If I Were Beautiful (If I Were... #1)

by Devon Hartford

  “Nice enough to do justice to the rest of you.”

  Okay, I was amused by his compliment. “Is a dress from Goodwill out of the question?”

  He laughed.

  “Wow, Wes. You’re an expensive date.”

  “The dress is on me.”

  “I can’t take your money for a dress, Wes.”

  “Shut up and listen to me, Sunflower. You’ll be borrowing the dress, okay?”

  “Are you going to return it after I wear it?”

  “No. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Then I can’t—”

  “Sunflower, will you just do this as a favor to me? Can you do that?”

  After last night with Brodie, I wasn’t sure I was ready for a night out with Wes. Things could get confusing very quickly. I didn’t do love triangles. But I had promised Wes I’d be his date for his thing, and that was before Brodie had saved me from Lester the Molester and then told me he was a secret sweetheart, and none of that was Wes’ fault. I’d made Wes a promise and I felt obliged to keep it. I smeared my hand across my face and grumbled, “Fine. Where are we going again?”

  He sighed. “Do you want to do this thing or not? I can always go stag.” I was flattered he didn’t threaten to take someone else like he had yesterday. “But I’d rather bring you. Arm candy, remember? I’d like to have something a little bit nicer than Lady Godiva on my arm.”

  “Nicer than Godiva?”

  “That would be you, Sunflower.”

  I grinned to myself. Okay, I could be arm candy for once in my life. But just once. I groaned into the phone. “Fine. Give me the directions and I’ll be there.”

  “Make sure you shower first.”

  “Geez, Wes! Do I smell or something?”

  “I haven’t smelled you today. Yesterday you smelled like an angel, but who knows about today? For all I know, you went to hot yoga with a bunch of farting smelly hippies and haven’t showered since. You don’t smell like farts, do you?”

  “Wes!”

  He chuckled. “Sorry.”

  “I didn’t go to hot yoga! And I don’t smell like farts!”

  “I’m sure you don’t, Sunflower. Do me a favor and please shower now. You won’t have time later.”

  “How long is this dress thing going to take?”

  He sighed. “I should’ve told you yesterday that today is going to be a long day. If you want to take a rain check, I’ll completely understand.” He was being irritatingly understanding and calm about this.

  “At this point, I’m seriously considering doing my taxes today instead of whatever you have planned. And laundry. And cleaning my toilet.”

  His voice grinned, “I promise, this will be better than taxes or toilets.”

  “What could be better than that?”

  He chuckled, “Are you in or out, Sunflower?”

  I groaned, “You are very annoying.”

  “In or out?”

  I stuck my tongue out and grimaced for my own benefit. He was making such a big deal out of whatever today was, and yes I was curious. I couldn’t believe I was falling for his Mr. Mystery routine, but I was. “Fine, I’ll go. But if this thing turns out to be lame, I’m bailing.”

  “Deal. If it’s lame enough, I’ll bail with you.”

  <<<<<<<>>>>>>>

  Worried that Wes would send Gavin to pick me up, I’d told Wes I’d be standing by a stop sign at the end of my street on Broadway. If Gavin showed up, I didn’t want him seeing me standing in front of Jane’s building. He might ask questions like a good MI5 agent would.

  I wore the cheap pleather biker jacket I’d got at Goodwill as part of Friday’s haul, a white print shirt with black graphics, and a plaid skirt. Since I’d forgotten to buy sexy heels, I wore the Chuck Taylors I’d bought for five bucks. It was amazing what $85 would get you at the Santa Monica Goodwill. And I had on black lacy Victoria’s Secret underneath. I’d never worn thongs in the past, but now I had the body for it, so why not? And speaking of, when I’d showered, I’d planned on shaving my legs for today, but guess what? My new body didn’t seem to need it. My swansformation did have certain benefits I couldn’t deny. Even my armpits were silky smooth. Go figure.

