Lipstick, check.

USB drive, check.

Phone, check.

Keys, check.

Gun, check.

"You'll be safe?" Hadley appears all of the sudden from the threshold. I jump at her materialization and quickly shove the butt of the gun further into the thigh holster and smooth down my skirt to hide it. "Are you sure you don't want me to come along?"

"I'll handle it fine," I tell her, throwing a smile for good measure, "Just trust me."

Though Hadley has her uses, such as her ability to crack National Security codes and sell state secrets to Russia on an anonymous basis, being some sort of a female Edward Snowden, I think the night only calls for some basic coding and hacking, something I can do myself. Besides, with Hadley, she'll be there to monitor how far I'm willing to go. Like with the GHB in Luciana's system, she has only agreed to that because she knows I'm an expert chemist and won't give anything that will potentially harm her except knock her out for a few hours and give her the effect of overdrinking, a common thing for Luciana to experience. Not to mention, it's not like we're purposely leaving her out in the open in that state. We took her home and just made it look like we saved her life. My point is Hadley had her limits. And I am willing to do whatever it takes to get what I want. We're two very different people.

"Did you change my record details?" I ask Hadley demurely, who nods.

"It now says you've gone to Beverly Hills Middle School," Hadley says, dropping me a file of newly printed records, "And elementary."

My back relaxes. Now if Carmen and Parker try to run background checks on me, they'll find that I'm a true born and bred Californian. I finger through the records Hadley has fudged on me.

In a span of twenty-four hours, she has managed to hack into Beverly Hills Middle school and Elementary School and photoshopped a blonde version of a miniature me into all their Yearbook photos. She has also gone the extra mile by creating fake birth certificates with the name Amory Scout under a hospital in San Francisco and extra hospital records, detailing a broken leg from Baseball Junior League and a minor spike of pneumonia when I was seven. There are even doctored pictures of me in Los Angeles country clubs, painting the perfect illusion of Amory Scout, former Californian socialite, and Beverly Hills girl. All under twenty-four hours; Hadley's handiwork at her peak. Sometimes, she impresses me.

"They're perfect, by the way," I compliment her, making her beam, "Honestly, they look so real."

"The hacking part and entering your name into past records was my work but the photoshop was all Keith." 'Keith' is an Asian kid from the group of hackers called ANON420, which Hadley sometimes joins in order to share tips or perform DDOS attacks on major social networking platforms and break into NASA to leak private recorded phone calls and emails whenever she has the time. You know, for fun.

"Tell him I said thanks," I inform, "I'm gonna go soon, okay?"

"I'll see you tomorrow at Cedar Tavern?" She asks before she leaves.

"Yeah sure."

Cedar Tavern is this cute, quaint little coffee shop that serves as ANON420's meeting place. I've been going to their meetings for teaching sessions of programming and hacking. It'll be good, especially since I'm in desperate need for some of them to help me crack through the iCloud I've downloaded on Luciana's phone, which will help me access files on any one of her Apple devices.

I turn into the mirror to further examine my outfit and reveal myself to be in a black satin Bebe dress I've picked up back at the Daryl K boutique on Melrose Avenue back when I lived in LA. The dress leaves nothing much to the imagination since it cuts very narrow through the hips with a neckline that plunges to my navel, exposing the 34C full breasts I've purchased back in sophomore year.

"It needs something," I mutter to myself. Then, on a wooden hook behind me, I spot a pair of black leather gloves long enough to reach past the elbow and halfway up the bicep. An idea pops into my head.

After pouring myself into the gloves, I match my dress and gloves with a pair of electric blue suede stiletto-heeled open-toe pumps that elevate me from five-foot six to almost five-ten. The dress clings to every curve; no evidence of a panty line spoiling the view.

I look like every guy's fantasy: luminous, pouty-lipped face; blonde Boticelli curls down my back; high, full breasts; tiny waist; curvy hips; and slender legs. Perfect for ensnaring Orson Calloway.

My hand slides down my satin, feeling the butt of the gun pressed against my inner thigh. I'm still debating whether I need to bring it, especially since it's been ages since I've fired a gun and I'm not sure if my aim is still there. Sighing, I pull out the gun, tread over to the safe, key in the password and drop it off. I undo the garter, hoping I don't regret this decision.

I smile at myself in the mirror one last time but it isn't a smile I've reserved for Orson and his friends, a sweet, demure grin of wholesome politeness and purity, of someone to be underlooked. Then I show my true smile. It's cruel and twisted, with smug upturns of the corners and wicked intentions underlying clown smirks. These moments of realness are an event, a small exposed moment of who I really am, a small chance to stop putting up walls and playing games, a moment so small as to be undetectable, but such moments are the rewards I hold out for myself, like the candy I hoarded, as a child, at the back of a drawer. Such moments are a way of catching my own breath, tiny peepholes, breaks in between for an actress, infinite possibilities for me to reflect.

