Running into Love
Page 4

“You’re not still stuck on Jayson, right?” Mac asks, and my stomach turns.
“God, no,” I practically yell. Jayson was my last serious boyfriend, and he was also a serious dick. I don’t know what I saw in him, but I do know that because of him I’ve decided to be more cautious when dating and warier of attractive men.
“You know what, Mac? I think you’re right. I think we should go out,” Libby says, looking at me.
Rolling my eyes, I look at Mac, who is grinning ear to ear. “Fine, let’s go out. What’s the worst that could happen?” I shrug, knowing they won’t give up, so I might as well go and, hopefully, be home early enough to at least watch Hocus Pocus.
“Great. I just happened to bring a few costumes.” Mac jumps up and heads to the front door, picking up her duffel bag she dropped there when she came in.
“You just so happened to bring costumes with you?” I ask, and she grins, carrying her bag to my room. Following her, Libby and I sit on the edge of the bed as she starts to pull the costumes out of her bag.
“This dress is yours.” She smiles, handing Libby a piece of red fabric that looks more like a tube top than a dress. “And this one is yours.” Taking it from her, I notice that it is the same style as Libby’s, only it’s dark blue. “And this one is mine.” She grins, holding up a piece of white fabric in front of her.
“This is a dress?” I question, holding out the supposed dress. I can’t imagine that the thing can cover more than one of my vital parts at a time, and I will have to choose between the twins or my vajayjay.
“Exactly what are we dressing up as?” Libby asks, stretching out the material.
“Hoes.” Mac smiles proudly.
“Hoes?” I repeat.
“There’s a pimps and hoes party tonight at Jack’s, so we’re going as hoes.”
“Can I be a pimp instead?” I ask, stepping on the dress and pulling it up, trying to make it longer, but it ends up snapping back and hitting me in the face.
“You’re not going to get a man if you’re dressed like a pimp.” Libby rolls her eyes like I’m ridiculous for not wanting to wear a dress that wouldn’t fit one of my fifth graders.
“I don’t want a man, and if I did, I wouldn’t want one that wanted me because I’m dressed like a prostitute.” I sigh, flopping back on my bed and looking at the ceiling.
Why didn’t god give me brothers?
“I’ll do our makeup,” Libby chirps happily, and I groan against the palms of my hands as I cover my face.
“Come on, it will be fun,” Mac says, tugging my hands away from my face. Glaring at her one last time, I give up and let her pull me out of bed and into the bathroom. Looking at myself in the mirror, I sigh and tug at the hair tie just barely containing my blonde mop. Unleashed, my hair looks how I imagine a lion’s mane does on a bad hair day.
“That is the perfect look.” Libby smiles in the mirror behind me as I frown and look at myself. Setting her makeup bag down on the counter, she aims a can of hair spray in my direction.
“No more.” I cough as she sprays and sprays until I wrestle the can from her evil grasp. I now look like I have a fro and am in major need of a deep conditioner.
“Now let’s do your makeup.”
Looking at my sister in the mirror, I shake my head no. “I’ll just do my own makeup.”
“When was the last time you wore makeup?”
“I wear makeup every day.”
“You wear mascara.”
“Mascara is makeup,” I defend as she closes the lid on the toilet and pushes me down to take a seat.
“Close your eyes.” Letting out a huff, I shut my eyes and allow her to do my makeup, which I realize is a huge mistake a few minutes later when I stand to look at myself.
“Could you at least make me look like a high-class hoe?” I pout at my reflection; the blue eye shadow wouldn’t be so bad alone, but the black liner, the bright-pink lipstick, and my hair, combined, make me look like a twenty-dollar hooker from 1989.
“What can I say? I’m good at what I do.” Libby smiles, happily adding a touch of pink shadow to her eyes.
“This is going to be a disaster,” I tell her, and Mac elbows me in the ribs.
“Oh, stop. It’s going to be fun—you’ll see.” She grins, shimmying into her so-called dress.
“Is Edward going to be there, by any chance?” I question, and her cheeks get pink, giving me my answer.
“He had a baseball game tonight, but the guys usually show up after.” She shrugs like it’s all the same to her, but I know that’s a lie. Edward is my sister’s sometime physical therapy client and full-time crush. He treats her like one of the guys, which drives her crazy. Really, I don’t even think he knows that she’s a woman, which means he’s an idiot and must be completely blind.
“So you’re going to dress like a hooker to see if he’ll notice that you are, in fact, a girl?”
She chews on the inside of her cheek and shrugs again.
“Leave her alone. At least she’s trying,” Libby snips, meeting my eyes in the mirror.
“I just want to know what kind of night I’m in for,” I defend myself, snipping right back at her.
“Just go put on your dress.” She pushes me out the door, then takes Mac’s hand and pulls her to take a seat on the toilet. Rolling my eyes, I go to my room and pick the dress up off the bed. I have tank tops that look longer, I think as I kick off my red Toms and jeans, then take off my shirt and tug the dress over my head. Pulling the dress down as far as it will go, I sigh when it snaps back right below my ass. Giving in to the whole look, I go to my closet and find a pair of heels and a long coat to cover the whole embarrassing ensemble.
“Are you guys America?” our cabbie asks in a thick Hispanic accent as the three of us pile into the backseat twenty minutes later.
“We’re actually hookers,” I tell him with a straight face, gaining an elbow in the ribs from Libby, whom I elbow right back.
“American hookers?” he asks, looking at us over his shoulder.
“Yep, American hookers.” Mac laughs, and Libby sighs.
“Two of my favorite things,” he says, then turns to look at the dash and starts the meter. Struggling into my coat, which I didn’t have time to put on before we left, I sink down low in the seat and pray the night ends quickly.
The ride to the bar doesn’t take long. When we arrive, I pull out a twenty-dollar bill, and in a fit of generosity/humiliation, I tell the driver to keep the change. Once I’m on my feet, I attempt, with little success, to pull down the skirt of my dress again.
“Let’s go,” Libby says, grabbing my arm and dragging me with her.
“Hey, darlin’.” A giant of a man with tan skin, dark blond hair, and blue eyes greets Mac with a southern accent as soon as we reach the door.
“Hey, Tex, how’s it going tonight?” She smiles, tipping her head back as he leans down to press a kiss to her cheek. If his accent didn’t give away that he wasn’t from around here, his plaid button-up shirt, worn blue jeans, and cowboy boots would. Not many men in Manhattan could wear what he was wearing and look hot doing it.
“Been busy.” He smiles at her; then his eyes come to Libby and me and he asks, “These your sisters?”
“Yep. Libby and Fawn, meet Big Tex.” Mac waves her hand toward him, and he smiles.
“Nice to meet you,” Libby and I greet him in unison, and his smile turns into a grin, taking his look from hot to over-the-top hot.
“You, too, ladies.” He looks at Mac again and asks, “Have you been saving your money for the next home game?”
“No, but I already know where I’m going to spend yours.” She smiles, making him chuckle.
“Wanna raise the odds?” he questions, and her face lights up. Mac loves a good bet, and it seems this guy knows it.
“Name your price.”
“Dinner. I win, you cook, you win, I’ll pay,” he states, and she tilts her head back toward the night sky, then looks back at him.