  A blue Lamborghini rumbled down Broadway and pulled up to the curb with the top down. It was the convertible I remembered from Wes’ mansion. He smiled at me over his aviator shades. He looked like he hadn’t shaved since yesterday (which meant his stubble was even thicker), he wore a faded Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, and jeans with holes in the knees that looked just as genuine as the shirt.

  “Damn, woman. Nice potato sack.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Will you shut up?”

  He chuckled.

  I stared at him pointedly.

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to get the door for me?”

  He smiled, “I thought you were gonna come around and get the door for me.”

  “But you’re already in the car, genius.”

  “I meant so you could drive.” He stepped out, waving me around. I walked around the car and noticed he wore ratty flip-flops that were on their last days.

  “Nice shoes,” I quipped. I liked that Wes could dress down and look natural doing it. He didn’t look like a rich person pretending to be normal by wearing brand new distressed designer clothes. He wore the real deal.

  “Get in,” he nodded toward the driver’s seat.

  “Are you sure about this, Wes?”

  “You know how to drive stick, don’t you?”

  “No!”

  He winked, “Don’t worry. It’s semi-automatic.”

  “Isn’t that a type of gun?”

  “Not in this case. It means you don’t have a clutch. Don’t worry, it’s easy.”

  “I’m not driving your car. What if I crash?”

  “You won’t crash. Hop in.”

  “I hope your insurance is paid up.” Reluctantly, I climbed in and he closed my door before strolling around to the passenger’s side and sliding in beside me.

  Now that I was behind the wheel, I really felt out of my element. This definitely wasn’t my Hyundai. Wes explained the basic controls like the buttons on the steering wheel for turn signals and the shifter levers behind the steering wheel on the left and right, within easy reach of my fingers.

  I said, “Okay, how do I start it? Where’s the key?”

  “There is no key. Put your foot on the brake, lift this red cap and press the button.” He flipped up a red button cover on the center console and pointed.

  “It looks like the launch button for a nuclear missile.”

  He grinned. “I think six hundred horsepower qualifies as a nuke.”

  “Six hundred?” Gulp.

  “Yeah. Now fire this thing up and let’s get rolling.”

  “If I crash and kill both of us with this nuclear missile of yours, I’m going to kill you a second time. Maybe even a third.”

  “Relax, Sunflower. Just start it.”

  I pressed the button and the engine roared. “Geez, it sounds like there’s a monster under the hood.”

  “There is. Don’t make her mad. She’s a real bitch,” he winked at me.

  I smirked back. “What’s this red button on the bottom of the steering wheel? Is that an ejector seat for you for when you get too annoying?”

  “No. That’s the driving mode. Just leave it set to strada. Street mode. It’ll shift for you automatically so you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “So it’s not an ejector seat for you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?” I said it seriously, like a courtroom lawyer.

  He smiled, “Yes. You ready to drive?”

  I sighed, “As I’ll ever be.”

  “Keep your foot on the brake and pull on the right lever to put it in drive.”

  I did and the car immediately started to pull so I pushed harder on the brake. Then I signaled, waited for an SUV to drive by, then pulled onto the street. I was so sc
ared, I kept the car at around 15 miles an hour, even though the speed limit was 25. It took a few blocks before I got used to the brakes and the gas, but I figured it out.

  At the stop sign for Santa Monica Boulevard, I said, “Where are we going?”

  “Head east. Toward Beverly Hills.”

  “Okay.”

  When I pulled smoothly into traffic, Wes chuckled, “Watch out Danica Patrick, Sunflower Simmons is behind the wheel!”

  “Is Danica Patrick that stock car driver?”

  “The same. But at this speed, I think she could outrun you on foot.”

  We were doing 35, which was the speed limit. I smirked, “Are you triple sure this isn’t an ejector button?” I clicked my nail lightly on the red button on the wheel.

  “Sadly, no.” He winked, “You’re stuck with me all day, Sunflower.”

  <<<<<<<>>>>>>>

  People stared at us in the Lamborghini at every stoplight, especially after we got to Beverly Hills. Wes didn’t seem to notice. I found it a bit nerve wracking, but I managed to get us to our secret destination without an accident.

