facing me.

  “Pin the hem,” I instruct. “It’s still dragging, so bring it up another quarter of an inch.”

  Hands on her hips, she hesitates like it’s a choice, and then drops to a squat, pulling a pin off the cushion secured to her wrist.

  But before she grabs the dress, I pull it away from her. “Wash…your hands first.”

  I shake my head as she shoots me a look.

  I mean, really. If she’s learned anything, crossing the tracks into St. Carmen every day to attend one of the most prestigious schools in the state the past three-and-a-half years, it should be some common sense. They certainly teach that at Marymount.

  Rising, she walks over to the round table and pulls a wipe out of the package, cleaning her fingers. The Jaegers were born with grease under their nails, so better to be safe than sorry.

  Approaching me again, she drops down, blowing the lock of hair that came loose from her ponytail out of her face, and folds the hem, pinning it up.

  I tip my head back and smooth my hair into a fist high on the top of my head, twirling it into a bun and holding it there. I check myself in the mirror.

  Her fingers tug gently at the fabric as she moves to the next spot, and my heart beats harder, every pore in my body cooling with a sudden sweat.

  I let my eyes fall, watching her at my feet.

  Her jean shorts. The dusky olive skin of her toned legs glowing in the light of the chandelier. I trail my gaze over her messy jet black ponytail and the red tint of her lips as she bites the bottom one, concentrating on her task. Her black-and-white-checkered flannel lies open, and I pause at the low V of her gray T-shirt underneath as it dips between the smooth, pore-less skin of her…

  I tip my chin up, looking in the mirror again. Is she even wearing a bra, for crying out loud?

  She lifts up my skirt to just past my ankles and steals a peek. “You should lose the stockings,” she tells me, going back to pinning. “And the shoes, too, for that matter.”

  I turn a little, jutting out my shoulder and trying to decide if the dress looks better with my hair up or down.

  “Imagine what the world would have to come to for me to take fashion advice from a white trash, rugsucking, swamp rat like you,” I reply.

  The black leather, calf-high boots are kind of cute and all, but I’m pretty sure everything she’s wearing is whatever she could scrounge up from someone’s hand-me-downs.

  I feel her eyes on me, and I look down, seeing a little gleam in her eye. Kind of amused, but mostly a warning that she’s making a mental note of all the shit I say to her for a rainy day.

  I’m shakin’, Liv. Really, I am.

  “If I take off the stockings,” I explain. “I won’t be properly dressed. The women in my world are ladies, Olivia.”

  “You’ll feel it on your legs, though.” She looks back down to her task. “It’ll change how you carry yourself.”

  “What will? The sticky, noxious sweat of a Florida in May on my naked thighs?”

  The debutante ball is in May. The humidity will be a nightmare, despite the air-conditioned banquet hall hosting it. Like she knows anything.

  What was Lavinia thinking anyway? The first thing any business owner sells is themselves. What impression does it give for Olivia Jaeger to be working here?

  “Afraid I might be right?” she taunts.

  I roll my eyes. Please. The only thing I’m afraid of is wasting time.

  But I stand there, letting my hair fall down my back again, and watch her. I’m not sure why, but I kick off my heel and set the ball of my foot on her knee.

  Prove it, then.

  She stops. Tipping her head back, she looks up at me, her honey-brown eyes unblinking.

  “I can’t bend over in this dress,” I tell her.

  Fisting the skirt in my hands, I start to pull it up, past my knees and up my thighs to where the garter secures the stockings.

  She holds my gaze for another moment, and then she reaches up, unfastening the clips.

  Her fingertips brush the skin on the inside of my leg, and my flesh pebbles, chills breaking out everywhere. I suck in a breath, and she darts her eyes up to mine, as still as me.

  Don’t stop.

  I lock my jaw, and she stares at me, the heat spreading across my cheeks.

  “I don’t have all day,” I chide, trying to hide my reaction.

