“Is that a promise?” I mumbled.

I would actually have to talk to Hunter tomorrow, after five days of radio silence. To my surprise, my hatred toward him had somewhat dissipated, fizzling to a small flicker of dislike.

“Persy and I have reached the conclusion that for Hunter to grow up and take responsibility, and for you to…well, get a life and a clue, you guys need to fall in love,” Belle explained, knocking on the metal door that rattled against her ring-filled fingers.

If Persephone was conventionally beautiful, Emmabelle was a risqué pinup girl who’d never be tamed. Persy wore a red polka-dot dress, while Emmabelle wore condom-tight leather pants and a holey white designer shirt that probably cost a fortune. Her lips were big, pouty, and infinitely red, her eyes dark blue, like the ocean on a stormy day. If Hunter thought I had a mouth on me, Belle would demolish him completely, all while looking like a long-lost Hadid sister.

“The only person Hunter Fitzpatrick is capable of loving is himself. Even then, he does a shitty job. Look at all the mess he got himself into,” I pointed out.

Belle and Percy were the only people I had told about my agreement with Hunter other than my family. I knew they would never tell a soul and trusted them with my life.

The door whined, straining against its own rust as it was yanked open. An old, wrinkly man with white hair wearing a heavy-duty vinyl butcher apron nodded hello, leading us to his backyard silently. He smelled of raw meat and sweat, not exactly like Macy’s. We followed him as he stomped toward a shed. I was about to ask my friends if this was a spontaneous escape room when he unlocked it, opened the door, and motioned us inside without coming in.

“Everything is seventy percent off retail. No receipts. No returns,” he said sternly, turned around, and tramped away.

I stared at my two friends, bewildered.

Belle shrugged, tearing her sunhat off her head and boomeranging it to her sister. “Retail is just another word for devil, and the devil wears Prada. Coincidentally, I cannot afford Prada. But I can afford this.”

“How does he get his hands on these clothes?” My eyes flared, not that I had the right to be preachy. My father ran a less-than-clean shop, and Sam followed his footsteps. The difference was, I had nothing to do with their affairs.

“He’s got guys who raid vessels before they reach the port. Super Wild West. They know where to look, what to…extract.” Emmabelle snickered, flipping the light switch on with a familiarity that suggested she was a regular visitor, and sauntered deeper into the room. The place was full of racks. Rows and rows of wedding dresses, ballroom gowns, and upmarket frocks I’d only seen Hollywood starlets wearing. I opened my mouth, about to tell them this wasn’t a good idea, when Persy pressed a finger to my lips, shutting me up.

“Look, I’m not a huge fan of this, either. But you hate shopping malls and busy streets and…you know, people. This is our best shot.”

“This is wrong,” I whispered.

I always turned a blind eye to what my dad and Sam did. It helped me love them wholly. But that didn’t mean I agreed with how they chose to make money.

“C’mon, Sailor.” Emmabelle chuckled, her upper body already obscured by lush fabrics as she sifted through the dresses. “The only people who get screwed over are top designers who charge two grand for a dress that costs fifty bucks to make. The US economy will not collapse if you buy one evening dress.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath.

“Okay, just choose whatever you think won’t make me look like a fancy dessert.”

Persy clapped her hands, making her way past her sister to the XXS rack and browsing through it. I gnawed at the dead skin around my thumbnail as they plucked garment after garment they wanted me to try on, hanging them on their forearms.

My phone pinged in my back pocket. I took it out and read the text message.

HHH: Don’t forget about Saturday’s fundraiser.

Sailor: Who is this?

HHH: How many people are you planning on going to a fundraiser with?

Sailor: Hunter? You added yourself to my contacts?

HHH: The fact that I’m there is pretty self-explanatory.

Sailor: How dare you touch my things!

HHH: Easy, killer. I didn’t touch your phone.

Sailor: Then how did you get here?

HHH: I asked a hacker friend to add me into your contacts.

Sailor: WHAT?

HHH: You’re more easily scandalized than a 16th century British duchess. Calm your tits, Carrot Top. I didn’t look through your shit.

