Chagrin Confessions

Chapter Nine: Red Bull Gives You Fractures.

Sorry for taking long time to update, to compensate, here's an extra long chapter. Lulz.

The song is for the club scene onwards.

*

"Cassieee!!! I know you're in there! Open up you chicken shit!" Nova yells, ringing the doorbell like a lunatic while simultaneously knocking on the door.

If I stay really quiet, she might leave.

Hopefully.

"OPEN THE DAMN DOOR WOMAN! Or would you like your neighbours to know your dirty, little secrets, you know I'm not above spilling them. Remember this one time you took an Uber ride to Times Square and you forgot to wear a tamp-"

"NOVA! Shut up!" I yell, while running to the door. She'll never let me forget that incident. It's the reason I avoid taking Uber rides now, I'm worried I'd run into the same driver because fate and karma are two old hags that love to laugh at my expense.

She cackles like the witch she is while I open the door.

"You're a horrible best friend." I sneer, while throwing her daggers with my eyes. She laughs and enters the house, throwing her purse on the couch and heading down the hallway to my bedroom, with two bags in her hands.

"Oh, make yourself at home, why don't ya? You wretched witch."

She flips me the bird while entering my bedroom as I follow her, and proceeds to open my closet and taking -more like throwing- out clothes onto the bed.

"You dress like my granny, don't you have anything suitable for the club in here?"

Rolling my eyes, I stop her assault and motion her to sit on the bed. "You know I'm not into the clubbing scene. So no. Stop dissing my clothes. I'm going to wear jeans and a black top and that's as cliché as I'm getting."

She gasps, and gives me that are-you-fucking-kidding-me look. "There's no way I'm letting you do that. It's the opening of an upscale nightclub, with lots of VIPs and press covering the opening. Are you absolutely mad?"

Wait, what?

"Nova, are you shitting me right now? Press? I'm definitely not coming. You know I avoid being in the spotlight like you avoid using oil while cooking meat."

"Butter is better to savour meat. And don't fuss over it. There's too many VIPs and celebrities showing up, I highly doubt you'd be in any spotlight. But you cannot dress down. They won't let you in." She says, while giving me a stern glare and pursing her lips.

"How are we getting in then? There has to be a long waiting list and reservations must have been booked months ago."

"Are you forgetting that I'm an A-list chef in Middle Manhattan? Of course I got tickets to enter. Plus the co-owner is a darling regular client of mine, and I always hook him up with reservations at L'anatra Arancione, so he owes me." She says, with a tinge of pride in her tone. Heck, I'm proud of her, she's built herself up from scratch and worked hard on her image as a no-nonsense chef with a respect for creative food art and quality taste.

I sigh in defeat, and slide on my favourite pair of tight black jeans, and pick out two seemingly reasonable, yet elite club-worthy tops. One is a sparkly, black top with two spaghetti straps and a V-neckline, and the other is a halter-neck, creamy, lace crop-top.

"Choose. These are the best two I have for a party to be paired with these jeans."

She eyes them carefully, looking from my pants to the tops, to my face, and back again to my pants, all in a rotating cycle. She looks at them one last time before pointing at the creamy top.