“Fine,” I say, “you can take me out tonight. But I’m warning you, I’m wearing the sluttiest dress I owned in high school, and no drawers.” Because if there is another thing I learned from years of devouring Cosmo, it’s how to play easy.

“God love your trampy little heart.” Gimp laughs. “I’ll pick you up at four thirty.”

“You cleans up good,” he marvels as I slide into the truck. Eyes traced in perfect almonds of smoky black, lips painted scarlet, big honkin’ birthday infidelity diamond earrings to offset the inch and a half Monchhichi monkey doll hair that’s glued down with green apple–scented gel I found in my closet. What is the worst thing that could happen from using twenty-year-old hair product? I live on the edge of danger.

“The b’ys at the Burger King are gonna be gawkin’,” Gimp says. I note his dirty ripped jeans, plaid shirt, and grubby fleece jacket that says Northside Sharp Shooters Dart League on the breast.

“Where are we going, seriously?” I am afraid to ask, but do. Because I live on the edge of danger.

“Burger King,” he says, straight as a pin. “The nice one. Out in Town, Town. Just a couple of quick stops first.”

I flip down the sun visor and begin examining my fancy face in the mirror. I blot some lipstick onto the back of my hand and carefully dab away at the thick rim of eyeliner with the pad of my thumb. I fidget with the sky-high hem of my dress, and suddenly wish I’d worn cheaper earrings. And jeans. And a bra with a little less oomph. Maybe some drawers.

The first stop is Willy’s garage. He goes in looking like a dart-chucking greaser and comes out fifteen minutes later looking like a guy who is not, in fact, dragging a whored-up fuck buddy to the Burger King for her birthday. His white button-up shirt is crisp and clean, and ever so slightly clinging to the sharply cut peaks and valleys of his chest and arms. His shaggy hair has been smoothed and swept to the side. He ambles back out to the truck, his awkward gait looking almost like a swagger. I stop lamenting my lack of underwear.

“Christ, Gimp, are those cufflinks?”

“One hundred per cent genuine cubic zirconia,” he says, hoisting his wrists up onto the steering wheel. “There. We go together a bit better now, eh?”

“Parts of us anyway.” I stroke his leg and nip my mascara-laden eye into a playful, seductive wink.

“You’re a bad winker,” he says, as if that’s just an obvious fact. “Looks like you’re taking a seizure. Or try’na let one rip.”

“Shut up. Maybe I am.”

“Stick to crotch grabs and kissy faces.” He pats my leg, as I do my best to ignore the little orange sparks and electric blue squiggles exploding around his head. “One more surprise stop. Then, dinner.”