CHAPTER EIGHT
THEN
VIRGINIA
Step One: Say Goodbye to Virginia Miller
A few text messages last night. That’s all it took for this guy—practically a stranger—to lure me into his car.At least I’m not in the trunk.We’re sitting in his car, on the way to the nearest mall, which is a thirty-five-minute drive.
“Tell me about her,” Cam says.
Tell you about my imaginary persona? My alter ego. God, this is weird.
“Start with something easy. What’s her name?” When I don’t say anything, he looks over at me with a smile. “Mine’s going to be Parker Sunset.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Does Parker Sunset also work the pole?”
“Only because these band gigs don’t pay the bills yet.” He gives me a playful smile. “You just combine your first pet and the street you grew up on. Boom.”
“I really don’t want my alter ego to be Fish Dunewood.”
“You had a fish named Fish? How meta.”
“It was a cat named Fish, and I was seven. I thought it was funny. And I’ve already decided I’m going to be Dakota Gray. I get to keep a state name, and Gray sounds… edgy.” I fidget with the dashboard touchscreen, trying to turn on the satellite radio, while Cam asks me questions about Dakota.
It’s actually fun, once I let myself play along. I tell Cam all about her: how she loves racy clothes and her hair is black and straight—the opposite of mine. She’s wild and a little reckless; okay with losing control. She doesn’t panic and jump to conclusions, and she doesn’t have it all figured out. Dakota doesn’t care what people think—about her clothes or her voice or anything. She loves to dance. Dakota’s a seriously kick-ass guitar player and her voice is mesmerizing. And she knows it. She knows it, and she rocks it. Because Dakota Gray is fearless and badass, bold and unapologetic. Dakota Gray is everything Virginia Miller is not.
Step Two: Become Dakota Gray
Easier said than done.I’m standing outside Carnivale with my arms wrapped around my waist, like I can somehow squeeze myself out of this situation.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Maybe I can force myself to implode. Even after hours of talking about her, I obviously haven’t mastered this whole “become Dakota Gray” thing, because I’m still feeling very much like Vee Miller, Queen of Panic.
This will be the unfortunate moment I get kidnapped. They’ll shove me in the trunk of some nondescript, black four-door sedan. I won’t even be able to kick out a tail light because of these ridiculous heels. And after they drive me three states away, and dump me in a ditch somewhere, no one will even know it’s me. They probably won’t even try to identify me, because I’ll looklike a runaway hooker or something. Oh, God. I’m at the climactic midpoint of one of those dramatized late-night news specials, “Virginia Miller: An Honor Student Fallen from Grace.”
Dammit, Nonni.This is all her fault.
Somewhere between cursing my angel of a grandmother, and walking a continuous loop between Logan’s car and the door, I break into a sweat.I’m having a panic attack.The skin across my chest is burning hot and prickled with sweat, while my cold hands shake at my sides. I have no idea what a panic attack actually feels like, but I want to die, and I think I’ve earned the right to overreact a little.
I can’t go in there. I look ridiculous.
The other day, when Cam had talked me into letting him pick out an outfit for me—for Dakota—I knew I couldn’t say no. Iliterallycouldn’t say no, without lying to my eighty-year-old grandmother. And I really wanted to say no. I wanted to sayhell, no. Instead, I picked out clothes for Cam and he picked out an outfit for me. Well, for Dakota Gray. That was our deal. It was simple enough, fun even. Each of us shopped separately, ringing up our purchases and handing them over, still in their bags. We swore not to look at them until this evening. It had seemed like an okay idea, back when I thought Cam was a nice guy. The kind of guy who lets you drive his super-nice car, even though he barely knows you, and everyone has warned him you’ll mangle it. A guy who has late-night conversations in the dark, letting you ramble on about your childish fears. Butnice guysaren’t dead set on making you look ridiculous. Cam isn’t a nice guy.
Deep breath, Virginia.
Someone honks and I jump as I stand pressed up against the door, my hand wrapped around the cold metal handle. I rest my forehead against the rough wood.Son of a bitch.I take one last breath and slowly open the door, squinting as I step out of the early evening sunlight and into the dark bar.
I can do this.No, you can’t.But maybe Dakota Gray can.
Everyone is staring, and it isn’t just in my head. I know now that I’ve never actually been stared at before. Because I can actually feel it, the presence of their eyes on me. The white-haired old guy sitting at the long wooden bar. Anders, who looks like his eyebrows are about to declare war on his hairline. And Cam, whose eyes haven’t left me for a split second, since I stepped inside. The path that Cam’s eyes are traveling feels physical. From my purple velvet peep toes, up to the slick black leather leggings that look like each of my legs has been dipped in black ink, to the sequined top that hangs off one shoulder, draping delicately across my chest and down my sides. I feel his eyes burn my skin as they survey every ridiculous inch of me.
I can’t even bring myself to look at Logan, who said two words after I got into his car. He practically sprinted to get inside when we arrived. It’s always been ritual for Logan to pick me up for gigs—since we only get a few parking passes—but if I had known I’d be getting in his car looking likethis? No way.
While Logan avoids eye contact, Anders is gawking at me like the perverted old men who hang out at the beach, checking out girls half their age. “Wow, Vee, that’s some—”
I hold my hand up. “Not one word. I swear on your drum set I will smother you in your sleep.”
