Read Dylan for Free Online Page B

across the dress and slammed down the marker.
    “Svetlana, stop! These are cute times ten!”
    Winsome shot Dylan a grateful smile.
    Svetlana towered over the designer, her blond braid resting on the girl’s bare shoulder. “I said I wanted the skirt shorter,” she hissed.
    “Right. You did. And you’re right.” Winsome pulled a pin out of her shoe and speed-fastened the hem an inch higher.
    “So, Svetlana, tell Winsome why we’re here.” Dylan tapped the screen of her LG with a French-manicured nail tip.
    “Tennis clothes,” Svetlana managed. “Anything she wants.”
    “Of course!” Winsome finished the hem and then reached for her sketch pad, pulling a charcoal slab out of her platinum updo.
    Their words washed over Dylan like the spa’s luxurious Vichy shower. Was this how alphas were treated
all
the time?
    “Sooo, what’s the fantasy?” Winsome hopped up on a tall sealed box marked WORN ONCE. DESTROY. She knocked the heels of her custom-made platform Chucks against the cardboard with glee. “I can do anything but beading. My fingers are too plump for detail work. Luckily, there’s a woman on the mainland with baby hands. She’s old but fast.”
    “I don’t need beads.” Dylan sat down next to Winsome. She peered over the designer’s bony shoulder at the fresh page in her sketchbook, hoping it might be the last white thing she ever saw. “I want color. Lots of color. Ella Moss meets Puma with vertical stripes. They are slimming, don’tcha think?”
    “Ab-so-luuuut-leeee!” Winsome narrowed her eyes and began sketching like a girl possessed.
    “Arrrrrrrrrrr,” Svetlana yawned with her entire face. She was standing among the mannequins, looking just as bored as they did.
    “This heat is making me thirsty,” Dylan said to Svetlana, loving the power this little blackmail scam was giving her. “I’d like a mango smoothie. Winsome?”
    The designer immediately put down her sketch pad and stood up. “What can I get you?”
    Dylan shook her head no. “
We
should keep working.”
    Winsome knit her platinum eyebrows in confusion.
    “Svetlana will get them.” Dylan stroked her red braid with the confidence and composure of a mob boss.
    “I am no waitress!” Svetlana smacked one of the mannequins on the neck.
    Dylan walked over to Svetlana. “Not yet. But you will be when I destroy your career,” she whisper-hissed. This constant battle was trying her patience. Why couldn’t Svetlana accept her role as a slave and just go with it?
    Winsome glanced from her boss to Dylan back to her boss, as if she were watching a heated match in a game she barely understood.
    Svetlana stepped away from the dummy. “Fine, what would you like?” she growled through clenched teeth.
    Thirty-love, Dylan!
    “Um, whatever she’s having?” Winsome said like she was asking a question.
    Svetlana spun on her Nikes, her blond braid slicing the humid air and slap-landing against her bare back.
    “And don’t bother spitting in it, ’cause you’re taking the first sip,” Dylan called after her.
    As soon as Svetlana slammed the French doors behind her, Winsome turned to stare at Dylan in awe. “That was epic. She never listens to
anyone
. See this scar?” She pointed to a raised line above her brow. “I designed a Grecian dress that made her look like a goddess. I told her she looked beautiful, and she threw her championship ring at my eye.”
    Dylan leaned into get a better look at the damage. “How
come?”
    “She can’t take compliments. She
hates
them. They make her violent.” Winsome charcoal-drew a sad emoticon on her bare knee, then quickly smudged it away.
    Dylan raised her eyebrows. “Why stay? You could design for anyone!”
    “She’s a walking ad for me.” Winsome shrugged. “And if I want to start my own label one day, I need to . . .” Her voice trailed off. “You know, you’re the first friend she’s ever had on tour.”
    “Really?” Dylan wanted to point out that she was hardly a