Sorority Girls With Guns

by Cat Caruthers

  “The buyer usually does, unless you choose to offer free shipping,” I say. “Prices usually go a little higher on free shipping items, but you lose more of your profit margin. And there's no guarantee we'd get more with free shipping, so I wouldn't recommend that.”

  “Okay, so we won't do free shipping,” Tiffany says. “That way we can keep all fourteen dollars profit.”

  “That's an average,” I remind her.”One of those pairs of jeans only went for $42, which would be below our acquisition cost.”

  Tiffany frowns. “Why is someone selling so cheap if they're losing money?”

  “It's possible they found those same jeans somewhere for a lot cheaper than $39.99,” I say. “Or they could be a gift someone doesn't want.”

  “Idiot.” Morgan snorts.

  “Or they could have shoplifted those jeans.”

  “Yeah, well, that would lose us the bet,” Tiffany mumbles, covering her button.

  “So, we'd need to get at least $44,” Morgan says. “Since the average sale price is $51.99-”

  “But we haven't gotten to the biggest problem yet,” I say. “Have you ever heard of a final value fee?”

  Tiffany stares at me blankly. Morgan winces. “I have a feeling I'm not going to like this,” she says. “What is it, two or three percent?”

  “In clothing and most of the popular categories, it's almost fifteen percent,” I say.

  I see the wheels turning behind Morgan's blue eyes. “$37.40!” she yells. “If we sold for $44, we'd only make $37.40, so we'd actually lose $6.60!”

  “Noooo!” Tiffany wails, flopping onto her bed face down. “How does anyone make any fucking money with this thing?”

  “By buying stuff for way less than the prices we saw at that outlet,” I say. “Or dumpster diving. Apparently, some dumb rich people throw away some really good stuff. And that would be very, very green.” I've actually been planning this since I came up with the idea, but I was going to wait a few days. Since Tiffany got started on the Feebay idea, we might as well start now.

  Morgan frowns. “Most people I know donate stuff instead of throw it away.”

  “That's the other thing,” I say. “You can sometimes buy stuff at thrift stores and sell at a profit.”

  “Thrift stores!” Tiffany sits up, like a zombie rising from the dead on one of those stupid CW shows. “I didn't even think of that when I went shopping before our trip!”

  Morgan looks at her watch. “We don't have time to go before the party.”

  “No, but we could go tomorrow.” Tiffany looks at her suitcase. “I guess I can find something to wear tonight.”

  “I'll Google the nearest thrifts,” I say, closing the Feebay app. “You have to remember though, not all thrifts have a lot of great stuff to sell. Some mostly have worthless mart-store stuff.”

  Morgan's eyes go wide. “You're right. We don't want to hit the ones in this area, we want to find a wealthy area with a lot of rich people and visit the nearest thrift shop to that!”

  “You're right.” I stop, my finger poised above the screen. “I know how to do that, too. We learn how to find the richest areas in marketing. It'll take some research, but I can find the best thrift within, say twenty miles.”

  “It'll be a road trip for tomorrow!” Tiffany says.

  “Yeah.” I put down my phone. “Let's just hope they have a lot of good stuff, or else we'll just be wasting money on gas.”

  “I'm sure they'll have great stuff,” Tiffany says. “If I think good thoughts, good things will happen!”

  “And if you keep those good thoughts to yourself, I might not smack you,” I mumble.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I don't care what anyone says: Cheap clothing looks cheap, and expensive clothing looks better. It's not that this Forever 21 dress doesn't look good on me; the black vinyl hugs my curves in all the right places. The skirt stops at mid-thigh on me, which means it was meant to be a panty-flasher on an average-height girl, but I'm pretty limber - I could make it work as a panty-flasher, I assure you.

  But the material is cheap. The seams were machine-stitched in China. The up-the-back zipper won't survive saran-wrapping my boobs more than a couple times. The detail on the leopard-print inner lining is poor. I might feel sexy in a dress like this, but I will never feel like a million bucks.

  Still, it was the best I could do on a seventy-five dollar clothing budget when shopping for the trip, and it will have to do for tonight.

