Against my will, I found myself at the party, trailing behind Clarissa. She’d dressed me up—or rather, thrown some pieces at me that barely counted as an outfit. The skirt, a black leather mini, clung to my hips and stopped scandalously high, each step sending cool air across my thighs. The side zipper gleamed, reminding me just how little it covered. Clarissa paired it with a loose, oversized jacket bearing THE DRIVER’S ERA scrawled across the back—her favourite band, of course. Beneath the jacket, I wore a cropped tank top that hugged my torso. On my feet, glossy Mary Jane pumps added a bit of retro charm, and I’d haphazardly thrown my hair into a messy ponytail, leaving a few strands to fall across my forehead.
Makeup? No chance. When Clarissa tried to layer it on, I slapped her hand a
