Now Daisy, you know you can’t get those $200 Mary Jane leather stilettos. But, then again, daddy did give you his credit card to find the outfits for your 21st birthday bash…but, at the same time I don’t want to abuse my money privileges. Okay, if nothing else comes my way I’ll get them.
“Daisy Larson?” I heard the cold, raspy voice of none other than my arch nemesis, Cindy Rousse. Her hideously beautiful red hair and green eyes were jumping out at me almost as much as her blue zebra print halter top. God, what is she now, the president of the itty-bitty-titty-committee?
“In the flesh.”
“Darling, did you get a haircut? It looks faboo! So, um, J-lo meets Taylor Swift.” I knew she was trying to get me to say something about her look. She had always had better style.
“It’s actually longer Cindy, since you last saw me. But thank you? And you, my, your red lipstick is so, Fergie meets prostitute.” I gave this cold hard stare. Her lips pursed as she thought of the comeback.
“You know, Dais, you’ve always had such a beautiful complexion. You’re turning 21, correct?” She cocked her left penciled brow.
“That’s right.”
“My, I wouldn’t say you were a day over 13.”
“At least it’s better than looking 40? Right?” Cindy was 24. She actually was the ex of my cousin Tommy.
“Hahaha,” She put a hand over her mouth and faked a giggle. “Well, I must be going. See you Saturday?”
“Can’t wait.” Then she was gone, and I swear I could see the fumes coming off her body that was smothered in cocoa Chanel.
I continued to look through the every lasting cocktail dresses at Lord&Taylor. Nothing? Really? Oh, fuck my life!
I waltzed out of the store, took out my phone, and saw I had a text from Parker Smith, my bff.
Parker: come over tonight! Slumber party at my house!
I didn’t even have to reply. She knew I would be there. I was looking down at my fathers black card when I bumped into someone.
“Ow!” My foot was penetrating.
“Sorry miss.” I was about to look up to say something very strongly worded and rather clever, but then I looked at his face.
“No, don’t worry about it. Daisy.” I reached out my hand that was wrapped in my leather jacket.
“Damien, Damien Flatch.” His big, pink lips smirked in a very handsome yet sexy way.
This man, let me tell you, was gorgeous. He had to be at least 6’4, dark hair, brown eyes, tan, wearing a white hanes t-shirt, and ripped jeans, and addidas shell toes.
“Nice to meet you, Damien.” My finger wrapped around his warm, muscular hand.
“You too.” We looked at each for a little too long before letting go.
“Um, so, are you from LA?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah. I just moved back here from Massachusetts.”
“Cool. How long have you been here?”
“Three-four weeks?”
“And in the perfect time of year? Summers here are always my favorite.”
“Yeah there pretty nice. So, how old are you?” Hopefulness filled his dark eyes.
“I’ll be 21 this Saturday.” I wiggled my shoulders.