  “That dress is cute,” Morgan says, as we park a block from the nightclub where Richard rented a private room for the night.

  “So's Justin Bieber, but I wouldn't let him touch my ass,” I mutter.

  Here's the other thing about cheap clothes: They make other people look at you differently, even people who don't know much about clothing. Something about cheap clothes just jumps out and screams, “This girl has less money than Heidi and Spencer after a night on the town!” At least, that's the look the bouncer is giving me as he triple-checks my ID against the names on the list. “Okay,” he says, handing back my ID and gesturing for Tiffany to hand over hers. “The Diamond Room's in the back. Drink prices are listed on the tabletop menus.”

  I wait as he gives the same speech to Tiff and Morgan, then I start to follow them to the Diamond Room, but I do it slowly, so I can watch Muscles carding the next group of girls. I pause, turning back to get a good look at them. Tiff and Morgan don't notice over the pounding music.

  Muscles is carding a pair of girls who look like they just stepped out of an Escada boutique. The tall, blonde one is wearing the very latest style in mini-dresses - like mine, only worth a grand more. Her neck is accented by a choker that, unlike me, actually looks like it belongs in the Diamond Room. The slightly shorter blonde is wearing a white, gauzy mini-dress that I'm pretty sure I recently saw in a “Which Celeb Wore it Better” column on a trashy news site.

  The bouncer doesn't look twice at either of their ID's. “Enjoy your evening,” is all he says as he ushers them in.

  “Shade, are you coming?” Tiffany calls from the door to the Diamond Room. “Sure,” I yell. I turn away slowly, catching Muscles' eye for a split second. He's looking at me like I should be serving drinks instead of ordering them. But what can I do about it? If I tell him off, he'll probably kick me out. Still annoyed, I turn and stalk off toward the Diamond Room.

  “So what's the big surprise?” I ask Matt as I slip through the heavy curtains into the Diamond Room. I have to admit, the place is nice. This one room is slightly bigger than the common room at the sorority house where Morgan and Tiff throw most of their parties. The polished hardwood floor is perfect for dancing, with a strobe light casting swirly patterns on it. The room has its own small but well-stocked bar, so no one has to go out into the hubbub of the club for drinks.

  Matt turns away from said bar, a martini in each hand. Judging by the colors, one is an appletini and the other is either watermelon or strawberry. He's wearing jeans and a Faded Glory shirt, for fuck's sake.

  “They'll be here any minute,” he says, noticing me eyeing his shirt. “Hey, do you like it? I borrowed it from Richard!”

  Well, that explains it.

  “I see you've invited some of the same guests from last night,” I say, peering around at several groups of people.

  “You remember that?” Matt asks, his forehead furrowing in concentration. “All I remember is a girl named Brandy who wanted me to douse her in champagne and lick it off her.”

  “TMI,” Tiffany says with a groan, sliding up to the bar. “Hey, is that appletini for you, or...?”

  Matt smiles. “Actually, these are for our guests. Hey, here they come now!” He points at the doorway.

  At this point, I sort of wish I'd waited out in the main room, so I could see Muscles carding these two. One is a tall brunette wearing what I'm pretty sure is a genuine Badgley Mischka little black dress, which is about three sizes too small for her. Since she's about my size, I wonder vaguely if sh
e bought it in a size 0 at that outlet mall. She's also wearing Tory Burch signature sandals and department-store perfume that probably costs around $80 a bottle. So, not cheap, but...something seems a little off here.

  Her companion is a tall, buxom redhead – think Joanie on Mad Men, but a lot thinner and a lot less subtle. Her boobs are crammed into a lacy bustier, and her leather skirt is short enough to show off the fact that she's actually wearing a garter belt. The strand of pearls drowning itself in her cleavage looks genuine.

  So, basically, they both look cheap in an expensive way.

  Matt and Charlie rush to the door to greet their strange new guests, and Tiffany starts flirting with the bartender, a tattooed guy who looks like he's experienced her line of bullshit before and isn't interested. I scan the room for Richard, and see him standing off in a corner by himself, looking at something on his phone.

  “Did you see our latest video?” I ask, walking up to him.

