No, there's a hell of a lot more going on in here than warm water and soap.

“Yeah?” Vic challenges as I struggle to keep my face neutral.

“I think he's wrong,” I retort, and then step out of the shower, closing the curtain behind me. Vic's dark chuckle follows me out as I towel-dry and dress in the proffered outfit. After a moment, I hear a very distinct sound coming from behind that curtain.

He's totally jacking-off.

My face heats up, and I snatch the heels off the back of the toilet, opening the door to find Ivy Hightower waiting, Hael standing behind her like an honor guard.

“Bernie,” she says, voice saccharine sweet, her dark hair tied up in a high pony, her makeup on point, her brows to die for. I hate the girl, but damn, she has some skills.

“Ivy,” I say, stepping out and pointedly closing the door behind me. Not only is the bastard touching himself, knowing that I was listening, but he also got me these awful lacy panties that are going to ride up my ass all day. Maybe that was the point?

There's a chair set up in the dining room area, the table laden with cosmetics. I settle in for the long haul and Ivy gets to work. Not two minutes in, and her obvious fear of Havoc fades away, allowing the gossip to spill from her pretty, painted lips in a wave.

“Billie and Kyler had this big thing at the mall this morning,” she starts, going to town cleaning up my brows with this little blue razor. “It was epic. They were screaming, and Billie was throwing things she hadn't even bought yet.”

“Fascinating,” Oscar murmurs, sighing and excusing himself to the backyard with his iPad in hand. He pauses just before heading out the door and narrows his eyes on Ivy as she picks up a tube of lipstick. “No, not that drugstore garbage. Ophelia will notice. Only quality cosmetics, please. Lord knows you’ve stolen your fair share of them.” He disappears outside as Ivy wrinkles her nose, closing one compartment on her makeup case and opening another.

“As I was saying …” Ivy continues as I do my best to drown her out, suffering her hands all over my face as she applies my makeup.

Callum manages to endure the girl's presence, sitting on the couch with one foot propped on the arm, his hands wrapped around his bare knee. His legs are crisscrossed with massive scars, the ragged lines shiny and violent, speaking to an unpleasant past. He leans forward, unfolding that lean body of his as he reaches out for his Pepsi.

“Seriously?” he asks, that deep, low voice of his causing both Ivy and me to shiver. “She said that?” It takes me a moment to realize that he’s actually engaging in gossip with this idiot. I’d completely tuned her voice out already.

“She did,” Ivy gushes, exhaling and making my wet hair flutter around my face. “Like, after you guys kicked the shit out of Kyler last week, she was storming around Prescott talking all this mad crap about how she was gonna leave him.” Ivy steps back to examine her work, frowns, and then goes for some boring-as-fuck neutral brown shadow. “Then after their thing at the mall, they met up with her brothers and Kyler’s brothers. Kali ended up texting to tell me they were talking up a pretty big game about how they could kick some Havoc ass.”

Fucking Kali. Just hearing her name pisses me off.

“Is that so?” Callum says, brushing blond hair from his forehead, his blue eyes on mine. He smiles at me, and I frown. It’s clear he’s doing this on purpose, engaging with Ivy to mine crucial social information about the residents of Prescott High.

“Oh, and it gets better,” Ivy says, but then she launches into a completely unrelated story and Cal sits back, flipping his hood up and withdrawing from the conversation again. Neither of us gives a shit about who Stacey Langford is fucking.

A few minutes later, Vic comes out, hair slicked back, dressed like a goddamn yuppie.

My heart pounds hard, and gets lodged in my throat, but I refuse to admit that he cleans up good.

“Khaki shorts, and a short-sleeved button-down? Bro, what the fuck?” Aaron asks, smoking inside with only a small window cracked, acting like he didn't use to dress that way not too long ago.

“We all do what we have to,” Victor says, turning to look at me. I'm wearing a white t-shirt with a black suit jacket, three-quarter length sleeves, and a button right in the center. Paired with a khaki skirt, and nude heels, I look like I'm on my way to a board meeting. This new outfit doesn't hide as much of my ink, but it's even less flashy than the white dress I first tried on. “Ivy, you have five minutes.”

The girl squeaks and scrambles to her feet, popping a bit of color on my lips before she tackles my hair. She twists it up expertly, hiding the pink tips in a bun, and circling the whole thing with a faux diamond-studded wrap.

“Done,” she announces, stepping back and waiting for Vic to examine me. He gives me a once-over, eyes sparkling, and then nods his approval.

“Boys, pay the girl and get her on her way.”

Oscar appears as if summoned, like an inked demon in a suit, and leads Ivy Hightower out. Just before he closes the door however, he pauses strategically to look over his shoulder.

“Bernadette Blackbird,” Vic begins, kneeling down in front of me. My brows go up as he pulls the velvet box from his pocket, and opens the top, his attention focused solely on my face. “Will you marry me?”

There's this weird disconnect between reality and this moment. My heart thunders, and my palms feel sweaty, even though I know it's all for show, it's all fake.

“Yes,” I say, my voice raspy. Aaron turns away like he can't be fucked watching, and I wait as Vic reaches out to take my hand, running his thumb over my knuckles and making me shiver.

Carefully, he slips the ring onto my finger and gives my hand a squeeze, bringing it to his lips for a kiss as Oscar shoos Ivy the rest of the way out the door.

By tomorrow, the whole school will know.

By next weekend, the entire town will know.

Can't wait to see how that turns out.

Oak Park Country Club is full of rich idiots parading around in expensive golf outfits that don't make them look cool—no, instead they just look pretentious and fluffy, like a strong wind could knock them over.

“This place sucks,” I whisper as Vic hooks his arm with mine and parades us right up to the front desk. The two bulky security guys working the entrance look at us skeptically.

“We're here as guests of Ophelia Mars,” Vic supplies smoothly, and the man at the podium checks his iPad. After a moment, he nods (albeit reluctantly) and gestures for us to go inside.

We're very clearly the only people here with ink, and the stares start within seconds of us entering the building. Without my usual bold cat-eye, racy lipstick, and leather jacket, I feel almost naked, my armor against the bullshit of the world stripped away.

“We stand out like weeds in a daisy patch,” I whisper, and Vic smirks.

“They can sense we don't buy into their bullshit. Do you know how scary that is, for people who have no souls? All they have is Prada, Gucci, and BS.” Vic pauses, and puts on this smile that's tight enough to form a garrote around my neck. “Mother.”

I turn my attention to the right and find a woman dressed not dissimilarly to me, except instead of a skirt, she's got flowing khaki-colored pants on.