Free Hardass (Bad Bitch) by Christina Saunders

desire that coated each and every note.
    “You’re doing that thing again.” Terrell sized me up in the mirror as I finished my makeup. He wore a black velvet jacket, a button-down shirt open at the top, and some dressy jeans. Handsome as always.
    “What thing?” I dropped my mascara and stood, as ready as I was going to be.
    “The thing you’ve been doing for the past two days. Where you space out and your cheeks pink up like a hooker wearing too much rouge.” He smoothed a hand over his close-cropped curls and turned back to me. “At least you look hot tonight. Just try to stay present. If you zone out and Trent catches you drooling, we’ll have a problem.”
    “I don’t drool.” I ran my hands down my black dress. I didn’t have far to go—the hemline was almost scandalous, and the neckline wasn’t much better. I was already having second thoughts about wearing it.
    “Well, let’s not test the theory. Make a good impression.” He twirled his finger at me in the mirror. “Let me see the whole thing.”
    I did as requested and turned around, giving him the entire three-sixty. When I stopped and looked up at him, waiting for him to say no, he smiled. “Perfect. Now, what shoes were you thinking?”
    “Maybe black pumps?”
    He snorted. “No. Unless you have some Louboutins you haven’t told me about?”
    “That’s the funniest thing you’ve said in weeks.”
    “We both know that’s a lie. I’m the cleverest person you know.” He was right. His dry wit had gotten many a laugh out of me over the years.
    I peeked over my shoulder at my ass in the mirror. It was acceptable, the dress’s slinky fabric draping nicely. My hair hung down my back in a blond curtain. It had taken me half an hour with the flat iron to get it all straight.
    Terrell went to my barely walk-in closet and flipped on the light. He took two steps inside and perused my shoe collection. It was respectable, but not fabulous by any means.
    “No, no, no.” He ticked off a list of negativity as he studied the shoe rack.
    “That’s all I got, Terrell. I don’t have any Lynch money to buy new ones, so choose wisely.”
    He pushed some of my suits to the side and let out an “ooohh.”
    I rolled my eyes. I knew which ones he’d found. “I’m not wearing those.”
    He pulled out the red stilettos with the strap around the ankle. “Yes you are.”
    “I’ll look like a prostitute!” I reached past him and grabbed a more dignified pair of black patent pumps.
    He slapped my hand, and I dropped the black shoes at his feet.
    “These are perfect, Caroline. Trust me.”
    “I can’t go to a firm party wearing red hooker heels.” I put my hand on my hip and shook my head.
    “You still have that red necklace I got you last Christmas? With the matching earrings?”
    “Yes. I just don’t wear them much because they’re too fancy for work.”
    “You’re finally right about fashion. Correct answer. They’re perfect with this outfit, though. So get them.” He pulled my black wool coat from its hanger and shooed me out of the closet.
    I retrieved the jewelry, and he fastened the necklace—silver accented by red gemstones, with a longer strand down the front that ended between my breasts. The earrings were matching teardrops.
    I strapped the shoes on my feet, grumbling the entire time as Terrell tapped his oxford on the wood floor. “Come on. Fashionably late is turning into dick late.”
    I stood and managed to walk without a wobble. The straps at the ankle gave a surprising amount of stability. Though I was curvy, the dress hit me in all the right spots. Terrell was right. The shoes really made the whole ensemble.
    “My ugly duckling is finally a beautiful swan.” He helped me into my coat.
    “I’ve never been an ugly duckling.” The coat at least gave me some semblance of modesty. Terrell might have to force me at gunpoint to take it off.
    He kissed my forehead. “I know. It’s called hyperbole. Read a book sometime,