  Wes had me park on a side street near a bunch of shops just off of Santa Monica Boulevard. He jumped out and got my door for me and led me up the sidewalk.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  “Why all the mystery?”

  “Mystery is more interesting.”

  “More like irritating.”

  “Are you one of those people who skips to the end of a book so you know how it’s gonna turn out?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe. Sometimes.”

  He smiled and stopped on the sidewalk. “Here we are.”

  We stood in front of a boutiquey dress shop. It didn’t have a sign on the big window and it looked closed.

  Wes opened the door. “After you, Sunflower.”

  I walked inside. The color palette was neutral grays and the decor was very spare without looking empty. Two circular steel gray couches sat in the center of the room. Only a few dresses hung on two short racks on one wall. The dresses were mostly black or white, but a few red dresses gave the neutral room a pop of color. On the other wall stood two spacious shelves with various red and black pumps and high heels. Between them was a glass case holding red and black designer handbags that looked pricey. Throughout the room, track lighting aimed artful spotlights on the displays. The entire effect of the boutique was one of unified design.

  Wes and I looked completely out of place in our ratty street clothes.

  “This isn’t Goodwill,” I muttered because it was museum quiet in here.

  Right when I said it, a tall woman walked out from the back. She looked sixtyish and wore what looked like a vintage 1950s red couture suit jacket and matching dress. The jacket had a deep V neck and big red buttons. A string of pearls looped twice around her neck. The dress was long, the hem below her knees. Despite the dated silhouette, it was very stylish. And despite her age, she wore it with the finesse and confidence of a runway model. In response to my comment about Goodwill, which she’d heard, she rolled her eyes and snorted, “Hardly.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean…” She was so commanding, and at least six feet tall in her two inch pumps, I couldn’t help but feel cowed around her. I resisted the urge to curtsy, even though it felt like the right thing to do.

  She ignored me and walked up to Wes and air kissed him on both cheeks. “Hello, darling.” Despite her height, Wes had to lean down for the air kiss.

  “And hello to you, Cruella,” Wes said with a huge smile.

  Her name couldn’t possibly be Cruella. She didn’t have the trademarked black and white hair. Hers was silver and pulled up elegantly. And she was regal, not cruel. She turned to me and said loud enough for Wes to hear, “Ignore him. He’s a child.” Her eyes darted toward him and she suppressed a genuine smile before offering her hand to me to shake. “You can call me Madeline. But he can’t. He has to call me Mrs. Kettner.”

  I shook her hand. “I’m Juh—” I’d almost said Jane. “—just call me Chelsea.” Phew, that was close. Being someone else was something you had to stay on top of or you’d risk slipping up. Maybe I needed to stand in front of my mirror every morning saying Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea. No, that was way too weird.

  Madeline put her hands on her hips. “Shall we get started? We don’t have much time.”

  “Do your worst,” Wes said.

  She smirked at me, “Don’t let his charm fool you. He really is as incorrigible as he’s acting.” Despite her commanding presence, I couldn’t help but like her. “Come with me, Chelsea.” She grabbed my hand. “Wes can wait out here.” She shot a glare at him. “And don’t sit on my couch in those dirty jeans, young man.”

  “These jeans sat in my Lambo, Madeline.”

  “I don’t care about your car. And stop calling me Madeline. Have you no respect for your elders?”

  “Last time I checked, you were only twenty-nine… for the thirtieth time. And that makes me your elder by two years.”

  She smiled, “And don’t you forget it. Now keep your hands to yourself and see if you can’t learn some manners while the women are working.” As she led me down a long hallway into the back, she whispered, “What did I tell you about his charm?”

  “Don’t fall for it?”

  “You learn quick,” she chuckled. “I like you already.”

  The large back room was a combination fitting room and design studio. Dress forms with and without dresses lined one wall. A long work table took up half the room. Several sewing machines stood in the corner. Tall windows and several skylights let in ample natural light.

  A young bald guy with a perfectly trimmed black beard and mustache sat on a stool with a measuring tape draped around his neck. He wore slacks and a suit vest over a white shirt with rolled up sleeves.

