Ginny smiled. “Can we make an exception just this once?”
Galina squinted in lieu of a smile. “I’m afraid not.”
Roksana sauntered over to the closest table, kicked out a metal chair—squeeeeeal—and sat in it backwards. “How about my fee is not kicking your a—”
“She can stay,” Galina blurted, her smile on the verge of shattering. “But Ruth will be here soon and as founder, she’ll have no choice but to enforce the rules.”
“Yes of course, Galina,” Ginny said, taking her usual seat at her favorite sewing machine, laying out the fabric she’d purchased the day before.
“These women take dress club very seriously.”
Ginny pursed her lips. “I take it seriously.”
“You would not be unkind about it.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Ginny fussed with her chiffon. “Look, I know you probably think I acted like a pushover, but I’ve found it’s easier not to engage them.”
Roksana gave an exaggerated hum. “Is it easier?”
Ginny hesitated. “Yes.”
Though…she wasn’t quite as secure in that philosophy as she used to be. Pretending to be Lauren Bacall had been easier when she didn’t have a vampire slayer and immortal beings populating her life. Roksana was so brave, so daring, so assertive. For the first time in a long, long time, Ginny acknowledged the secret wish that she was better at standing up for herself.
She swallowed. “I hope you won’t be bored while I work.”
“Eh, I think everything is boring. I kill—” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I kill vampires for a living. Very hard to top that.”
“I see your point.” Ginny chewed her lip as the words Death Girl drifted toward her from the small group of women. The slayer heard it, too, frowning, and Ginny rushed to fill the resulting silence so they wouldn’t have to talk about the nickname. Or the fact that she never did anything to stop it from being spoken aloud. “Speaking of vampires, would you be willing to tell me more about…you know, Jonas’s world?”
“Uh-uh.” Roksana made a chopping gesture across her neck. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“By Jonas.”
The slayer’s expression turned suspicious. “Yes…”
Ginny loaded a spool of white thread into her Singer, absently noting the whispers had commenced on the other side of the room. “Weren’t you scheduled to slaughter him and his roommates today?”
She studied her nails. “You’re wondering why I keep their secrets when I’m going to kill them?”
“Wouldn’t you wonder?”
“Perhaps I’m being paid well for my discretion.”
“Oh.” Ginny perked up. “Are you? Because that might make sense.”
Roksana leaned back in her chair with crossed arms. “Perhaps you are not such a pushover after all. Deep down, you are Ginny the Not So Meek.”
She gasped. “I’m going to stitch that onto a dress.”
“Hooray for you.” Roksana twisted slightly in her chair to glance over her shoulder. “Don’t they serve alcohol at this club?”
“I’m afraid not,” Ginny answered, hiding her smile. “Would you need to be drunk in order to let me use you as a dress model?”
“Nyet. You’re crazier than me if you think that will ever happen.”
Twenty minutes later, Roksana stood on the round, elevated pedestal in front of the three-way vanity mirror used by the club, wrapped in persimmon chiffon, her combat boots peeking out from beneath the uneven hem.
“I will get even with you for this,” Roksana swore.
Ginny smoothed and tucked the material, taking a pin from her mouth to secure the adjustment at Roksana’s waist. “It’s an honor to be penciled in on your slaughter schedule.” She stepped back and clasped her hands tightly beneath her chin. “This persimmon color looks incredible on you.”
She scoffed. “You’re wasting time making me a dress. I won’t wear it.”
“No special occasions coming up? Or maybe a special someone…?”
Those telltale twin spots of color appeared on Roksana’s cheeks. “No. And no. There is no one. Are you almost finished?”
“Yes.” While Ginny helped Roksana out of the garment, guilt prodded her in the side. “Sorry, I think maybe I’m forcing girl talk on you because I never get a chance to have it. There doesn’t need to be a special someone to dress up, either. Right? Therefore, I’m making you a dress.”
Roksana looked like she wanted to protest, but reached out and rubbed the material between two fingers, instead. “Blood would blend in very nicely with this color, I suppose.”
“That’s the spirit!”
Ruth, founder of Embrace the Lace Dressmaking Endeavors, blew into the church basement with an arm full of fabric sample books. Her son, Gordon, and Ginny’s one and only date, trailed behind her with a red Radio Flyer wagon loaded down with a sewing kit and endless bolts of fabric.
“Ladies, I’m so sorry to be late. Please forgive me.” Ruth slipped her fingers up beneath her glasses and rubbed at her eyes. “I got all the way here and realized I’d forgotten everything, including Gordon.”
The son in question grimaced and waved, his gaze searching out Ginny. When he saw her, his spine snapped straight and he dropped the wagon handle. Clank.