Daisy
All day long classes moan by in agony—about as fun as having my skin peeled off slowly. You would think that, after a good three weeks have drifted by, the novelty of who I am and what I’ve supposedly done would wear off, but I’ve listened to fresh quip after quip just this afternoon. Hey, Daisy! Heard you’re sitting on the senatorial staff! Heard you’re in the running for the senatorial DNA award! Rumor has it you’re familiar with the Gross National Product! And last, but not the least, by a mocking long shot, Congrats on being the head staffer of the senatorial erection!
The most hurtful aspect of all this negativity hurled my way? It was hurled my way by girls. That’s right. My own species has turned on me.
As soon as I get out of my last class, Interpretive Art, an entire hour of sketching, which is shaping up to be my favorite, I hop into my car and a watershed of tears begs to let loose. I catch my reflection in the mirror and press my lips tight in a weak attempt to hold back the deluge. I can’t succumb. If I open the floodgates, I may never be able to close them again. Instead, I suck in a cool breath of air and blink like mad until the feeling subsides. Then, I do what I should have done weeks ago—I drive straight to Stilettos.
All the way down to Jepson, I think about the crazy nights I’ve spent with Jet. His strong arms encapsulating my body, his heated kisses that have the power to take my breath away.
The other night, after he caught his sister tanked off her ass, I knew he was vulnerable, maybe not even feeling up to our little game of mattress tag. But in truth, on that particular night, I went into his room with the specific intent to comfort him with words, to say anything that might reassure him that it would all work out just fine. Girls may be girls, but I can tell Lucky is a sweetheart deep down inside, a good girl testing out the waters. But as soon as that door shut, as soon as that moonlight lit up his glistening body like a flash fire, I was pretty much done. What Jet and I shared that night was fueled with a level of intensity, with a tenderness neither of us had experienced together thus far. I felt his thankfulness for the kindness I showed his sister. Jet didn’t use words. He didn’t have to.
Stilettos comes up on me faster than I expected. Did I really just let Jet Madden occupy my mind for the last thirty minutes? I can’t do this. I can’t let a boy take up residency in my brain, or God forbid far more delicate places. And what the heck am I doing with that boy anyway? What was supposed to be a one-time indiscretion has morphed into some sort of fun-fest for him on a nightly basis.
A slow brewing anger percolates in me at the thought of being sexually manipulated by Jet Madden. A part of me knows this isn’t the case, and yet there’s simply no other explanation. How have I landed on my knees, ready to please the king of fornication—a man I otherwise can’t stand—night after ever-loving night?
I sit dumbfounded by this as I pull in front of Stilettos, another area of my life that I’m dumbfounded to have landed myself.
The parking lot is bare, and for that I’m thankful. It’s still light out, but fall is hitting us full force with the days melting faster and faster. I duck into the back and head straight for hair and makeup where I find Caila laughing it up with a few of the other dancers. There she is, the glammed-up version of my very best friend. Caila and Cassidy are both obviously beautiful, but Caila takes her beauty to a cutthroat level. Once she trowels on the foundation, glues on the false eyelashes—not long after, she has her glam team attack her with a thousand different brushes—she morphs into a bona fide work of living art. I think a part of me has always idealized her otherworldly beauty, the attention she receives once she hops on that stage, and I wished to God I could have just a sliver of that for me.
A few of the girls spot me first, and the mood shifts to something just this side of somber.
“What the hell is this about?” Caila spins in her seat and gasps once she lays eyes on me. “Oh, hon!” She leaps out of her chair and wraps her arms around me so tight I can hardly take my next breath. Her chest trembles out of control as tears come. It takes a full minute to figure out who’s crying here, Caila or me. By the time we pull away, the room has cleared. Caila wipes down her tear-stained cheeks and coaxes me onto the white vinyl sofa.
She shakes her head as her lips tremble, her eyes blossom red as cherries. “I can’t—” she snatches a tissue from next to me and blows her nose. “There are not enough words in the English language for me to even begin to formulate an apology.” Her gaze darts past me, over my shoulder, to the floor, the ceiling, everywhere but where it needs to be. Not only is she at a complete loss for words, but she can’t muster the strength to look at me.
“Hey”—I gently pinch her chin up until she meets my gaze—“I’m okay.” It’s not entirely true, but I wasn’t sure myself what to say to her.
A broken smile comes and goes. “You’re a great liar. You are not okay. And if you think you are, I’ve hurt you far worse than I imagined.”
“How exactly did you hurt me?”
Her eyes harden over mine, this time with a spark of anger. “Daisy, that day you asked to dance at the club, my gut said no.”
“Who cares?” I force a tired laugh. “I wouldn’t have listened to your gut.”
