Black Diaries

13. Hot (Seat) Date

I opened the door about three seconds after the knock—but I opened it only a crack, just wide enough to stick my head out.

"Hi, Chuck," I said, a nervous grin on my face. "You, um... are two minutes early, I think."

"I am?" He glanced at his watch. "Could be. I don't set my watch that exactly. May I come in?"

"Um... not yet."

He blinked, in surprise. "What? Why—"

From behind me, out of the apartment, Jill's voice bellowed: "This is driving me nuts! Don't you have anything that isn't black?"

"I'm being primped," I explained with an apologetic smile.

"I still want to come in, Cassy. Why can't I?"

"Chuck... I have no clothes on."

He smiled. "Really? Then I definitely think you should let me in."

"But... I'm naked!" I squeaked.

"And?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as if this was no big deal.

"Tell that pervert to piss off and only to come back when we're finished!" Jill's voice echoed from the depths of my apartment. "He can sit down in the elevator and listen to stupid music until his brains boil! It means he'll be in better condition for a date, anyway!"

"Um... my best friend," I murmured, gesturing over my shoulder.

"I can't wait to meet her."

"Well, you'll have to!" Jill bellowed. "I'll be memorizing your face, Mister, just in case you turn out to be some psycho stalker nutjob! Now make yourself scarce!"

"Come on," Chuck coaxed me. "It's not like I haven't seen all of you before."

I opened my mouth, but Jill was too quick for me.

"That's not what it's about, dumbass! She's not gonna let you see her until she's ready and can hit you with the full effect of her awesome sexiness! Men, honestly! Don't you understand anything?"

Marching over to me, she gave the door a good kick and sent it flying shut.

"Jill!" I hissed at her.

"What?" She raised an eyebrow. "Don't you sound so accusatory! If you'd told me your whole wardrobe consisted of black, I'd have dragged you shopping and we could have avoided this whole fiasco."

"I like black," Chuck's muffled voice offered from outside the door. "I've got a black evening suit—and a black belt, too, by the way."

"Ha, ha. Very funny."

My arm was grabbed and I was hauled away from the door by the self-appointed fashion police, aka Jill Sanders.

"Now," she said, raising a finger in front of my face. "Sit. If you're a good puppy, you'll get a bone to chew after I'm done."

In the end, Jill put me into the only dress I owned: a black number with swirly, dark blue patterns that reached down just about to my knees. She didn't allow me to leave my hair in my usual, straight bob cut, but instead worked on it until it fell down my around my face in gleaming midnight curls. She put a necklace around my neck—one of hers, since I didn't own jewelry she considered pretty enough for the occasion—and shoved me in front of the mirror.

I had to admit, I was slightly intimidated by the elegant female staring back at me from the glass. Was this really me?

To judge by the look on Chuck's face when Jill finally let me open the door, yes, it was indeed me, and I was looking pretty nice.