HHH: (not that I would find anything interesting there)

Sailor: Do you realize how illegal that is?

HHH: Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t remember your daddy being one of the nine justices of the Supreme Court.

HHH: Older bro doesn’t seem to be working toward a law degree, either.

Sailor: I’m going to kill you.

HHH: Stand in line, sweetheart. You’re not even one of the first twenty people waiting.

HHH: And you still haven’t answered me about Saturday. Btw, you can’t wear yoga pants and a hoodie there. Especially on my arm.

Sailor: Let’s take a little detour—what does HHH stand for?

HHH: Hot, Handsome Hunter, naturally.

Sailor: I’m speechless right now.

HHH: A picture is said to be worth a thousand words. Send nudes.

Sailor: I don’t think I’ll be able to stand you for consecutive hours.

Persy and Belle burst out laughing from the corner of the room, drawing my attention. I looked up from my phone, having a light bulb moment. This could alleviate some of the fundraiser problem. I started typing before Hunter had the chance to send me another snide comment, the three dots next to his name already dancing.

Sailor: I want to invite two of my friends to the charity event, but you’ll have to foot the bill.

HHH: I smell a negotiation.

Sailor: I’m not letting you drink or hook up with someone in our apartment.

HHH: You’re not exactly selling this arrangement to me, CT.

CT? Carrot Top. Goddammit.

Sailor: What do you want?

HHH: What are you offering? ; )

I thought about it. Belle and Persy were talking about how they’d do my hair and makeup in the background. Yes. Having them there would take the pressure off, and I’d have someone to hold me back when I was ready to pounce on Hunter and kill him. Plus, they loved fancy events. They’d have so much fun.

Sailor: You can have one beer.

HHH: I’m sorry, do I look twelve?

Fair point, but I really didn’t want to bend the rules too much.

Sailor: My friends are hot. Hanging out with them alone will be a good time.

HHH: Nothing like shooting the shit with hot girls when you’re fucking celibate. Up your game, CT.

Sailor: Stop calling me that!

HHH: Stop looking like him!

Sailor: Why don’t you just tell me what you want?

HHH: Why, I thought you’d never ask. A kiss.

Sailor: From who?

HHH: A flame-haired banshee.

There was a fluttery, warm thing struggling to break free behind my sternum, and I sucked in a breath, feeling my entire body tingle. I hoped it was the heart attack I clearly deserved for considering kissing him.

Sailor: Why? You call me Carrot Top and think I’m obnoxious.

I felt my fingertips growing sweaty as I typed.

HHH: Carrot Top is not obnoxious. He’s actually pretty funny for a thousand year old. Yes or no?

Sailor: That’s cheating. You’re supposed to be celibate.

HHH: There’s an ocean between kissing and fucking. More specifically, the visual offense you refer to as clothes.

Sailor: You’re disgusting.

HHH: And you’re tempted. You want to try me for a ride. See what the fuss is all about.

Sailor: Don’t put words into my mouth.

Hunter: What about other things? ; )

Sailor: You can’t even stand to look at me. It’s been five days since you acknowledged my existence.

HHH: It’s been five days since I looked in the mirror, old sport. Shit’s been intense. YES OR NO?

Sailor: When?

HHH: Whenever the right moment presents itself. My call.

Sailor: No tongue.

HHH: Yes tongue, no fondling.

Sailor: YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE ME.

HHH: Jesus, what does liking you have to do with this? You’re the only available female in my radius.

Sailor: Thanks.

HHH: Welcs.

Sailor: The kiss will mean nothing.

HHH: Should’ve said that before I printed out our wedding invitations. Wear a dress.

“We found it!” Persy shrieked, waving one of the gowns by its hanger.

I looked up, my cheeks so hot, I was sure I looked like I was going to explode.

“Whoa.” Emmabelle dropped a heap of clothes to the floor, her eyes zoning in on my face. “Why do you look like you just got invited to your own funeral, Sailor?”

“Because…” I tore another, final piece of dead skin from the corner of my thumb with my teeth. “I think I just did.”