“That’s because you’re feisty, like me.” A smile wobbles on her well glossed lips. “And that’s why, despite my better judgment, I let you stay.” She lays her palm over my cheek, and a cutting grief takes over her features. “Listen to me. You do not belong here. You—you’re my sister’s best friend.” Tears spill down her cheeks in a deluge. “I took you under my wing. That was bad enough—we let professors in here just like anyone else. If you weren’t going to look out for your best interests, I should have.” She swallows audibly. “And what I did next was reprehensible. The Platinum Club? That wasn’t for you either, hon.” She keeps shaking her head as if her remorse knows no bounds. “All I can think about since then is how I can make this up to you. And I can’t. There is nothing I can do to remove this horrible stain from your life, Daisy. It’s my fault. You wandered too close to the fire, and I let you linger.” Her fingers feather through my hair. “And you’ve burned yourself. I burned you. I take full responsibility for this.”
A moment bounces by where we lose ourselves, each gazing through the other—one wondering if what she said was true, the other knowing that it is.
“I guess you’re not feeling up to listening to me grovel for my job back.” Now it’s my turn to swallow hard. I’m fifteen days past due on my lease agreement—four nasty calls have already surfaced on my voicemail from the dealership. One more week and the impound man will find me, no thanks to that fancy car jacking device I had implanted in the event some loser took off with that crap mobile. It looks like the only loser around here is me. I don’t dare say a word to Caila about it. She feels so bad she’ll probably buy that heap of metal for me outright.
Her eyes do their best impression of egg whites. “No way, no how, missy. There is no job for you here anymore.”
“Fine.” Now it’s me blinking back tears. A thousand thoughts sale through my mind, and not one of them yields a solution to my current employment dilemma.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“Doubt it.” In fact, I’m sure in less than thirty seconds she’ll recommend I trot my pretty little behind to the university bookstore and get myself a nice part-time position. Caila has no clue that in the real world no coed sees as much green as I did unless they’re staring at a salad from the café—wilted at that.
“No, really I do.” She tweaks her head as if not only does she completely understand my current financial deficient dilemma but she can commiserate. “You need a job.” She shrugs. “You have a car payment, and you’re basically penniless.” She pumps a dry smile, victorious at that.
Holy wow, Caila really can read minds. Who knew? But my situation is as easy to read as a cheap horoscope.
“So, now what?” I give her a little nod, letting her know it’s okay
to ply me with false platitudes regarding my future employment, perhaps even the joys of working the hygiene department of the student store. God knows the girls at WB only use organic tampons. I foresee the stocking issues a mile away.
“I don’t expect you to take some menial job at menial pay.” She lifts her chin, her eyes reduced to slits. It’s her best move when she’s up on stage. People think Caila’s magic lies in her perky C-cups, but it’s really that commanding look that brings the boys to the club.
“What did you have in mind?” My voice dips to its lower octave, letting her know that whatever it is I’m open to listening.
“I have a few private gigs”—she holds up a hand and closes her eyes—“nothing to do with escort or lounge work.” My insides twist when she says it out loud. It’s as if hearing the word escort makes it all real for me. There, it’s true now. That’s what I had become—reduced to the lowest common denominator. I was a whore long before I suspected I was. For the rest of my life, I’ll try to wipe clean the grime of that night off the landscape of my past.
“Escort,” I whisper, trying the word out on my lips for the very first time. “What’s this new gig?” I practically growl it out at her.
“The Geisha Grill caters for corporate events.” Her lips twitch as if holding back the greatest secret of all. “At each event, they have a sushi girl. I provide them with a girl for the function. You’re paid for two hours for one hour of work—a strict sixty minutes is on the table, and then you’re free to leave.”
“Two hours pay for one hour of work?” I can totally do one hour. “How much and what the hell is a sushi girl?”
“One fifty an hour.” She lifts her chin. “You’ll be naked and covered with sushi rolls. You’ll have a fig leaf over your kitten. Shaving everything from eyebrows down is a non-negotiable. Come here to the club first, and I’ll glam you up. You’ll head to the venue, and they’ll take care of the rest.”
“A hundred fifty dollars an hour.” I can keep my car! “Um—naked, huh?”
“Fig leaf.”
“Fig leaf.”
It turns out, as luck would have it, that the Geisha Grill has a “gig” for me tomorrow night, which means I have a hell of a lot of hair to remove and just one night to do it. Thankfully, Jet’s house allows me to have my very own commode, which I’ll be living in for the next few hours if my waxing math is spot-on. The old spendy version of myself would have happily trotted off to the nearest spa, and considering that my girl bits are involved, it would have been a pricey spa at that. The financially frugal part of me—meager as it might have been—would have insisted I at least visit one of the many nail salons in Hollow Brook that willingly rips the hair off your privates on top of doing a mani/pedi for an extra ten bucks. But this new fiscally sound version of myself, that needs every single penny, insists I do my own nails in cheery shades of Mustang orange and blue before I purchase a wax kit from the local drugstore. Of course, my nails look like crap with polish bleeding over the sides, encrusting onto my skin, but a dollar saved is a dollar I don’t need to earn, so there’s that.
