Hell on Heels(29)

My shower was a quick one. I’d opted to forgo washing my hair, as I’d done so last night and I could use the extra time pouting in front of my closet, as I was doing now.

Looking down at Beau’s text message, I frowned and mentally ran inventory on my selection of little black dresses.

Beau: I’ll pick you up at 7pm. Dress nice.

Men were often vague at best, but this message was incredibly unhelpful.

Dress nice.

I tossed my phone onto the bed and it landed with a bounce as I glared down the hanging contents of my walk-in closet.

I dressed nice every day. I didn’t want to dress nice for Beau. I wanted to dress to stop his heart.

I’d spent the better part of the evenings in my adult life dressing to impress a man, and yet, each and every time felt like the first time. Like I’d somehow become a novice in dressing myself.

I’d had a barrage of men at my fingertips for years, increasing my bravado of self-worth, but all the while, I found it actually promoted bouts of self-loathing and encouraging the onset of manic lows. For it was too often men fell in love with the idea of me, a fantasy they’d created, only to be let down by a mere whisper of the reality of me.

Like an illusion of the heart, I wasn’t real. I wasn’t obtainable. I was a fraud.

All men liked beautiful women. However, most men liked their beautiful women like they liked their golf clubs: expensive and shiny, and only taken out when they wanted to play or impress their friends.

And maybe if I was honest, over the years, I’d played that up.

And maybe that was on me.

Most of the time, I got what I needed from them and they got something they wanted from me. Like Doctor Colby had said, a mutual exchange and sometimes even a relationship, but even I was learning now that I was looking for something from them that they could never provide. Something not even the best high could overshadow.

I was looking for me.

Because what I really needed, more than a good f*ck or someone to make me come, was to feel at home in my own skin.

To feel like I understood the person I’d become.

I’d spent nearly a decade throwing myself off cliffs, because I didn’t know how to simply look out the window. I only knew what it felt like to go all-in and ride the high until I fell.

I’d become so perfectly disguised, a masterpiece of life’s unjust suffering.

Like all masterpieces were, I was admired but feared all the same.

Women fell apart at the seams and lined up for a chance to bed some of the men I’d dated in my lifetime. It had never been enough. It had never been sustainable. Neither them nor I had benefitted in the long run from my joining the leagues of those women. Yet still, so frequently I found myself in that role, playing that part once again like a well-taught starlet.

In the last days, I’d found myself beginning to wonder if perhaps I didn’t want to act that way anymore, but how did you quit? How do you quit the lie you told yourself for nearly a decade?

Addicts don’t quit overnight, and I had an addict’s blood, through and through.

“We’re not the same, you and me. I was never as strong as you, Charlie bear.”

The memory of my dead brother scolded me.

He’d been wrong.

We were the same.

I settled on a black dress with a hem that ended past my knees and fit like a second skin. It was low cut in the front, enough to be sexy without being slutty, and it had three-quarter length sleeves, which in my mind made up for the display of cleavage.

When dressing, a lady should choose but one asset to expose, never two. Beau had seen my backside at the gala, and tonight, I planned on showcasing my generous front side.

I paired the outfit with an original style tan Burberry dress coat should it rain, and matte red stilettos. Twisting my hair into a messy yet elegant chignon, I pulled a few pieces out to frame my face and finished the look by applying a blood red lipstick to my full pout.

Just in the nick of time, as luck would have it.

The buzzer to my unit sounded as I was transferring my necessities from the large day-to-day boho purse I carried to the smaller black Chanel I’d selected for tonight.

I hit the answer button on the base unit of my home phone. “Hello?”

“It’s Beau.” His smooth voice came through the speaker.

Instead of answering, I pressed the number to buzz him in.

I checked myself over in the hallway mirror, adding one more spray of perfume to my neck and wrists while I waited.

The knock came and I smiled at my reflection.

Sliding the deadbolt, I pulled the door open to find Beau Callaway leaning against the wall in my apartment building, wearing a pale grey suit and holding nearly two dozen long-stemmed white roses in one arm.

Looked as though he’d dressed to stop a heart or two himself.

“Hi.” I rested the side of my head against the open door.

He stayed put. “You look beautiful.”

I blushed. “Thank you.”

We remained like that for a beat, him leaning against the wall, watching me, me leaned into the door, watching him.

“Is white too boring?” He held out the bouquet and stepped towards me.

Shaking my head, I bent down and smelled the flowers. “White is perfect.”

“In that case, they’re for you.” Beau dipped down and kissed my forehead.