  Madeline said, “This is Jean-Paul, my tailor.”

  He stood up and shook my hand, “Pleasure, mademoiselle.” His accent was very French and it came out as Pleazhure, mad-mwa-selle.

  “Chelsea,” I smiled.

  Madeline stood with her hands on her hips, looking at the dresses on the forms. All were evening gowns that draped down to the floor and all looked like classy couture. “Which one do you think, Jean-Paul?”

  “On her? Mon cher, may we see you without your jacket?” He said it, zhacket.

  “Sure.” I shrugged it off. I would’ve tossed it on the work table, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I held it at my waist.

  Jean-Paul walked up and took it, hanging it on the clothing rack behind me. He picked up the hem of my skirt and flounced it from side to side, looking at my hips and ass as he walked around me, then let it drop before taking a step back.

  Madeline stood across the room, her arms folded, one finger brushing the bottom of her chin. “Chelsea darling, be a dear and take off that hideous T-shirt and skirt, if you don’t mind.”

  That would leave me in my bra and panties. “Uh…”

  “Don’t worry about Jean-Paul, he plays for the other team.”

  “Um…” I wasn’t used to stripping for anybody. It didn’t matter if Jean-Paul was gay or not. I didn’t want Madeline scrutinizing my body either.

  She arched her eyebrows to say, You can strip any time you’re ready.

  “Okay,” I said nervously. I peeled my T-shirt off and dropped it on the floor before pushing my skirt down and kicking it aside. I reminded myself I wasn’t me, I was a supermodel with a perfect body and nothing to pick at, but I still felt like an idiot in nothing but my underwear and my Chuck Taylors.

  “Spin for us, darling,” Madeline said.

  Although I suddenly felt like an object on display, at least I didn’t feel like a sexual one. More like an art object, or so I told myself. I spun around slowly.

  Jean-Paul said to Madeline, “She has a terrific figure. We shouldn’t hide it with the A-line.”

  “I agree. How
about the red trumpet dress?”

  “With all that cleavage? She might be a bit much for it.”

  I couldn’t believe they were discussing my boobs like I wasn’t even in the room.

  Madeline said, “We’ll tape her in if we have to. I doubt this town has seen real boobs this nice since Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Brigitte Bardot,” Jean-Paul added.

  “Her too.”

  Marilyn Monroe? Brigitte Bardot? What were they talking about?

  “Come here, darling.” Madeline waved me over to a red gown on one of the dress forms. “Let’s get you into this.”

  A few minutes later, with the help of Jean-Paul and Madeline, I stood on top of a small six inch stand, wearing the red gown and facing a semi-circle of floor length mirrors. The neckline in front plunged way past my boobs, stopping just above my navel. The open V-back plunged down almost to my ass. It walked that fine line between sexy and trashy without going too far. The gown was form fitting and you could see all of my supermodel curves, but it was still classy.

  “Wow,” I laughed. “This is really nice.”

  “Jean-Paul,” Madeline said, “do you have time to take in the waist? Chelsea has quite the hourglass figure and I don’t want to lose it in the material.”

  He nodded. “Oui.”

  “Fuck… me,” Wes said, startling everyone. He stood in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring at me. “Damn, Sunflower. You look incredible.”

  “Do I need to go get the soap, young man?” Madeline chortled.

  Wes smiled, “You do that while I keep looking at Chelsea. Wow.” He shook his head, eyes traveling all over me. “I knew you had a body under your clothes, Sunflower, but this is… this is unreal.”

  I blushed.

  Wes walked past Madeline and strolled around me, eyeing my cleavage. I was practically falling out. He whistled a perfect rising and falling wolf whistle.

  Jean-Paul snickered.

  Madeline rolled her eyes. “Do I need to have Jean-Paul escort you out of here, Wesley?”

  “It’s not like she’s the bride and we’re getting married. I can look all I want.” Despite his ratty clothes, he was so damn handsome he could look all day long and I wouldn’t mind. The predatory glimmer in his eyes said this wolf was ready to dine.