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No Limits
Author: Emilia Finn


Prologue

 

 

There’s almost nothing in this world more cathartic after a long week at work than a Friday night spent in my best friend’s basement while the four of us slam through a few – a.k.a. seven – bottles of white wine in the space of two hours.

The time spent laughing with my friends is soul-healing, exhausting and exhilarating at the same time, my jaw aching because I haven’t shut up the whole time, and the buzz that runs through my system makes it so I’m braver than I would normally be.

This is how it’s always been for us; at ten years old, fifteen, then twenty-one, it’s always been me, Jenna, Chrissy, and Hannah.

Chrissy helps herself to the cupboard we long ago dubbed our liquor cabinet, simply because that’s where we dump our shit on the way in when we arrive. She stands, sways, and snorts, as she pours a fresh glass of fruity white wine and scratches her bare leg. She wears panties and a tank top.

We’re a cliché Hollywood slumber party – cute underwear, salon-styled hair, lashes that we were absolutely not born with, and manicures that make us look fancy. Bring in a few dozen pillows and wafting feathers, and we’d look like the opening scene to something on Pornhub.

In reality, we’re the world’s coolest group, and our various chosen careers mean we get to look fancy sometimes, while claiming our manicures on taxes.

This is Jenna’s house – or, well, her parents’ house – but the basement is self-sustained, comes with its own bathroom and mini kitchen, and her parents are the kind that like to be out and about at this hour on a Friday night. They’re what my family would call social climbers, but then again, my family only knows those words because they themselves enjoy dressing up and attending all of the in parties just so they can say they were there.

This basement means Jenna has basically had her own apartment for most of her life, and hell if that isn’t cool for a bunch of kids that enjoy not being watched around the clock.

Our families, mine – consisting of my daddy and his new wife – Jenna’s, Chrissy’s, and Hannah’s; they all belong to the same country club. They live a life of the elite – they’re the town’s snobs, really – so from the moment we were born, from the moment our parents shared that new life experience at the same time – oh yay, babies! Oh goodness, all girls! – the four of us were shoved together in our cute outfits and pretty little tiaras, so our parents could compete over whose baby looked cutest in their Gucci baby shoes.

Despite the odds, the small competitions, and the constant comparisons from our parents, the four of us kind of came out the other end as best friends.

I’m sure many would look at us from the outside and see spoiled princesses, brats, and, according to many at our old school, bitches. But in reality, Chrissy is working her way through med school, and she did most of it on scholarships and a 4.0 GPA.

Jenna is a dressmaker, but not just any old dressmaker; she designs gowns, makes them, submits them to fashion festivals, and comes away with fancy labels and exclusive awards that make her designs that much more coveted.

Hannah is an accountant; the smart kind, the kind that takes care of my taxes and makes it so that my manicures can be claimed each quarter.

And me? I was recently promoted to the marketing and public relations department of my family’s company. I know, I’m no 4.0 smarty pants, nor do I work in conjunction with the rich and famous to design and create their gowns.

Yeah, my job was kind of handed to me – and more than likely, smarter, better fitting candidates were overlooked in the process of giving me the position… but I’m good at what I do, and I work extra hard to make sure I deserve my title and salary.

I put in the hours every single day to convince my staff that I’m worthy of their loyalty and respect.

My job is to schmooze, basically. That’s certainly not what my business cards say, nor the plaque on my fancy office door. But if I was asked for a single word to explain my day to day activities, schmoozing is the word I’d use. I attend parties too, but to promote and further my families’ company. I needle for invitations to events where certain members of society might be. Sports stars, music stars, the influential. And thanks to my connections – as in, my best friends – I always have exclusive gowns to wear, fancy shoes to strut in, and the best makeup job on this side of the train tracks.

I certainly look the part of socialite that attended private girls’ schools and now thinks they can hang with the elite, but that chick, the elegant Madilyn who wears floor-length gowns, designer heels, and sophisticated hairstyles, looks nothing like the slob that I am when we hang out in Jenna’s basement.

“Did you guys hear about the Kincaid wedding coming up?” Chrissy lifts the almost empty bottle away from her wine glass with a hiccup, then a giggle when it overflows and she’s forced to duck down and slurp the liquid off the mahogany tabletop. She stands again, grins like a kid that just snorted sugar, then turns to meander back toward the bed with her glass in hand.

I lay in the middle of the luxurious, softer-than-a-cloud king-sized mattress in a pair of Jenna’s shorts – gray, with little gold stars and a gold rope around the waist to cinch them tight – but I scoot across when Chrissy flops down and slams her head to my stomach to use me as a pillow. I grunt when she beats me to get comfortable, and squeal when her wine sloshes over the side of her glass to hit my leg.

Then I laugh when, instead of wiping it up, she licks my leg and saves every single drop.

“Stop!” I laugh when her snickers turn to snorts, then I grab her hair and pull her back around. “Stop licking me, freak!”

“Sorry. Didn’t wanna waste.” She hiccups, and finally settles when she’s comfortable. Only to undo it all again when she pushes up to drink from the wide glass. “You guys catch the paper today? Kincaids are marrying up.”

“Gross.” Hannah sits by a little makeup table and tries her best to apply fake lashes. “I’m so sick of hearing about them.”

“I already knew,” Jenna mumbles at the foot of the bed. She’s painting her nails, but her aim is… off. She sits back with a frown, lets out a man-sized belch, then goes back to work with the sparkling pink polish. “I’m doing her dress.” She scowls. “I hate that I love the design she asked for.”

“Ugh.” Chrissy throws her head back with a groan. “I hate that she’s so fucking perfect.”

“Who’s perfect?”

“Nobody!” Jenna snaps. “Nobody is perfect. That’s the damn point.”

“But she acts like she’s perfect,” Hannah growls. “So pretty, so sporty, so smart and business-minded. She’s basically all of the Spice Girls in one person.”

Mid-sip, I blow my wine straight back into the glass and howl when it burns my nostrils. “Spice Girls!” Then I look to Jenna. “Change the music!”

“No,” she huffs. “I’m not changing the music. And don’t make me hate her more than I already do. To dress a Kincaid wedding is big business for little old me. Don’t ruin this for me.”

“She was so fucking obnoxious in middle school. Right?” Hannah looks to me, like I have all the answers. “You remember?”

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