Such moments are gold.

-

Unlike the rest of Orson and his friends, Hanif Rahim lived in Tribeca, Lower Manhattan.

Hanif Rahim is of Malaysian and Arabic descent so it's no surprise that his penthouse apartment, the official Elite clique hangout, has been transformed into an Arabian pleasure den, completed with belly dancers. When I walk in, the air in the dimly lit space is redolent of exotic North African spices.

I arrive shortly after showing my invitation by flashing up the Facebook invite to the bouncer who acts like a doorman by the elevator of his apartment lobby and exiting out of the elevator into the penthouse's private lobby, finding myself enamored by the decor. All the partygoing patrons have doffed their shoes by the entrance, leaving a downtrodden clutter of glittering designer heels and leather boots. A red velvet banner hangs on top of the open golden doors, announcing in gold piping: Welcome back whores.

Greeting me immediately is the wooden stage erected at the center of what I believe to be Hanif's living room, around it is an expansive portable parquet dance floor. As I delve deeper into Hanif's party, I notice dozens of superking Aero-style beds covered in brightly colored Indian silk blankets and oversize raw-silk pillows. Large potted palms have been placed around the beds. Moroccan rugs decorate every inch of the floor, giving the party a mysterious casbah feel. Giant hookah water pipes rest on each low-slung marble table by the bedside.

It's only nine so the party is still in its first trimester of awkward handshakes, slaps-in-the-back, and shrill screams of oh my god, you're here! People stay clear from the dance floor, sitting on the rugs or lolling against the scarlet velvet pillows over the beet red canopy strung across the ceiling. Everyone's either smoking a hookah pipe, snacking, or sipping slowly on the bubbly, eventually getting more and more tipsy to get the courage to take to the dance floor.

After pouring myself a Grey Goose on the rocks, my eyes skim across the room and flit over to the balcony, which is fenced off by velvet ropes and glass doors. White love seats and banana lounges, coffee glass tables, servers pouring champagne into skinny, model-like glasses, a plate of thyme-scented hot pita bread and fresh hummus, being carried around and plucked into people's mouths with manicured fingers, delicate instruments of silver hookahs curling around and being brought to glossy lips, a large deck of around seven people overlooks the Manhattan skyline and plays their chatter over the muted buzz of the city.

Carmen and Parker adorn dresses with styles mimicking each other; Parker in a figure-hugging dress that accentuates her slim figure, a silver holographic number with sequins and belly chains. Her face is pink and pale, her makeup crisp and clean, consolidating her archetype as an Ice Queen. Carmen opts for a short mini black birdcage dress with enough cutouts to make you feel insecure about the meat on your ribcage and waist, showing off her long legs. 

Orson is there, of course. He's nonchalantly leaning back on a loveseat while sucking smoke from the shisha pipe and then blowing the thick column of mist and smoke into the late August air, forming shapes of smoke rings. He thinks he's so cool, I note with notorious disgust. Phineas applauds him for being able to blow smoke rings, offering him a toast as they both laugh. Orson is in all-black, wearing only a button-up, trousers, and an Armani coat. It's hard to believe this is the same boy that's preaching to do kind unto others and forgive your neighbors.

Phineas fidgets with a vape in his hand as he swallows Cognac out of a Scotch glass. I focus on him, touching him with my eyes instead. Despite my thorough research, Phineas manifests himself to be a relatively normal person; there's no crippling anxiety and insecurity that can be utilized as a weakness, like Carmen or Parker or Hanif or Aidan. For example, Hanif portrays himself as a slicked, suave funny guy; the one with all the jokes, armed with charm and humor to make women giggle and blush. But I can smell deep insecurity sewn in every sarcastic remark, every skillfully crafted joke; he builds walls of funny bones and humor to hide his worry over how nobody will like him for anything else, that Orson and his camaraderie will not bother with keeping him around if he doesn't catapult something smooth and hilarious every five minutes because he's not as rich as Phineas or as handsome as Orson.

You can tell a lot about a person through their hacked messages on Facebook.

Phineas, on the other hand, gives me nothing. His messages are standard, dumb chatter about swim team practices and girls he likes; there's no sliver of anxiety, insecurity, desperation oozing out from his facade of perfection and wealth, much to my disappointment.

Phineas is one of those half-casts, whose father owns about half of Singapore while his mother is an Australian socialite, spending most of her husband's money on jet-setting and organizing charities. Unlike the rest, he and Hanif are members of the new world as their wealth is all new and foreign, rolling in from markets that hadn't been established before the last few decades. They're not like the blue-blood Calloways, whose fortune has been built from the ground up by their great-great grandfather, Horace Calloway. The Calloways have established themselves as part of the Old World Order, a transatlantic luminary with generations of wealth hidden in various cities across the world. They are an international hierarchy, an institution older than America, mingling along with the likes of the Rothschilds and the Niarchos.

It's one thing to be rich. It's another to be powerful.

