Chapter 13
MARILYN
“You are officially bat-s**t crazy, you know that?”
I slide into the elevator beside Kayla, just as the doors start to close, my silky dress’s ruffle almost getting caught in the fray. Fabric the color of an overly ripe strawberry swishes inside the lift behind me, and as the now closest woman in my life yells at me, I notice my reflection in the silver polish of the elegant car, the matching lipstick, the dark mascara.
Waves tamed with Kayla’s emergency mousse and bobby pins, I could almost pass for a lady.
But we all know the truth.
Ten minutes after my publicist tears like a Tasmanian devil inside my hotel suite, I do a fantastic job of pretending I want to be here. In this elevator. This hotel.
This life.
I hate cocktail dresses. Hate them.
Their only redeem
