( @wtfrohan )
Lara’s laundry pile was getting high enough that her adult card should have been revoked from her and tossed beneath a train as it blasted by. Those were Lara Bennett’s thoughts as she assumed the identity of Deanne--but everyone called her ‘De’, even the man on her arm--or rather, on his arm. Her thoughts were no longer filled with the mental image of her laundry hamper, but instead a dark night lit up with fairy lights. --Bodies wore elaborate clothing to contrast their mundane personalities. There was enough money running through the party that the royal family was quaking in their boots.
Lara is composed of heels, a satin red lip, smokey eyes, and a red suit. The blouse becomes lace just above the chest, extending up to her neck. Plenty of eyes had stared a little too long below her chin, and if Lara was not fighting the urge to scratch her skin until it bled--she might have noticed.
The hand at the small of her back brought her back to the current state of affairs. Lara and her client removed themselves from an older couple--and for once, Lara found interest. Rohan. She quickly scanned the room--surely they were not going to exchange goods here.
Her throat clears. “Who’s this?”
“Molly, meet Rohan. Rohan, meet Molly, my girlfriend.”
Damn fucking right.
Because Rohan was Lara’s best friend and knew, all too damn well, how many murders 'Molly’ would commit to marry Gal Gadot, Alicia Keys, and Jennifer Lopez three times over. Nicholas Sparks wishes.
