This is a job, I tell myself, but like the sex with Vic, it doesn’t feel that way at all.
“Problem, Bernadette?” Oscar chides, standing next to me and smirking in that irritating way of his. He’s of the devil, I’m certain of it.
“No,” I snap, more for my own benefit than for his, and then I push in the front doors, a small bell tinkling happily as I move across the shiny wood floors and pause in a sea of white. Why do people get married in white again? Oh, that’s right. It’s supposed to denote virginity. I have to hold back a snort of nervous laughter.
“Don’t worry about the price of the dress,” Oscar says, leaning down and putting his lips awfully close to my ear. His breath feathers against my skin, and I shiver. He barely spoke to me on the way over here, and I get the feeling he doesn’t like me much. “Just pick something that calls to you.”
“Calls to me?” I ask as a perky sales attendant in a khaki skirt and pale pink blouse flounces her way over to me. Her smile is practically plastered on, but I can see it straining at the edges as she takes in the pair of tattooed kids in her shop, undoubtedly here to waste her time.
“Hello there,” she says, never allowing her professional façade to drop, despite the fact that she’s certain we’re not going to buy anything. “Can I help you with something?”
“We’re here to get a wedding dress for my lovely companion,” Oscar says, placing his hands on the small of my waist and making me shiver. I can feel each one of his fingertips pressing into that tantalizing bit of bare skin between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my jeans. “She’s a size eight in commercial clothing. Thirty-eight, twenty-eight, forty measurements.”
I grit my teeth and resist the urge to elbow him in the stomach. I have a feeling that if I do, we'll throw down, and I'm not ready to throw down in the middle of a bridal shop.
“Well, I'm here to help. Are we looking for an initial consult or—”
“She knows what she likes, and we need to find a dress today,” Oscar says, down to business as usual. The woman turns her attention to me and folds her hands in front of her khaki skirt, seemingly unbothered at being interrupted. I’d have punched Oscar in the balls for that.
“What sort of styles are you into, honey?”
“The most expensive ones,” I say, and Oscar lets out a low laugh as the woman tries to keep smiling through my deadpan disinterest.
“Sure, of course,” she says, blinking through her confusion. Have to give her credit though. She was born for customer service. “I'm Zoe, by the way. Just follow me.”
“Planning on re-selling the dress after the ceremony?” Oscar asks, and I shrug. No point in trying to hide it.
“Something wrong with that?” I ask, but he just makes this clucking sound under his breath and releases me, leaving these little warm spots where his fingertips pressed into my skin.
We follow after Zoe to the back corner of the store—probably to get us out of view of any other customers that might happen in—and she shows me a rack of dresses wrapped in plastic.
I notice that some of them are slightly off in color, in various shades of champagne or gold or whatnot. I mean, they're close enough to white.
“These are from a French designer,” she begins as I search for the tag on one of the dresses. Fifty-five hundred bucks?! For a dress. Holy crap. My fingers touch the tag, and something inside of me shifts. I don't really care about weddings or ceremonies or tradition, but buying a dress with the sole purpose of reselling it makes me feel like a total asshole.
“Do you have any black dresses?” I ask, lifting my gaze from the tag to Zoe's surprised face.
“A black wedding dress?” she says, like I've just suggested she cut off her own fingers and use them as lace on my gown. “I, um.” She pauses again, clearly thinking on her feet. Zoe snaps her fingers. “Okay, I have an idea. I'll set you up in a fitting room.”
“A black wedding dress?” Oscar repeats, the sea of white gowns reflecting in the lenses of his glasses. “Aren't we the little rebel?” He gives another one of those deep, low chuckles. “Ophelia will hate it.” He pauses a beat as we head toward the fitting room. “But Vic, he'll love it.”
Zoe leads me into a room, and then scurries off excitedly, like she's just thought of the perfect dress. I don't bother to wait for her, undressing and kicking off my boots, pants, and jacket. I stand there for a moment in the lingerie Vic gave me, my eyes narrowed on my own reflection.
Tattoos trace over my right hip and down my thigh. Both arms are coated in ink, and I’ve got pink demon wings across my chest. My pink-tipped white-blonde hair hangs just past my breasts, and the rings in my belly button glint in the fancy studio lighting of the fitting room. Every inch of me is marked in invisible scars, wounds that bisect my soul but not necessarily my body.
There’s a light knock on the door.
“Come in,” I say, glancing over my shoulder as Zoe slips in the door with a dress draped over her arm. Her pale blue eyes sparkle as she hangs it on a hook and unzips the opaque white garment bag.