  Her chest rises and falls slowly, and then she peels the stocking down my leg and off my foot, followed by the other one, both of my shoes lying strewn on the floor with the nylons.

  Walking to a nearby shelf, she scans the heels and grabs a pair, pointing to the chair near the mirror.

  Indulging this, I step off the riser and have a seat as she plops down on the floor and searches for my right foot under the dress.

  I hike up the skirt again as she slips the heel on, almost amused that she refuses to look. I know she wants to. My legs are just as nice as hers. The only difference is she likes to look at ones that don’t just belong to her.

  It’s amazing she’s endured me as captain of the lacrosse team this year, especially when she’s probably the better player, and I haven’t made anything easy on her.

  But that’s how it is. Effort, focus, hard work…they mean very little when you’re lucky like me. Saints don’t mix with swamp trash.

  I gaze at her as she straps the heels on me, the tiny mole on her face, between her ear and the hollow of her cheek, bringing out the gold in her skin. I’d never noticed that before.

  She puts my foot back down, and I draw in a breath, standing up and heading back to the riser again. The dress rubs against the sensitive skin of my legs, now bare, and it’s as if every inch of my body is alive and aware of itself.

  Almost like I’m naked in my bed, only feeling the sheets.

  I grow warm.

  Holding up my skirt, I look in the mirror, the gold heels with the thin, jeweled straps making my skin glow, and I fight not to smile, because they feel and look worlds better than the other shoes.

  However…

  “They don’t go with the dress,” I tell her. “But I’m hardly surprised you’re so bad at this, given the shit you wear.”

  I reach around my back, trying to untie the corset as she stands there with her hands on her hips.

  “You’re right,” she says. “You need a new dress now.”

  I almost snort. Well, we agree on that.

  Unable to reach the laces because the corset is too tight for me to move, I twist around, planting my hands on my hips.

  “Unlace it.”

  She steps up, pulling the bow and loosening the corset, so I can push it down and off my body.

  “Tell Lavinia to call me when the alterations are done,” I instruct, “and tell her to take it down a size.”

&nbs
p; “It fits you perfectly.”

  “To a four, please,” I snip as I pick the dress up off the floor. “And remove this flower.” I grab the one at the center of the bodice. “Are we repurposing wedding dresses from 1982 or something?”

  But she’s not paying attention. She stands back and stares at me, and when she turns and checks my reflection in the mirror, I follow her gaze.

  The simple hoop skirt wraps around me, thin and absent of bows and ruffles and lace, while the strapless white bustier corset hugs my breasts almost too tightly, and covers my stomach, leaving an inch of skin between that and my skirt.

  If it weren’t obvious that they were undergarments, they might be kind of hot.

  Lifting up my hoop skirt again, I check out the bare legs and shoes, Liv’s smile looking like the one I was feeling.

  I could live with something like this, I guess.

  “I could make it for you,” she says. “But better.”

  She moves in, placing a hand on my tummy, and I ignore the skip in my heart.

  “Maybe a little see-through here with some embroidery,” she explains, “piece them together, and some layering to give it dimension. Tighten up the bodice with some light and subtle gold accents to complement the shoes…”

  I envision it in my head as we look at me in the mirror.

  For some reason, I have no doubt she’ll pull it off if I let her, and I’d even love it.

  If I let her.

  She turns her eyes on me again, standing in front of me and looking up and down my garments.

  “We can keep it this same shade of white.” She gestures to the gown in my arm. “It’s a perfect color, really.”

  She meets my eyes, looking at me dead-on.

  “You won’t even see the cum stain when he drunk-ejacs all over you in the backseat of the car after the ball,” she says.

  The ever-present knot in my stomach pulls tighter, and I hold her gaze, unfaltering. Excuse me?

  “Because ladies in your world don’t talk about those things.” A smile curls the corner of her mouth as she inches in, whispering, “You just go home in tears and do things with a pulsating shower head that God didn’t intend sweet little southern girls to do.”

