The moment Naomi's eyes met his, she was toast. Burnt toast. The kind that sets off the smoke alarm and has the neighbors wondering what fresh hell you've gotten yourself into this time.
He was a kingpin, a power player in a world hidden beneath the...
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Seriously, who knew that getting to the washroom could be an Olympic-level challenge? But finally, after what feels like an eternity of dodging drunk morons and nearly losing an eye to a rogue stiletto, I see it: the washroom door, my gateway to a moment of sanity.
A guy in a wrinkled button-down stumbles past, shouting something unintelligible to his friends. Dude, your dad would be so proud right now. Actually, scratch that—mine wouldn't be either if he saw me here. Wait, who am I kidding? He'd probably high-five me and tell me to party harder.
'Live like there's no tomorrow,' he always says. After all, if my free-spirited, former rock-band-roadie dad can become a responsible-ish adult, there's hope for the rest of us fucked-up souls here.
I lurch forward, my vision clouding—everything sounds distant and muffled. Is this what it feels like to be inside a snow globe? A very loud, very drunk snow globe?
The sticky floor sucks at my strappy heels as I push into the washroom, revealing a scene straight out of a teen drama. There's a girl hunched over the sink, crying her eyes out. Her mascara is running down her cheeks in black rivers, making her look like a sad panda in one of those emo music videos.
But hey, who am I to judge?We've all been there, right? Okay, maybe not exactly there, but close enough. I sidestep the sob fest and make my way to the mirror. Time for a little self-assessment.
Well, would you look at that? Despite feeling like I've been put through a human car wash, I actually don't look half bad. My makeup is still hanging in there like a champ. Slay, queen.
I look... good? This halter top—oh, this halter top—is a devilish contraption designed by someone who clearly wanted to make a statement that screams, 'I'm fabulous, and I don't care if I can't breathe properly.' It's black and it's got this neckline so low it's having a chat with my belly buttons. My back? It's held together by what I can only assume is a combination of hope, prayer, and a single, solitary string that's probably made from unicorn hair.
The denim shorts are waging war on my ribcage, riding higher than my college tuition. And the way they're showing off my butt? Let's just say that if denim could talk, these shorts would be screaming, 'Look at this peach, y'all! It's a masterpiece!' And if that's not worth a little bit of discomfort, then I don't know what is.
I run my fingers through my hair, feeling like I'm wrestling with a sentient cotton candy machine. My locks are cascading down my back in waves that would make the ocean say, 'Honey, you might want to invest in a good conditioner.' They're probably collecting more split ends than I have brain cells left after this party. The color? Caramel praline. Sounds fancy, right? More like 'couldn't afford to fix my roots for six months, so I'm calling it ombre.'
