Million Dollar Devil

18.

My hands search blindly for the pressed powder somewhere beneath the mountain of makeup taking over my bathroom counter. Black liner wings out from my eyes in sharp cat-eye flicks, lashes curled to perfection, and silky curls cascade down my back. The result of an hour of blood, sweat, and very expensive heat protectant. Music thumps from my bedroom speaker, something poppy and overproduced.

My dress hangs elegantly on the back of my door, lit by a warm pool of lamplight. It looks like something out of a dream. Fitted silk, long and sleek, the kind of dress that makes you feel like a woman people write poems about.

I feel like a teenager getting ready for homecoming. Giddy. A little unhinged. A little drunk on the anticipation.

I lose myself in the rhythm as I blot my face mindlessly, half-singing along. I pause, mid-note, squinting at my reflection as I contemplate the question of red lipstick. Is it too much? Too bold?

"Fuck it," I whisper, grabbing the brightest shade I own and painting my lips with surgical precision. I rub them together, blending the color until it's exactly the kind of dangerous I want to be tonight.

I dance out of the bathroom, hips swaying, hands in the air like I'm already beneath a chandelier and a thousand champagne bubbles deep. Spinning around and around, I feel my grin stretch across my face. My fingers brush against the soft fabric of my dress as I pluck it from the hanger. I step into it slowly, letting it slide up my body. The material hugs me like it was made for me. Tight in all the right places, dangerously high slit, neckline daring but not desperate. I feel a spark of confidence bloom in my chest.

Slipping into my stilettos, I stand up taller. Literally and figuratively. In the mirror, I look like someone who knows exactly what she's doing.

I snap a quick picture and send it to Dominique with a winking emoji. Her response comes in less than ten seconds: ten rows of heart-eyes, flame emojis, and something that looks vaguely like a devil.

I laugh and toss my phone into my clutch, along with lipstick, powder, and a breath mint just in case.

I snag my keys and head out the door, the sound of my heels echoing down the hallway.

I barely have time to pull up directions before my phone buzzes again. Taylor. Of course. I stare at her name for a moment, already knowing what this is. I answer anyway, against my better judgment.

"Hello?" I say, too brisk.

"Hey girl," Taylor's chipper voice comes through the speaker, and I can already hear the bad news clinking in the background, probably from whatever rooftop bar she's parked herself at.

"So, Dominique's daughter is sick and she asked me to cover her shift at Lilac's but I, um, can't."

I groan internally.

"She told me not to ask you, but no one else will do it and I figured I'd just try."

My stomach twists. Dominique had told me just last week that another missed shift could cost her the job. I press my fingers to my temple, the beginnings of a headache blooming.

I close my eyes. Deep breath.

"What time?" I ask, voice low and defeated.

"In like an hour," she says, already half-tuned out.

"Don't tell Dominique it's me," I say after a beat. "She wouldn't want me to cover. But I'm not letting her lose this job."

"Yeah, totally," Taylor says as if she is barely paying attending at this point, and then hangs up without another word.

I stand frozen in the hallway for a moment before trudging back upstairs, the weight of my heels dragging against the concrete. Inside, I kick them off at the door and watch them land with a soft, mocking thud.

It's just a party. It doesn't matter.

But I know I'm lying. To myself, mostly.

I shrug out of the dress slowly, letting it pool at my feet. The silk feels colder now, lifeless against my skin. I stare at my reflection in the mirror and feel something sink low in my gut. A single tear escapes down my cheek before I can stop it.

There she is.

Rose.

Not Lilly.

The persona I thought I could pack away for the night. But here she is again, pulling me back into the same smoke-filled room, the same beat-driven trance, the same hollow numbness.

I toss on a sweatshirt and shorts before grabbing a strappy set and a pair of clear heels from the closet. As I leave, the door slams harder than I intend. My arms wrap around my chest as I move down the stairs, the night already heavy before it's even started.

When I arrive, Jack's at the door. The neon lights of Lilac's flash behind him, pulsing red like a bad omen.

"Didn't think you were on tonight," he says, lifting his chin in greeting.

"Covering for Dominique," I mumble, trying for a smile but only managing half of one.

He nods and opens the door for me, and I step inside. The music hits first, a thick, heavy bass that seeps into my bones.

The scent of perfume, sweat, and liquor follows. I push through it, heading toward the dressing room. I don't cough anymore, I'm used to it now.

I peel off my clothes, hanging them neatly in my locker before slipping into the set. As I buckle the heels, I don't feel like Cinderella anymore.

I don't feel like anyone, just a silhouette.

No champagne. No string quartet. No stolen glances or slow dances.

Tonight, I'm not a girl in red lipstick and a silk dress.

Tonight, I'm not Lillian.

Tonight, I'm just Rose.