“All the time.” He laughs. “We’re dirty little secrets they wish to have but refuse to tell their friends about.”

I flick my eye to the blue sky above. “Now that you put it that way, it sounds about right.”

Pathetic, but right.

Cali and Scott both said they use the whole blackout bit to hook up, so I’m sure there are many more ‘Sammies’ where she came from. Minus the dresses, or so Beretta claims.

We don’t talk much after that, and before I know it, we’re pulling up to my house, my car somehow already parked in the driveway.

My gaze slices to theirs, but all I’m met with are blank expressions.

I shake my head, fighting a grin as I gather my things, but I don’t ask questions.

Arsen steps out, and instead of lifting his seat, he reaches for my hands and motions for me to step up on the edge of the car. I do and his free hand finds my hips, gently lifting and setting me on the ground.

He pushes my hair from my shoulder, winks and slips back inside.

“Well, I owe you guys a thanks,” I say with my eyes on my house, slowly looking their way once more.

Ransom’s head falls back on the headrest, a single brow lifting. “For?”

I pull my lipstick out of the side pocket of my bag, quickly gliding it along my lips. I rub them together with a light pop and tap my palm on the frame of the door, redirecting their eyes up to mine.

“Good night, boys.”

I turn and walk away.

Inside, I toss the little black tube in the air, catching it on its way down, and head toward my bedroom, but before I reach my door, my sister appears, leaning a shoulder on the frame of her own.

“Well, look at that.” She crosses her arms with a grin. “She does smile.”

Was I smiling?

I keep my shoulders straight. “Smiles are not rare, dear sister.”

“No,” she says lightly as I continue past her, but it’s not until I reach my room that she adds, “only the real ones.”

My muscles freeze, but only for the shortest of seconds, and I jolt forward. Tossing my bag on my dresser, I fly into the bathroom, yank the drawer open, and tear into the small glass box.

In the mirror, I stare at my own eyes, a hazel-like color not all that different from Beretta’s, at the maroon liner framing the black painted wing curved along my eyelids, a shade rivaling the natural highlights of Arsen’s hair, at my lips... painted a rich, creamy red.

Kiss From The Devil, my go-to shade.

Ransom’s favorite color, or so he claimed.

I lift the makeup remover wipe and swipe it over my mouth until every little hint of the lipstick is gone.

What the hell is the matter with me?