“Yeah, that should be fine. I just figured we should try to make ourselves look as closely related as possible,” she said. “You know, to sell the whole cousin story.”
“Good idea.”
We ended the call on that note, and I gulped down my iced coffee before grabbing my laptop. I wanted to message Julian to ask what he'd done with Kane, but without his number, my only option was to check the BHU student directory and hope it listed an email address for him.
A few seconds after I put his name in the directory search bar, my phone buzzed with a message from a number I’d never seen before.
Thinking about me?
Frowning, I shot off a quick reply.Who is this?
It’s Julian. Now you have my number.
I sat bolt upright, head whipping toward the window to see if anyone was spying on my laptop screen through the curtains. But there were no shadows there. No one was watching me.
This was just a coincidence, I told myself. Julian probably assumed that I was thinking about him because of all the crazy stuff that went down last night, and to be fair, he was right. Iwasthinking about him.
I sent another message.What did you do with Kane last night?
Julian:I took care of him, just like I promised. He won’t be bothering you again.
Me:What exactly do you mean when you say you ‘took care’ of him? It sounds really ominous. Did you take him to the hospital? Or…
I didn’t finish the last sentence. Just hit ‘send’ with the implication hanging there.
I waited ten minutes, but Julian never replied.
Dammit.
Despite the lack of response, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was somehow looking at me right now. Watching me type. Reading over my shoulder.
That really should’ve scared the shit out of me.
Instead, it sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear, and as I stared at the screen, pulse fluttering in my throat, all I could think was how badly I wanted to know what Julian would do next.
My International BusinessStrategy professor ended the lecture fifteen minutes early, so I wound up at Cherry's door at 2:15. She answered on the first knock, grabbing my wrist and pulling me inside with barely-contained excitement.
“Perfect timing. I just got back,” she said, gesturing to an open duffel bag on her bed. Theater props and costume pieces had spilled out across her comforter. “Check this out. I raided the prop closet.”
I raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”
“Only if you're attached to your current hair color.” She reached into the bag and pulled out a large aerosol can that looked like industrial-strength hairspray. “This is temporary lightening spray. It's what we use in productions when we need quick color changes between scenes. Washes out in two shampoos.”
I took the can from her, reading the label. “You want to make me blonde?”
“Blonde-ish,” she corrected, pulling her own hair forward to examine the color. “We need to look related, right?” She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Unless you'd prefer option two.”
She pulled a wavy blonde wig from the bag with a theatrical flourish, holding it up like a crown.
I couldn't help but laugh. “That looks...”
“Super fake?” Cherry grinned. “Yeah, stage pieces don't always translate well to real life. The spray's probably better. Though I have to say, you'd make a pretty convincing blonde. It would really make your eyes pop.”
“Let's just stick with the spray,” I said. “I don't think I can pull off the wig.”
“Fair enough.” She tossed it back into the bag and grabbed a towel from her closet, draping it around my shoulders. “Bathroom? This stuff can get messy.”
Thirty minutes later, I was staring at my reflection in Cherry's full-length mirror, barely recognizing myself. My brown hair had lightened to a honey-blonde that caught the light when I moved, and I was surprised to see that it actually suited me. Cherry stood beside me, newly green-eyed thanks to colored contacts she’d ‘borrowed’ from the theater, and we'd both applied matching makeup—sharp black eyeliner with a subtle wing, nude lipstick, and just enough blush to look healthy but not overdone.
