Once Upon A Time(20)

Just as I managed to work out which limb needed to go in which hole, my door creaked open and in walked a determined Kylie… holding a pair of ridiculously high heels. Placing them on the bed, she winked and took a seat. At least I was dressed this time.

I took a good look at the shoes she’d dumped on my bed, a groan erupting as I thought of the sheer pain they were going to cause my calves.

“For the love of god! Are you going to just stare at them like they told you they have chlamydia? Or are you going to put them on and get your ass on the road?”

I glared at her as she stood from the bed with a stupid ass smirk on her face.

Well, I’m glad someone's finding amusement from my painful predicament.

With a wince, I slid on the nude heels and I was surprised to find they’re a lot more comfortable than I first thought. I suppose they should be: they were Louboutins. Way out of my price range. And comfort zone, for that matter.

“See? You’re hot shit. Er, except for the hair, the hair has to go.” Kylie smirked.

“The fuck’s wrong with my hair?”

Kylie stepped in my personal space and started playing around with my hair, biting her tongue as she concentrated hard. Kylie loved anything remotely connected to the world of beauty and style. Hence the Louboutins and ridiculously priced clothing she forced me into. I winced when I saw the price tags that hung from the blouse alone. She hadn't worn it.

Prada.

Seven hundred dollars of fucking Prada.

The fuck did they do? Spin it with gold?

My upbringing was a little different from Kylie’s. Okay, a lot different from Kylie’s. Her father and step-mother were what you'd call socialites. Her father was a senator and her step-mother was just there as pretty arm candy. Kylie's used to the designer clothes and fancy restaurants, whereas I was used to stretching every cent until my next paycheck. My parents where working class. My mother worked two jobs when I was a kid, waiting tables during the day and working at a bar at night. My father worked as a mechanic the auto shop he owned. Money wasn't something we were accustomed to. If I needed new clothes we went to a thrift shop. Food came in cans rather than fancy restaurants, and a movie theatre? I’d never stepped foot in one until the day I got my first paycheck from Blue Stone PR.

I loved my parents dearly; both of them were very much involved in my life. They'd helped me work tirelessly to ensure my education got me further than they ever did. I finished high school and was offered grants to the college I dreamed of, catapulting me into a world where dreams were grazing at your fingertips. I was determined to finish college and get my ass into PR. And that’s exactly what I did.

“Will you get your fingers out of my hair! It’s too early to deal with your primping obsession.” I batted her hands away and tried to straighten the mass of hair she’d just gracefully planted on my head. “Minus your obvious distaste for my hair... how do I look?”

“Like a hot mess.” She laughed, wiggling her eyebrows. “Now go, and please try to not make an absolute fool of yourself.”

“That wasn't my fault!” I yelled; the memory – my first, painful, experience of high-end clothes shopping trip – now fresh in my mind. “There was a fucking shoe on the damn floor.”

“You slid ten feet across the marble floor of Vera Wang. In a summer dress.”

“The shoe,” I whined.

“There was no shoe.”

I place my hand on my hip. “I swear, there was a shoe.”

“The evidence is on YouTube, Pay. You tripped over your own feet in the middle of the store and slid right across the floor, exposing your ass to the entire staff and customers.” She laughed, trying to hide it behind a very forced cough. “Your face was priceless!”

“You were pointing and laughing at me!”

“I helped you up!” She threw her hands up in mock surrender.

“Yeah, after you pointed and laughed at me for twenty full minutes. I was too embarrassed to move!”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Then there was the treadmill incident.”

Bitch. I didn't need reminding of the tragic face-planting moment in the gym, especially running so late.

I rolled my eyes. “Do we have to bring that up?”

“Hey, you’re the one that face-planted on the treadmill.”

“Because you sent me an picture of someone’s – you still haven’t told me who – cock!” I pointed, remembering all too well about said picture.

“What a mighty fine cock it was too.” She sighed, looking at her watch. “Shit! Pay, get your butt in gear, girl. You have thirty minutes!”

“Fuck! I swear, if I’m late, I’m burning your Louboutin collection,” I grumbled, grabbing my purse and slinging it over my shoulder as I dashed for my apartment door.