  He looks up. “Oh, yeah. After Matt and Charlie saw it, they dragged me to some fancy restaurant and forced me to try all these exotic dishes. One of them turned out to be squid.”

  “Calamari?” I ask, playing along with his poor-guy-used-to-eating-fast-food act.

  “Yeah, that's it.” He rolls his eyes. “Tastes like rubbery chicken. I actually like chicken better.”

  “I'm sure you do.”

  He slides closer to me, pocketing his cell phone and glancing at my purse to see where mine is situated. “By the way, I wanted to apologize for overreacting when we talked last night,” he says vaguely. “I realized after you left that I had nothing to worry about.” He could be talking about the price of gas, who Tiffany had a crush on or the current state of Kimye's relationship. Well, okay, probably no one would think he was talking about that.

  “What changed your mind?” I ask, feeling a little panicked myself. What if he's thought of something to hold over my head? Then I'll lose my leverage.

  He leans over and whispers in my ear, far too quietly for any camera mikes to pick up, “I realized that you're not going to out me, because it would spoil the experiment for your vlog and ruin your ambitions of become a social media-reality star.”

  “The rules of the bet only specified you had to act rich,” I whisper back. “There's no rule that says you have to actually be poor any more than there is one that the rest of us have to actually be rich.”

  Richard smiles and the dimples of doom appear. “No, but if you outed me as rich, it would cheapen the experience for all the viewers you hope to have. They'd see the whole thing as a fraud and tune out before you could get famous.”

  Unfortunately, he's right. “So your secret's safe...for now,” I whisper. Then I give him a mischievous look, turn on my heel and walk away.

  Just in time, apparently. Matt, Charlie, and the two ladies at the door are arguing, loudly, and Matt turns and yells, “Richard, buddy, get over here! I need your help to settle something.”

  I saunter over, rejoining Tiffany and Morgan, who are both holding drinks. There's a hottie standing between the two of them, looking like he can't decide who to flirt with first. I'm guessing that's where the drinks came from. “What do you think is going on there?” I ask them, waving at the scene by the door.

  “I don't know, but since Matt and Charlie are determined to teach Richard a lesson about the hardships of being rich, I'll bet those girls are some sort of golddiggers,” Morgan says.

  The tall blonde turns to Richard. “Your friend here-” She flaps a french-manicured hand at Matt, as if she doesn't really believe he and Richard are friends. “-assures me that you'll be taking care of the arrangements for tonight?”

  Well, talk about vague. What the fuck is that about?

  Richard raises his eyebrows and flashes an I-have-no-idea smile her way. “What arrangements would those be?”

  “You know, Richie,” Matt says, placing a hand on Richard's shoulder and giving him a you-better-cooperate look. “Those arrangements you agreed to when you put me in charge of party planning?”

  “Oh, you mean taking care of the bill.” Richard waves his hand like he's trying to swat a vampire bat, which doesn't look exaggerated or contrived at all. “Sure, no problem. That's what I'm here for.”

  The two girls both instantly relax. “Then let's have a great time!” The redhead says, taking Matt by the hand and leading him onto the dance floor.

  I should point out that Matt doesn't dance, at least not in any way that you would recognize as dancing. Basically, he shuffles his feet around, and if he's really drunk he waves his arms over his head like a drunk sorority girl at Mardi Gras. So when the redhead starts grinding up against him, he's pretty much thrown for a curve. Fortunately, he solves this problem by whispering something in her ear, which I hope is, “Let's go somewhere more private”.

  And it is. The two of them slip off into one of the private-private rooms (according to the club's website, the Diamond room offers four of these, for “party down time”).

  “Let's go dance,” Morgan says to her drink-proffering hottie.

  “No, he's going to dance with me,” Tiffany says, laying a hand on Hottie's arm and batting her lashes at him.

  What the hell, I think he's sexier than the guy who plays the lovesick brain surgeon on Desperate Doctors. Might as well take a shot at it. “But you really want to dance with me,” I say, moving up close to him. Since he's in between Tiffany and Morgan, I have a clear shot at the front of him. “And it's the least you can do for me since you bought them drinks.”

  “Would you like a drink?” he asks.