"Oh my god, Amory?"

I twirl around. Luciana emerges from the stairs of Hanif's penthouse, gracefully descending in a flurry of neon green. A bright neon green cocktail bandage dress hangs off Luciana's curvaceous frame like a second skin, bringing light to her glowy tan skin like a neon flare. She has a penchant for bandage dresses, I realize. Bandage dresses are meant to show every curve and hollow in your body and the fact that she loves wearing them out means she's incredibly comfortable in her body. Body image is not a weakness, I note down mentally, crossing out possibilities of where to target.

"Hey," I wave at her. As she approaches me closer, I notice two massive blooms of purple on her neck. Jesus, I think, it's only nine-thirty. "What's up?"

"Nothing," she replies blithely, beaming widely at the serendipitous chance of me being invited to a party she's at."Gurl, your outfit though."

I blush, cheeks flaming red, and slap her on the arm playfully: "Says you. You look so good!"

"Well," Luciana flips her teased-out brown hair and cocks her hip downwards, placing a hand on one hip. A seductive grin twists the corners of her lip-glossed mouth. "I do try."

"Obvs," I say, bringing the glass to my lips. 

"Babe, what are you drinking?" Luciana touches my wrist. I hand her my drink and she gulps, then grimaces. "Eh, straight. I can't drink alcohol straight."

"Weak," I accuse her and she rolls her eyes.

"At least my liver will be functioning," she jokes, "But who the fuck am I kidding? I probably won't make it to 40."

I raise my glass to her as if I'm toasting her. "That's the end game."'

She explodes into a bout of laughter, stuffing her mouth with a hand, "God, I fucking love you. Let's get me a drink, eh?"

"You have plenty of catching up to do," I wiggle my drink in front of her and thinking you know what fuck it, I throw back the last of my vodka down easily, wincing as the taste pierces me, triggering my gag reflex as I cough.

"Maybe you aren't that great as a drinker as you seem to be," Luciana smirks at me as she leads the procession towards the bar. She spills a good amount of Grey Goose into her own clean glass and mixes it with Coke. I eye her small waist, wondering how the hell she stays that way if she's chugging down Coke and vodka almost every weekend. Bulimia? I scratch a mental question mark in my mind but Luciana doesn't strike me as the type who vomits out what she eats. She must be one of those girls with an annoyingly fast metabolism, burning every junk she puts in her body. Lucky.

"So this is a pretty well-put-together party," I note.

"You're early," Luciana laughs as she leans against the bar counter top, her body drapes across the marbled counter like a scarf tossed aside indifferently onto a coat hanger. "Wait till it hits midnight, then it gets real lit."

"I'll take your word for it."

She swirls her drink, letting the ice clink together, and straightens up taller, "Anyway, I'm gonna go catch up with Carmen and the others." She begins to move towards the balcony, picking her way through a crowd of girls that part for her like Moses and the red sea. "Wanna join me?"

Butterflies explode in my stomach. The absence of a gun pressed hot and firm against my thigh suddenly goes cold. "Sure," I say lightly, not to let on I'm jumping at the chance for a closer proximity of being with them. "Let's go."

She unhooks the velvet rope with a skeletal hand and slides open the balcony glass door. The sweet, peach-flavoured smell of shisha curls around my nostrils as I step out onto the chilly Manhattan air. Conversation laps into a quiet lull when they notice me trailing behind Luciana, the atmosphere prickling like the ice on my spine as their wolfish grins and glinting eyes focus on me. I hold my head high, not willing to be intimidated.

"Luce, you've brought your toy," Carmen muses, sounding light despite the twinkle of annoyance flashing through her face, "How quaint."

The condescendence in Carmen's tone is enough to make anyone shiver but if Luciana feels threatened, she doesn't let it show. "Carmen, she's not a toy," Luciana huffs playfully, "She has a name."

Carmen's laugh is a mixture of melodious and terrifying. "Amory, right?" I nod. She slaps Orson on the elbow, who lounges lazily, scrolling through his phone so he doesn't even notice my arrival. "Move and let Amory sit asshole."

"Who?" His cold blue eyes flick up from his screen and land on me. I move my hips a little to make my way towards where Orson is sitting, feeling my dress sway in movement. 

His gaze burns infernos into my heart as they rake my whole appearance and a shadow of a smile glosses over my lips. It's like thumbing your nose from behind a fence or teasing a dog with a bone held out of reach, and I'm ashamed of myself for doing it. Then I find I'm not ashamed after all. I enjoy the power; power of a dog bone, passive but there. I hope he's imagining me naked, coiled up on his bed like a painting on a French dancer from days of men smoking cigars in illicit speakeasies and dolled-up women in nothing but red lips and jewels. But unlike many girls before me, he won't get me like he usually can. I'll make him earn it, make him invest it because once you work for something, you'll start to care for it. And when attachments are made, I'll rip his fucking heart out. 

-