The Marked Men Series Books 1–6: Rule, Jet, Rome, Nash, Rowdy, Asa. Jay Crownover

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      I sighed. “Yeah.” Getting Gabe to back off might be harder than I thought. “Do you want me to make breakfast?”

      She shook her dark head and her eyes glittered at me with excitement. “No, I have the best birthday planned for you in the history of birthdays. First, we’re going to Lucile’s.”

      I loved Lucile’s. It was a popular Cajun restaurant in Washington Park and probably one of the few places outside of New Orleans where you could find an honest-to-god beignet.

      “Yay! Sounds good. What else is on the docket for today?”

      “Shopping.”

      I made a face because I hate shopping. I lived in a ridiculous uniform for work and expensive, name-brand clothes that my parents insist I wear because I’m supposed to be dressing for the job I want and not the job I have—apparently doctors of any sort don’t walk around in jeans and T-shirts even when they’re off the clock.

      Seeing my face, she grinned evilly. “No, we aren’t going rich-girl shopping, we’re going normal, everyday college-girl shopping. We’re going to the mall, we’re going to my favorite thrift store, we’re going to that cool vintage store on Pearl Street, and you, my friend, are not allowed to spend more than fifty bucks on any one thing. There will be no two-hundred-dollar heels, no five-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater sets, and no perfectly tailored slacks that are hand-stitched by blind monks in the Andes or whatever. We’re just going to be two normal friends spending a day blowing our tips on useless crap.”

      That actually sounded like fun and something I’d never done. “And then,” she said, her whiskey-tinted eyes widening dramatically, “we’re going to the salon and getting our hair done and mani-pedis. One of the girls in my inorganic chemistry class has this great hair—she looks like Rainbow Brite—she swears by this place. So we’re going to get all pretty, put on our new, normal-girl clothes, and go have dinner at that Brazilian place we’ve both been dying to try.”

      It sounded awesome—all of it sounded awesome. I was about to launch myself at her in a huge hug of gratitude when she held up a hand. “I’m not done.” She disappeared into her room for a minute and came back out with a card in a pink envelope. “Then you are going to take this very cool, very necessary birthday present I got you, and come out with me. I don’t mean out to Dave and Buster’s or Old Chicago, I mean out out. I will cram a good time down your pretty little throat if it freaking kills me.”

      I opened the card with mild trepidation. I didn’t know what she meant by out out. Inside the card was a shiny wrapped present that at first glance looked like a credit card. After I read her sweet birthday wishes I carefully pulled the paper off and gasped when I saw what was looking back up at me. “Ayd, I can’t use this.”

      The ID had my face on it, my birthday—only one year older—and looked exactly like a Colorado driver’s license. In fact, it looked so much like the one in my wallet there was hardly any difference.

      “Oh, yes you can. You’ve spent twenty years being everybody’s good little girl, and I’m sick of you killing yourself over it. Most girls your age go out, sneak into clubs, kiss boys, have sloppy one-night stands, get into ridiculous, drama-filled fights with their girlfriends, and you, Shaw, you don’t do any of that. Tonight you are taking that ID and coming out with me and you will act like every idiot twenty-year-old I know. We’re going to drink too much, act silly, and have fun—you deserve it. I can’t remember the last time I saw you smile or laugh. You’re letting your soul wither away trying to be someone you’re just not and I can’t stand by and watch it happen anymore.”

      “I turn twenty-one next year.” I’m not sure why I thought that was a valid argument to all her more-than-accurate points, but for some reason it’s what popped out of my mouth.

      She shook her dark head. “Who cares? You’re twenty today and you’re living like you’re fifty.” It stung because on the last trip to Brookside, Rule had said pretty much the same thing. With a sigh I remembered my resolution last night to just turn myself over to Ayden’s plan, to for once just let go. I tucked some hair behind my ears and squared my shoulders.

      “Okay.”

      Ayden looked up under raised eyebrows. “Okay?”

      “Yep. Let’s do this. Let the birthday fun and debauchery commence.”

      She squealed loud enough to make my ears hurt and rushed around the table to wrap me up in a hug that squeezed the life out of me. “Trust me, Shaw, you will never forget today.”

      And she was right, because by the end of the night this birthday would prove to be life changing.

      Breakfast was amazing. We stuffed ourselves so full of fried goodness that by the time we hit the mall I needed to do a few laps just to keep moving. I tried on a million pairs of jeans and ended up buying quite a few. I grabbed a pair of Chuck Taylors that I’d always wanted but had never had the nerve to buy because they would immediately be deemed inappropriate. I stocked up on boring old T-shirts and tank tops. At the thrift store I scooped up an awesome old-school leather jacket and a couple Western-style shirts with pearl buttons that I knew would look awesome with my new skinny jeans. At the vintage store I went a little crazier because I just fell in love with all the fifties- and sixties-style dresses. I looked like a character out of Mad Men in a few of them and like Bettie Page minus the height in a couple more. I bought a pair of heels that were peacock blue and had sequined feathers on the side and a sweet pillbox hat that I probably would never wear but adored. More important, I laughed with Ayden for hours while we tried on one thing after another. I felt like a giant weight was off my chest. It was fun, plain and simple, and the fact I had forgotten what that felt like was just sad.

      At the salon I got a hot pink mani-pedi and, just for kicks, had them add little black stars. It was cool and totally unlike the normal pale and pearly colors I went for. The lady doing it had bright green dreadlocks and a tattoo across her forehead so I was thrilled when she grinned at me and told me she approved. Everyone who worked at this salon had a cool, rock-and-roll kind of vibe. I normally would have felt out of place and reserved, but they were all so nice and friendly that it was impossible to do anything but relax and have a good time. The guy in charge of my hair was a big, obviously gay African American with a shiny bald head with a big eye tattooed on it. He was dressed head to toe in leopard print and was wearing shoes that certainly cost more than mine. He was sweet and told me my hair was gorgeous and suggested I just put some layers in it to give it body and life. I was all on board and even asked him if he could do something new with the color. My hair was so pale I normally avoided dying it simply because it would just be too extreme. His dark eyes gleamed in excitement when I asked for something kicky, but still respectable.

      What I got was my normal ash blond with a shadow of chestnut brown underneath. It was awesome and different but understated enough not to be alarming. My favorite part was that he had bisected my superstraight bangs in half and added the darker color to one side. It was trendy and hip and so different from what my hair normally looked like. I hugged him hard in glee on my way out. He hugged me back, more than likely because I tipped him enough to take a weekend trip, but who cared, I looked awesome.

      We ran back to the house to get dolled up for dinner. I put on one of my new outfits, a supertight pencil skirt and a sheer blue top with a black cami underneath. I curled my new hair, put on more makeup than I normally wore, and decided, just for the hell of it, to wear my awesome black boots that looked like something a Harley-Davidson model would wear. They gave my look a certain edge that I was feeling after a day of letting the real Shaw off her perpetual leash.

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