  “I'd like a dance. With you.” I smile at Tiffany and Morgan. “Tiffany here has a boyfriend who gets jealous if she dances with a guy who's hotter than he is. And Morgan is just looking for a guy to star in her next leaked sex tape. That wouldn't be you, would it? I mean, you're not into that sort of a-”

  “Oh no,” Hottie says quickly, as Morgan gapes at me in wide-mouthed astonishment. He runs a hand through his curly, dark hair.“We're not allowed to do anything like that. It's strictly forbidden.”

  Wait...”We're not allowed?” “Strictly forbidden?” Who's we? Is he in some sort of strict religion? If so, why is he here at a nightclub handing out drinks like they're after-dinner mints?

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “He means he finds your ludicrous accusation as disgusting as I do,” Morgan snaps. She reaches for his arm. “Those are all lies, Phil, I can assure you.”

  Ah, so hottie has a name. “Phil,” I say. “Ask around, and you'll hear rumors about the last sex tape Morgan just barely managed to cover up.”

  “You need to grow up,” Morgan says, playing along. After all, I am helping her hide a secret.

  Phil takes a tentative step back, his eyes landing on my GluedToYou button. “I can't....I'd lose my job.”

  “Oh, don't worry, she's great at covering her sex tapes up, just like Shade said,” Tiffanys jumps in.

  I make eye contact with Phil. “I think if you dance with me, you'll be glad you did.”

  Phil smiles. “Ladies, we have plenty of time. I can dance with all of you. But right now, I think I should dance with you first.” He takes my hand and we walk out onto the dance floor, leaving Tiffany and Morgan standing alone.

  “So what kind of work do you do?” I ask as we start moving our feet to a mid-tempo r&b song. I see Richard and Blondie slow-dancing, even though it doesn't exactly fit the music.

  He gives me a confused look. “Um...what?”

  “You said you'd get fired if anyone leaked a sex tape of you!” I yell over the music, and a few people look our way. Well, how the fuck am I supposed to communicate with a hot dance partner at a nightclub? By text message? “Are you running for office?” I tease.

  Phil looks down at the floor. “Um...this is a little awkward.” He stops dancing. “Let's go sit at the bar where we can talk, huh?”

  I follow him to the bar, where he orders an expensive German beer, the name of w
hich I can't pronounce. I order a Shirley Temple and insist on paying for it myself. Richard and Blondie walk past, hand in hand, on their way to another private-private room, I assume.

  “So what's the big secret?” I ask Phil, after the bartender has dropped off our drinks and disappeared.

  Phil stares at his beer glass as if mesmerized by the bubbles. “I'm sorry, Shade, I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?” I raise an eyebrow. “Look, I'm from out of town, so if you're some sort of local celebrity or town councilman or something-”

  Phil laughs, but there's a hard edge to it. “No, definitely not that.”

  “Well...what is it then?” I press. This is the first time I've ever had to spend ten minutes finding out what a guy does for a living. That doesn't bode well for me.

  He sighs. “Well....you saw my friends Kimmy and Delilah at the door, right?”

  “Friends?” I ask sharply. “You mean, the blonde and the redhead?”

  He nods. “Right, that's them. Well, I...I work with them.” I can barely hear the last part because he basically whispers it to his beer.

  “Okay...” I feel like I'm missing something here, and I don't have a fucking clue what it is. “So where do you all work?”

  “Oh, crap.” Phil scratches the back of his head, looks around the room as if searching for an exit, then looks back at his beer. He picks it up and drains it in one gulp. “I'm really sorry,” he says, giving his head a little shake like a dog who's been out in the rain. “I understood that all the party guests knew. Um...oh, shit. Does that mean Kimmy and Delilah won't get paid by everyone?”

  “Paid...for what? Are they getting paid just to be here? I thought that only worked for big celebs like-” And then it hits me. “Oh my gawd! Are they strippers?” I hiss at Phil.

  He rolls his eyes. “Of course not. Strippers aren't subtle when they crash a party.”

  “Oh!” Now I really get it. “They're high-class hookers!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Phil hisses at me, even though the bartender is long gone and no one else is close enough to overhear over the dance music. “And I never said that.”