Nothing could've prepared me for the explosion of satin and frills and floral perfume marching through my apartment door at seven o'clock sharp. The Anything Goes were five women ranging in age from twenties to fifties. They wore matching dresses in different pastel colors. As I held open the door for them, they ignored me and my false smile. I hadn't even invited them in.
"Victoria Fox, I presume," the one with the pastel purple dress said.
"That's me." Slowly, I closed the door, forcing myself not to flee through it first. I even locked it so I'd stay put. Recently, though, locking this door was a struggle. The lock practically ripped off my fingers to get it to engage. I groaned as it finally slid into place.
The Anything Goes frowned at the noise and at my apartment. Their magic
