Warrior Fae Trapped (Warrior Fae #1)(4)

Samantha stomped from the room with hips and breasts flying, making a counterargument impossible.

Charity blew out her breath and leaned heavily against the desk. When Sam had decided the dorm rooms were too filthy, noisy, and cramped for her to contemplate staying there, not to mention the horror of the communal bathroom, she’d cried to her daddy to fix the situation. He had rented this modest house in downtown Santa Cruz. He could’ve afforded something much nicer, but the low-budget accommodations were supposed to teach his daughter a little humility.

Yeah, right. She’d used his credit card to deck out most of the place with quality and trendy furniture the likes of which Charity had never even touched before, let alone used.

Surprise of surprises, Sam had asked her assigned roommate, Charity, if she wanted to move with her. And while Charity hadn’t minded the size of the dorm room, its faded and peeling paint, or even the communal shower, she had minded the incessant buzz of conversation and drunken laughter, which had proven a distraction from her studies. Charity had promised her mother that she’d make something of herself, and by God, she would fulfill that promise if she did nothing else in the world.

Too bad the good fortune came with a price tag.

Samantha hadn’t only wanted Charity along because she thought she was cool. Not even because she was quiet, respectful, and cooked and cleaned like she was hired help. No, Sam had insisted on Charity’s tenancy because she was fascinated by a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. “Ethiopian poor,” Samantha had said as she glanced over Charity’s belongings, contained neatly in two thirteen-gallon garbage bags. Samantha just could not believe someone could live with empty closets, empty cupboards, a couple of pens, and a computer she got out of the lost and found.

Ultimately, how she’d gotten here didn’t matter. Charity was in bliss with her luck. She had a bedroom mostly to herself (guests used it, too), a big backyard to practice martial arts (which she’d always been strangely great at), and a clean kitchen.

Samantha knew all this, of course, and used it as her secret weapon when she really wanted something.

Damned foul play!

“Seriously, though,” Charity shouted, picking at her threadbare jeans and putting in a last-ditch effort to get Sam to relent, “I do actually have a test on Thursday. Plus, I don’t drink. How fun could I possibly be?” Into the ensuing silence, she yelled, “Spoiler alert: not fun at all!”

“There are plenty of other things to do besides drink…” came the disembodied reply.

“Like what?” Then it dawned on her. “I don’t do drugs, either. Super not fun. Happy with a pocket protector. Best left at home.”

“Donnie’s going to be there.”

Charity’s shaking head jerked to a stop. Fizzy excitement she couldn’t help bubbled up her middle.

First the big guns, then the low blow. That crush was so stupid, too. She couldn’t even talk to the guy. She stammered with a red face every time he said two words to her. God forbid he try for a conversation. He was too pretty for his own good. Too suave by half.

So why was she now contemplating going to a party she wouldn’t have any fun at, with a girl who would ignore her as soon as they got there, just to see him? She might as well pour paint on her head and label herself a social pariah.

Sam’s head popped into the doorway. “And he always looks good when he goes to parties,” she said with a mischievous grin.

“Fine, I’ll go,” Charity grumbled, hating herself for uttering the words. Hating Sam for making her.

She looked down at herself. One knee looked back up through the hole in her jeans. It wasn’t a trendy hole, either. It was a Kmart special hole in a pair of jeans so old they should’ve been shot and buried in the yard.

“What am I going to wear?” Charity called as Sam ducked away again. “Earlier tonight you called me a hobo tramp.”

Metallic black material flew into the room. It shimmered and sparkled before landing on Charity’s desk, washing across the surface, and then slinking down to the floor. Samantha popped her head back in, shooting Charity a pointed stare. “Don’t you dare spill anything on it.”

“Why do all of your going out clothes resemble something a cross-dressing rock star would wear?” Charity mumbled, picking up the dress. “Besides, I can’t wear your clothes. What if I do spill something? I can’t…”

She cut the sentence short, not wanting to admit that she could barely afford her hoodies, let alone an extravagant, fashionable dress. Some things were too awkward to voice, especially around people who didn’t understand the value of money, or how lucky they were to have it.

“Hurry up,” Sam called. “We need to be fashionably late, not late-late.”

Knowing a losing battle when she saw one, Charity lugged herself out of her chair and faced the smudged closet mirror. The shimmery fabric twinkled, light reflecting off the disco-ball material. She put the dress to her body, the fabric cascading over her baggy clothes, and took in her appearance.

A little color in her pale face would make her look like less of a vampire. A wider set to her flat brown eyes would definitely give her more wow factor. Maybe a curl to her mop of brown hair, or a highlight or two. Did they have time for a nose job?

She smirked at herself, moving away. Plain but perky. It could certainly be worse.