“I think I’ve found the perfect dress for you,” she says, beaming at me as she reveals the glittering black fabric. It looks like the sky on a velvety country night, when the Milky Way is a splash of stars against the cosmos. “This is a Lazaro gown,” Zoe continues as she takes the dress from the bag and holds it up. “Strapless sweetheart neckline with a lovely pleated skirt. There’s an optional feathered piece that goes around the neck as well. We can try it with and without.”
Zoe brings the dress toward me, and as she walks, it shimmers and glitters, like the designer reached up and cut the fabric from the stars.
I know as soon as I see it that I’ve found the right dress.
You’re seventeen, Bernadette, and this whole marriage is a sham. You haven’t found shit.
I tell myself that this is a business transaction, and that it’ll all be worth it when Havoc neutralizes the Thing, when Heather is safe. And yet, I’m not really suffering much, am I?
Zoe helps me into the dress, using plastic clips to gather the excess fabric at my waist.
“Of course, we’d have it tailored to fit you properly,” she says as I stare at myself in the full gown, and find the breath knocked right out of me. All of a sudden, I’m swept away in a fantasy of Vic climbing on top of me in this dress, his hands gliding over the shimmering fabric, his lips kissing my bare shoulders.
Jesus Christ.
I’m really losing it, aren’t I?
As I’m standing there, shaking and falling to pieces on the inside, Zoe brings the feathered accent piece over and lays it around my neck. She hooks it together in the back and steps away so I can see myself in the three giant mirrors on the wall in front of me.
“How are we feeling?” she asks after what must be several moments. “Any thoughts? We could even try this same dress in ivory or champagne.” When I don’t respond, Zoe steps up on the dais next to me and places gentle fingers on my arm. “Do you think your mother might want to come and see you in the dress?”
“My mother’s dead,” I lie, and Zoe blinks her big, blue eyes at me.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” I say, turning to look at her and lifting my fingers to the feathers that lie across my inked chest. “I like it. I’d like to see what my friend thinks first. He’s actually a very well-known drag queen in the Portland area, so he knows his designer gowns.”
“Oh, yes, of course …” Zoe trails off and nods. I bet she’s wondering how old I am, if I can actually afford this dress, if I’m going to try to steal it. But she dutifully leaves the dais and opens the door for Oscar to come in. “I’ll be right outside when you’re ready. Just let me know what you need.”
Oscar’s gray eyes home in on my reflection in the mirror, narrowing to stormy slits as Zoe pulls the door closed softly behind him.
“Well, you got one thing right: I do know my designer gowns.” He moves toward me, up the steps of the dais, until he’s standing directly behind me. His inked form in that stupid suit of his looks pretty much perfect against my own tattooed body. “This is perfection.” Oscar hovers his hands over the black feathers on my shoulders, making the fine hairs on my arms stand on end. “Victor will be pleased.”
“Victor …” I start and then scoff, trying to turn around. But Oscar grabs hold of my shoulders and keeps me in place, those intense eyes of his framed by the thick, dark rectangles of his glasses. They should make him look nerdy or businesslike, but with the ink crawling up his neck and flowing over his hands, they don’t. Paired with the darkness simmering in his gaze, they just make him look villainous. “Do you suck Vic’s dick for fun? What do you really think of the dress?”
I try hard not to think about Oscar Montauk in elementary school, or how he once helped me make a dress out of construction paper. I got in trouble for wearing it to recess without anything underneath. Seems fitting that he’d be standing here with me, although I’m pretty sure he hates me now.
“What do I think of the dress?” he asks, skimming his hands down my bare arms. I close my eyes and wet my lower lip. When I open them, he’s frowning at me. “I think it needs to serve one purpose: getting you down the aisle to marry Vic.”
“You’re such an asshole,” I snarl, wrenching from his grip and turning to face him, my heart thundering in my chest. Oscar looks down at me with absolutely zero emotion in his expression. But his pants … I can see the hard shape beneath his slacks. Lifting my eyes back to his, I put a challenge into my gaze. “If you care so little about it, why are you hard for me?”
“I can’t control my body,” he says, leaning toward me and putting his mouth right up against my ear. His hands skim my waist. He’s touching me while I wear a wedding dress meant for another man. Is that wrong? Is this akin to cheating? But I’m supposed to be Havoc’s girl, right? I’m supposed to screw all five of them. Isn’t that the point? “What’s your problem? How can you fuck a man who treated you so poorly? Vic annihilated you during sophomore year, and yet you’re panting after him like a bitch in heat.”