Stain (Stain #1)(37)

Sometimes, like now for instance, I wonder why we’re even friends at all. She and I are so different. I think what initially drew me to her was her bravado and just how unreserved she was. There really was no filter with Mallory. She didn’t necessarily process her thoughts before she said them. That still hasn’t changed. I remember thinking how nice it was when I first met her that she was everything I wasn’t. Everything I wanted to be. Sociable, smart, sexy, and above all else, uninhibited. Her small bouts of narcissism and shallowness never bothered me before. But now I’m finding it harder and harder to ignore them. With a sigh, I sweep my hair behind my ear and resignedly take her for what she is. She’s Mallory. She’s always going to be Mallory. Rude, selfish, and self-absorbed, but deep down beneath all that she’s still my best friend. She’s still the girl who befriended me in eighth grade. She’s still the girl who makes me laugh at the stupidest things. Besides, who am I to judge her just because I sin differently? I have my own horrible qualities. My own ugliness is buried just beneath the surface. The only difference is that Mallory is more transparent about hers.

“He doesn’t want me like that,” I say, after a moment.

“Well, who cares? I’m going to find you some much better prospects at this party. But first, you’re changing your outfit.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

She rolls her eyes. “Only everything. You dress like a f*cking sister wife. You’re eighteen. You’re pretty. So let’s just thank f*cking Jesus first of all that you don’t belong to some lecher named Jim Bob who lives on a compound somewhere. Now come on,” she finishes, giving a tug on my arm as she pulls me off the bed and drags me to her closet when I’m on my feet. “I know exactly what you should wear.”

Fifteen minutes later, I come out of Mallory’s bathroom fully dressed. Although I’m sure what I’m wearing barely constitutes as nothing at all. It’s a typical Mallory outfit. And if Rachel saw me now, she would undoubtedly ban me from ever seeing Mallory again. As I slip and wiggle my left foot inside the black bootee Mallory lends me, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I’m not usually fond of mirrors, but this one…

“I look…”

“You look good.”

She isn’t wrong. It’s odd seeing myself in these clothes. But I can’t say it’s a bad thing. I can’t say I don’t like how I look in them. When she’d pulled me to her closet, Mallory tossed clothes at me she expected me to put on. Including the short skater skirt she had looked at a bit ago. And although she is my best friend and I assume girls undress in front of each other, I’ve never felt comfortable enough to do so in front of anyone, not even her. Nonetheless, she’d taken it for another one of my countless eccentricities and while I hurried to the bathroom, she waited patiently. Once I was behind the closed door, I breathed better, silently grateful that she wouldn’t see my scars. While I dressed, I worried the skirt she wanted me to wear would reveal just that. But the stockings were long enough to cover my healing wounds.

Now here I am loving my reflection. With an objective eye, I take inventory of my appearance. I’m wearing the same outfit I suggested she wear. And while she thought it wasn’t hot enough, I do. I like the way the black skater skirt falls about mid-thigh just a few inches higher than the pair of burgundy red thigh-high knee socks I’m wearing. It’s indecently…sexy. I blink in silent shock. Me and sexy are a combination of words I never thought I’d use to describe myself. But here and now, it fits. The skirt is paired with a scooped-neck, short-sleeved white lace shirt that shows just a sliver of midriff. It’s a tantalizing flash of my skin. Modest Aylee is nowhere to be seen.

“Do you want me to do your makeup?”

I shake my head before turning my back to the mirror. “No.” I have to draw the line somewhere. Tucking a few strands of my unbound hair behind my ear, I drop back down onto Mallory’s bed to wait for her.

When she emerges a little later from her closet, the dress she has on flirts on that precarious line between sexy and trashy. The crimson red micro-mini-fit bandage dress is the furthest thing from subtle. But then subtle isn’t what she’s going for. Stopping just a few inches above mid-thigh, the dress clings to her lithe frame like it’s a second skin leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. It is so tight that it squeezes and lifts her breasts nearly to her neck, displaying an ample amount of cleavage.

She rakes her fingers through her layered locks, turning a few times in the mirror to admire herself before returning an expectant gaze at me. “Well?”

Well indeed. “Very hot.”

Her eyes brighten. “I do look hot, don’t I?

“Muy caliente.”

She tosses a wry grin my way before turning back to the mirror. It appears her reflection is far more giving than my brief Spanish comment as she proceeds to make pouty faces and again raking her fingers through her hair over and over. It takes her another fifteen minutes to reapply her makeup.

“You need to let me put this vampy red lipstick on you, at least.” She heads my way, holding the aforementioned tube of lipstick. “I promise it’ll look really good.”

With resigned sigh, I let her. “Not too much.”

“Shush, just trust me.” She carefully applies the lipstick to my mouth before pulling back with a beaming smile. “Damn, I’m good. I knew this was your color. Go look.”