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That's Rather the Point

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“You don’t want to go.” Sloan says it so quickly, so emphatically that Mac looks up from the blouse she has held against her chest and narrows her eyes at Sloan in the mirror.

“It’s a sports formal. It’s the next best thing to a frat house. It’s going to be a bunch of drunk idiots getting drunker.”

“You’re going.”

“I like drunk idiots.”

“No you don’t. You find them insufferable. What do you think of this shirt?”

“I like the girl groupies. They know how to get down.”

“This shirt.”

“Trashy.” Sloan fires back before plowing on. “You’ll be bored out of your mind once I start drinking. I’m not much of a chatter when there’s a keg involved.”

“What’s wrong with it? It covers more than that dress you have on. And Will will be there.”

“Exactly and not really.”

“Exactly what? Which?” Mac slips the sheer blouse on and turns around.

“I like a certain amount of trashy. You don’t. You’ll break a guy’s fingers before you let him get grabby. Stay here and read. Read-” Sloan waves a hand at Mac’s desk and its slumped pile of Russian literature, the titles carefully printed in Cyrillic characters. “That.”

“Will will be there. There won’t be any grabby guys. He’d break their fingers.”

“This is a bad idea,” Sloan groans, “but if you insist on going you have to wear something else.”

“What’s wrong with this?”

“I can see every inch of skin above your navel.”

“I am wearing a shirt. And a bra.”

“Which I can see every inch of.”

“Good.” Mac smiles widely. “That’s rather the point.”