Brute: The Valves MC Read Online Free PDF Page A

did look stuffed. If I ever doubted her artistic talents, this was the moment I became sure the child was some sort of prodigy. She then proceeded to explain why one dress didn’t go with another woman and why the groom should have chosen another color for his boutonniere. It didn’t go with the bride’s smile, she said.
     
    Slowly, I really got into the whole bridal fashion debate and even dared to state that pure white works for both brunettes and blondes. She argued that blondes look better in a warmer tone and I had to give her credit for that. At one time, I regarded her with the greatest interest. I had always believed I did fine, even better than most, when it came to style, but Ginger could’ve put me to shame any moment.
     
    I made the mistake of liking a dress she believed would look terrible on me and I had to back down because she really seemed hurt by my choice. It was just a hypothetical exercise, after all, but that didn't stop me from daydreaming. For a second, I saw myself in “that ugly bathrobe,” as Ginger called it, and, right next to me, Dawson would’ve been nervously fidgeting with his salmon and white boutonniere. I wanted big boutonnieres and I wanted them to match with the ribbons in all the women’s hair.
     
    “Ribbons?” I asked myself. I guess Ginger’s ideas were rubbing off on me.
     
    I heard her giggle to my side and looked quizzically for the reason why. “You look like you’re dreaming about something. Are you?”
     
    I blushed and instinctively looked away. How could I tell her I was picturing myself as the bride of her father? She, however, didn’t seem fazed one bit. “I know!” she suddenly jumped to her feet. “Have you made your dream wedding yet?”
     
    “My what?”
     
    “Dream wedding. It’s a thing girls are supposed to do. I think boys should, too.”
     
    “I agree, but I have to disappoint you, dear.”
     
    “No!” she cried, making a spectacle of stretching the ‘o’ as long as she could. Shoulders slumped, eyes round with disappointment, she looked truly upset. I would’ve been fooled if she hadn’t decided it was better to right the situation than to dwell in it. “Do you have fashion magazines? Cute fabric? I will also need some glue and scissors. You can cut for me, just like in class, but Daddy lets me make my own collages. He trusts me, you see?”
     
    The torrent of words coming from her took me by surprise. I didn't know what to take on first. Should it be the obvious hazard Dawson allowed around her? Or the fact that she knew so much about fashion collages? Or, maybe, her bossing me around “for my own good,” as she put it.
     
    There were too many options so I resigned myself to laughing and following Ginger’s lead.
    “I believe I might have something of that nature in a box in the attic. From my childhood. I used to sew dresses for all my dolls. Fashion magazines I don’t have. Maybe a couple of Marie Claire somewhere in the guest bedroom,” I said, rising to my feet.
     
    “That’ll do. You should really have more fashion magazines, though,” she couldn’t help but reprimand me on my apparent lack of girly appreciation.
     
    I decided to nod along and showed her to the guest room. I scooped the magazines out of a box with miscellaneous items and made her promise me she’ll behave until I come back from the attic.
     
    She looked upset with not getting to see the treasures that were supposed to be up there but I explained the stairs were shaky and I couldn’t bear the thought of her getting hurt.
     
    I took as little time as possible, concerned with what excitement she might feel from the old magazines and afraid she’d start cutting out pages by herself. I managed to find one of the many boxes labeled “Childhood memories”, only hoping I got the right one.
     
    On the living room floor, she was deep in thought over a vintage ensemble showed in black and white.
     
    “Here you go,” I made myself noticed. She