Chapter 19 Omar Delaney
SHELBY'S POV
My pussy was getting wet just thinking about what happened between Niko and me today. That was my first ever sexual experience with a man, and apparently, my body planned on replaying it every ten minutes until I passed out or combusted.
I took Niko's advice and told Lala to just be herself and wear whatever she wanted. Honestly, I decided to do the same. And by the same, I meant dressing like a hot girl who shops exclusively in the under-$5 section of Shein.
I pulled on a pair of blue-washout, ripped, baggy jeans and an emerald-and-gold leather top I'd been saving for a sexy night out.
Apparently, tonight was that night. I topped it off with white-and-gold platform sneakers, brushed out my red curls so they fell wild and natural, added a wing of eyeliner, some sparkly eyeshadow, and my cherry blossom lip gloss, the one that made my lips look like they belonged in a kissing montage.
I grabbed my crossbody bag, stuffed it with my phone, a travel toothbrush, and a spare pair of panties (because you never know), then headed to Lala's room.
When I walked in, I actually gasped. "Lala... you look—"
"I know," she sighed. "Nerdy. But this is what I feel most comfortable in."
"Yes, you look like a nerd," I said, grabbing her hands, "but a hot one."
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"Yes! Absolutely."
She looked adorable in her plaid shorts with a crisp white sweater tucked in and a cute sleeveless plaid jacket over it. There was even a little bow tie that somehow made her look like the sexiest librarian ever. Her white platform ankle boots and knee-high socks completed the whole innocent-but-I-read-smut vibe.
"This outfit is totally you, Lala," I said. "Let's go. Our ride will be here any minute."
"Wait, I need one more thing."
She grabbed her test glasses and slipped them onto her completely makeup-free face. Her curls were perfectly defined, gathered into a sweet ponytail that made her look like she should be cast as the wholesome love interest in a teen rom-com.
We headed to Alecia's room next.
And as soon as we pushed the door open, we saw chaos.
Clothes on the floor. Clothes on the bed. Clothes hanging off the ceiling fan like it was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. A bra dangled from her lamp in a way that suggested it had witnessed a crime.
I blinked. "Well... we found the crime scene."
Lala whispered, "Should we call FEMA?"
"Ally!" I called, stepping over a pile of sequined options. "Are you ready or are you buried alive under something?"
From beneath a mountain of fabric came a muffled, "I'm... trying to get this thing on!" Her muffled voice came from around the corner.
Lala and I exchanged a look when we finally spotted her.
Alecia was wearing something that absolutely no one should be seen in outside a bedroom.
She had on a sheer silver blouse with only two tiny metallic nipple covers shaped like shiny stars. Two. That was it.
Her black, too-tight shorts were definitely underwear in disguise and paired with silver fishnet stockings that screamed Rated R.
And of course, she was wearing it all like she was headed to church.
Lala and I didn't comment, at this point, Alecia's fashion choices were a spiritual journey we did not interfere with. We just helped her clasp her silver choker, which looked far more like a dog collar than a necklace.
Then she laced up her knee-high boots slowly and dramatically, one lace at a time just as someone knocked on our front door.
Perfect timing.
Lala groaned. "That better not be the landlord."
I sighed. "Nope. Worse."
Alecia perked up. "Omar!"
Sure enough, when I opened the door, there he was.
Omar Delaney. Six feet of trust-fund swagger, with dark hair that was always gelled like he had just stepped out of a yacht commercial. I always liked his chocolate-brown eyes though and he had a square jawline, and the unmistakable smell of expensive cologne.
At twenty-six, he still dressed like someone who spent summers in private islands and winters in Aspen thinking he had discovered skiing.
"Ladies," he greeted smoothly, giving us a once-over like he owned all the air in the hallway. "Looking gorgeous tonight."
He didn't even blink at Alecia's BDSM-inspired ensemble. Of course, he didn't. Omar was the king of pretending everything was normal as long as he looked good.
"Your chariot awaits," he said, gesturing grandly behind him for us to follow him downstairs.
We stepped outside and—yup.
There it was. His douche-mobile.
A glossy, bright-red, too-loud, too-shiny sports car that screamed midlife crisis even though he wasn't old enough to have one. The kind of car that revved itself just to feel alive.
He clicked the key fob like he was unlocking the gates of Valhalla. "Hop in, ladies."
Alecia ooh'd. Lala ahh'd. I resisted rolling my entire soul out of my body.
Then Omar turned to me with that overly practiced smile. "Shelby, you can go in the front seat, babe. I need a word with you."
Of course he did. He always needed a word, and the word was usually about himself.
I rolled my eyes so hard the angels probably felt it.
I was pissed that he got us these concert tickets, not out of kindness, not because he was being a friend, but because he wanted an excuse to wedge himself back into my life without actually apologizing for the crap he'd pulled when we were together.
Typical Omar, no accountability.
I slid into the front seat anyway, mostly because Lala and Alecia were already crammed into the back, giggling like the car wasn't the vehicular embodiment of douche energy.
Omar shut my door gently, walked around, and got into the driver's seat.
"Don't forget to buckle up, babe," he grinned.
Great.
Just great.
I hated it when he called me babe when we were together and I hated it even more now that we're not.
"You look good... did you lose weight? You're glowing."
I rolled my eyes. "Just drive, Omar," I snapped.
Tonight was going to be... something.