  My blood runs ice cold, and I grit my teeth, the heat of her breath falling across my lips as I curl my fingers into fists.

  “Try it tonight,” she taunts, staring at my mouth. “You might like it.”

  I stop breathing, the pulse between my legs starting to throb.

  She snatches the dress out of my hand, and I suck in a breath as I watch her not miss a beat as she steps backward off the riser and starts to leave. “See you at school, Clay,” she says.

  Look for Tryst Six Venom—coming soon!

  Acknowledgments

  To the readers—I want to thank you so much for all the help and support over the years. I love being online with you, having fun and socializing, but social media has a funny way of sucking me in, and before I know it, it’s noon! Not that it’s time wasted, by any means, but I realized that I’m more successful about reaching my goals and staying organized the more disciplined I am about how my time is spent. Thank you to those of you who put up with my long spells offline. You understand that just because someone isn’t constantly posting doesn’t mean that great things aren’t happening.

  Thank you also to everyone who emailed this spring while I was offline writing to just say how much they like my stories and how much they “love my brain” lol. It makes me smile and helps me stay creative. I can’t wait to show you what’s next.

  To my family—my husband for taking over so much in the past year. Seriously. Roles have certainly changed between us since we met, and I’m grateful you’re here to handle so much, so I can make good use of my time to do the work I love. It’s probably ridiculous I still have no idea how to run the dishwasher that we bought four months ago, so just to let you know… You can start making me clear my own plates now. The book is done!

  And to AydanCakes—my daughter, my girl with powerhouse kicks and weird dance moves just like her mom… I love you so much. Thank you for being amazing during this time at home through quarantine, cooperating for online schooling, and letting me win Uno once in a while. You’ll never beat me at Scrabble, though, because I’m the WRITER in the family. Boo-yah.

  To Dystel, Goderich & Bourret LLC—thank you for being so readily available and helping me grow every day. I couldn’t be happier.

  To the PenDragons—Gosh, I’ve missed you all. There were so many days, especially a month into quarantine, that I was desperate to spend some time with you. I needed people, and I really appreciate that you’re my guaranteed happy place. Thanks for giving me a tribe and validating the stories I love.

  To Adrienne Ambrose, Tabitha Russell, Tiffany Rhyne, Kristi Grimes, Lee Tenaglia, and Claudia Alfaro—the amazing Facebook group admins! Not enough can be said about the time and energy you give freely to make a community for the readers and me. You’re selfless, amazing, patient, and needed. Thank you.

  To Vibeke Courtney—my indie editor who goes over every move I make with a fine-toothed comb. Thank you for teaching me how to write and laying it down straight.

  To Charlene Tillit—thank you for being available to check my French! You were a huge help.

  To all the wonderful readers, especially on Instagram, who make art for the books and keep us all excited, motivated, and inspired…thank you for everything! I love your vision, and I apologize if I miss things while I’m offline.

  To all of the bloggers and bookstagrammers—there are too many to name, but I know who you are. I see the posts and the tags, and all the hard work you do. You spend your free time reading, reviewing, and promoting, and you do it for free. You are the life’s blood of the book world, and who knows what we would do without you. Thank you for your tireless efforts. You do it out of passion, which makes it all the more incredible.

  To every author and aspiring author—thank you for the stories you’ve shared, many of which have made me a happy reader in search of a wonderful escape, and a better writer, trying to live up to your standards. Write and create, and don’t ever stop. Your voice is important, and as long as it comes from your heart, it is right and good.

  About the Author

  Penelope Douglas is a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author. Her books have been translated into fifteen languages and include The Fall Away Series, The Devil’s Night Series, and the standalones, Misconduct, Punk 57, Birthday Girl, and Credence. Please look for The Hellbent Series (Fall Away Spin-Off) beginning in 2021 and the standalones, Motel and Tryst Six Venom, in the works now!

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