Hanging up, Rachel looked at Brianna's number for a while. Then she tapped on the anonymous person, who had messaged her last night with a strange text. Narrowing her eyes, she hit the block tab.
…
The moment the gull-wing door of Brianna's red Bugatti hissed open like a warning before drawing the greedy eyes of the onlookers, the harshness of afternoon sun mocked her outfit choice.
She hadn't even made it to the restaurant when sweat beads began forming on her forehead and rolling down inside to her spine.
Her fingers obsessively traced the line of her throat, digging into the angry red hives hidden beneath the turtleneck top and coat.
Without the coat and turtleneck, when she had taken a look of herself in the mirror, she looked like someone who was either physically abused or had been handled roughly by a lover. And she didn't need to plant that kind of seed in Rachel's tender mind.
Itch. Rub. Repeat. The cycle was the only thing keeping her upright.
"Brianna!"
