Page 96 of Off the Grid

“We can always take the shoes back and go for the clothes makeover instead,” Gia says over the rim of her glass of merlot.

I hold my hands up. “No complaints here. None whatsoever.” I laugh and look down again at them and the four bags of designer shoes I agreed to purchase on our shopping trip.

Or rather, their shopping. My feet to try said shoes on. My credit card to slap down for payment.

I’d never admit it to Isabella or Gia, but there is something to be said about how these shoes make me feel. Feminine. A badass. Strong but delicate.

If you didn’t want it, then maybe you shouldn’t have tempted me, Milla. That dress? Those tits? Your body? Don’t blame me for taking what you were offering.

Even all this time later, I can still hear the condescension in Brandon’s tone as he stood over me buttoning his fly.

Did I “ask for it” by flirting with him? Did I invite it by wearing short skirts and tight tops that showcased my body just like every other girl my age did?

No.

I know that now. I knew it then. But it didn’t stop the trauma from making me believe differently. From changing how I presented myself to the world.

But these shoes . . . it’s like the slightest touch of femininity has made me acknowledge the power it holds.

Who would have thought shoes could do that?

“She does like them. She keeps staring at them,” Gia says as I break from my thoughts.

“I’m getting used to them, is what I’m doing.” If I tell them my epiphany, they’ll have a whole new wardrobe picked out and delivered for me by the time I get home. It’s best to let me digest this a bit more before I let them in on it.

And telling them about my experience has been on my mind many times over the past few weeks. If they knew what Brandon did—the assault, how it affected my sense of safety, my self-confidence, let alone how I feel about my body—then maybe they’ll understand why I dress how I do.

And with that revelation, no doubt will come massive guilt on their part. For not knowing. For trying to change my clothes when they had no understanding why I wear what I wear. The last thing I want to do is to make them feel guilty.

So one day soon I’ll tell them.

Not today though. Today is for fun—and apparently strappy shoes.

“You’re right. She does like them.” Isabella’s grin is bright enough for the three of us. “First shoes, then who knows what else is next.”

“I know what else,” Gia says, turning her whole body toward me and lifting her eyebrows.

“What?” Oh, shit. Not that look.

“I think there’s something you’re not telling us,” Gia says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Do you think we don’t follow Moretti and its racers? That at some point we wouldn’t recognize that one particular racer is the same man who you conveniently ran into in the bar that night? I mean, great job marketing; his face is everywhere. And bad job covering it up—because his face is fucking everywhere.” She laughs and narrows her eyes at me. “You played us, Moretti.”

“I didn’t. I swear.” I hold my hands up. “I promise. It was just as much of a shock to me that he was the new driver as it is to you.”

“Uh-huh.” Gia does not sound convinced.

“You know the excuse is going to be that he’s an employee now so she can’t fuck him.” Ever subtle Isabella strikes again.

“Yep. She snowed us. Freaking snowed us,” Gia says.

“Hello. I’m right here.” I wave my hands back and forth to prevent them from carrying on.

“We know you are, but we also know you bullshitted us into thinking you had something going on with that Spencer guy.”

“Riggs. He goes by Riggs,” I say.