Read Dylan for Free Online Page A

trembled, struggling to support the weight of her words: words heavy with humiliation and frustration and LBR potential.
    Because seriously!
How pathetic was this whole blackmail scheme?
    Most normal girls would down a dozen Entenmann’s cookies and come to terms with the fact that their crush was already crushing on an international tennis star. And they’d move on. But Dylan refused to give up that easily. Those days were over. She was tired of stepping aside. Tired of the spotlight passing by on its search for someone better to illuminate, like Massie or her mother or Svetlana. For once,
she
wanted to shine. And not because she craved attention, but because she wanted to know that someone special truly believed she belonged there.
    Someone other than herself.
    “He was looking at
me
?” Svetlana’s smile softened. With an extra spring in her stride, she bounced toward the mirror-covered door that connected her suite to the adjacent one.
    Who?”
Dylan followed the leggy blonde, her stomach sinking when she realized what she’d just revealed.
    “This J.T. you are talking about—he looked at Svetlana in certain way?” Her blue-green eyes widened, making her look her real age of fifteen, as opposed to her rage-age of twenty-five.
    Dylan tugged her hair-snake and waved away Svetlana’s question. “So not the point. Now, let’s talk outfits.” The last thing she needed was to make Svetlana aware of J.T.’s irresistible hawtness. Because if she liked him and he knew it, Dylan would be playing singles for the rest of the summer.
    “Fine. Now, enter.” Svetlana held open the door and waved Dylan through.
    The connecting suite was just as humid, but there was no canopy bed, spa-Jacuzzi, or fireside sitting area. Instead, bolts of varying shades of white, sweat-resistant fabrics were stacked along the walls like contestant finalists, all vying for the chance to become Svetlana’s next tournament fashion statement. Eight rows of tennis shoes covered the marble floor, each one sprinkled with mentholated Gold Bond foot powder, ready for battle. And a gallery of plastic Svetlana look-alikes—each frozen in a different action pose—donned custom-made outfits. There was a new one for each of the tournament’s seven rounds.
    The suite was a seven-thousand-dollars-a-night walk-in closet.
    “Ehmagawd, these are ah-mazing!” Dylan said, fingering the rice paper–thin fabric of a backless shift dress.
    Svetlana brushed past her and stopped in front of the second mannequin, which was wearing a ribbed tank with a built-in navy ribbon belt and tulip-shaped skirt. “Does
amazing
mean
awful
in your country? If it
does
, then, yes, you are right. It is
amazing
.” She yanked the ribbon out of the top and cracked it Catwoman style. “Winsome, what did I tell you about colors?”
    A petite twentysomething in an orange tank dress emerged from behind a mountain of fabric. Dozens of pins pierced the rubber toes on her lime green Chucks, as if she were some sort of voodoo doll. Winsome was the first person Dylan had seen in two days who wasn’t wearing white. She felt like Dorothy landing in Oz.
    “Hi, I’m Svetlana’s designer.” She even had a high-pitched munchkin voice that complimented her shock of platinum Gwen Stefani–meets–Marie Antoinette hairdo.
    “I’m Dylan. I luhv your—”
    “And what is this?” Svetlana gut-punched a mannequin wearing short shorts and a glitter-covered sports bra. “Where is the belly chain?”
    Winsome quickly caught the dummy before it toppled over. “Cartier is sending it over this aft—”
    “And
this
?” Svetlana bared her fangs at a hippie-chic eyelet dress. “I asked for
eyelet
!”
    “That
is
eyelet.” Dylan had to correct her with an eye roll.
    “No,
this
is eyelet.” Svetlana picked up a black Sharpie and scribbled bold flowers all over the pretty white mini.
    “Svetlana, those are
rosettes
,” Winsome said evenly.
    “Maybe in
your
country!” Svetlana wrote
NYET