Jet is out in the living room watching television with his hand down his pants for all I know. For the most part, Jet and I are business as usual during waking hours, which consists of letting the sarcasm rip and or virtually ignoring one another’s existence. As opposed to when darkness falls and all penile hell breaks loose. Still not sure what I’ve gotten myself into with that one, but I’m sure once I secure a few more sushi gigs, I might just be able to afford my own place—one in which I’ll need about thirteen roommates in order to make rent, but hey, it’s a start.
I hop into the shower and shave my legs and arms—the latter of which totally gives me the willies as if at any moment the razor might slip and I’ll end up slitting my wrists. Not the way I want to go, and definitely not before I earn three hundred big ones for sitting on a sushi table. I’m so psyched about the huge haul I’ll be making off with tomorrow night I practically do the happy dance under this power sprayer Jet calls a shower nozzle. I put an end to the dance party before I end up on an episode of Razors Gone Wild and quickly pat myself dry. I’ve had a mini slow cooker at work for the better part of the evening melting wax like it’s nobody’s business—I borrowed it from Scarlett who borrowed it from Roxy. I’m pretty sure if Roxy knew I was using her chocolate chip emulsifier to assist in stripping off my pubes, it wouldn’t go over so well. Roxy is famous, or perhaps more aptly put infamous for her not-so even-keeled temper.
I lift the mini lid, and sure enough, the wax has formed a smooth, velvety surface that affords me to see straight to the bottom just the way the instructional manual suggested. You wouldn’t think a block of wax that set me back a measly two ninety-nine would come with a dictionary length missive on hair removal. And while we’re on the subject of the Brazilian manifesto, logic would only dictate there would be at least one fucking photo to visually depict the “mane” event, but nary a cartoon pictorial awaits. It’s all dry reading, sit with your feet together, and blah, blah, blah. I refuse to study this guide to all things depilatory. Don’t have to. I’ve watched Scarlett have her legs waxed at the salon on at least two different occasions. All the beautician did was slip on a smooth layer of wax as if she were icing a cake—waited a moment before taking what looked like a strip of cotton, ironing it over the wax with the palm of her hand, and voila! Scarlett was bald as a baby’s bottom and cursing up a storm.
I lay a towel down on the floor and assume the butterfly position, flapping my knees like I’m about to take flight.
Hey, this is kind of freeing, what with the breeze in places breezes shouldn’t be, and the fact I have a total clear visual of Jet Madden’s favorite red rose with what feels like a white-hot spotlight over my privates. So this is what he sees—or feels night after night. The perverted boy probably wishes he had this bird’s eye view, but we haven’t hit it with the lights on yet.
Yet? I shake the thought out of my head. Being Geisha Grill’s number one sushi girl is my new life goal. Who would have thought hot wax and raw fish would go hand in hand in securing my financial future? Let’s not forget the fig leaf that will somehow demand to protect my honor.
My fingers dance over the counter until I land on the giant Popsicle stick that came with the wax kit. I pop the lid off the slow cooker one last time and dip and stir from this awkward position. I figure I’d best leave it plugged in, melting away, in the event it takes me a little longer to frost my landing strip than anticipated. I give the wax a hearty swirl, and the pot tips sideways.
“Oh no, no, no!” I manage to bump it into place, but not before a tiny wax waterfall dribbles down the front of the cabinetry. Not a big deal. I’ll just wait until morning, and it’ll practically chip itself off. This is wax, not rocket science. This is simply an exercise in thermodynamics—temperature, energy, and entropy. I studied all about it last spring in my physics class, which I totally didn’t even need, but I figured what the hell. I can’t take all art classes and expect it to look great when I app for law school.
Once I finally manage to scoop a decent dollop of wax onto the stick, a tiny bit of it drips onto my pinkie.
“Oh my shit!” I bark out at the top of my lungs without meaning to. It’s hella hotter than I thought it would be, which just made my vaginal rose clench as if Jet were coming at it. If that boy can do one thing right, it’s administer a proper pounding to my love canal.
“Everything all right in there?” a deep voice strums from the other side of the door.
“Just fine!” I sing back. Crap. The last thing I need is Jet trying to play superhero—Vagina Man. In a fit of self-preservation, I kick the scale, trashcan, and throw the rug against the door in an effort to barricade it from his efforts. By the time I get back to the stick at hand, the wax has already coagulated to its opaque state.
“No!” I pluck it off, burning the hell out of my fingers in the process. “Geez.” Now that I’ve ridded myself of fingerprin
ts, I can get on that bank heist I’ve been meaning to get to. God knows if it doesn’t involve losing the hair below my eyebrows, I’m in like sin.
I make another feeble attempt to dip that ridiculous stick into the melter, and the pot almost tips for good this time.
“Dammit.” I unplug the stupid device and bring that melted bowl of hell right to my lap where it belongs. I’ll just pour the wax on before the entire thing turns to stone. God knows I need to get this over with so I can get some shut-eye before midnight. It’s sort of a Cinderella moment, if Cinderella were about to become a sushi girl and have the royal court dine on deep-sea creatures off her naked flesh before midnight, lest her godmother, the stripper, unwittingly has Cindy’s pumpkin impounded.
“Okay, God—here we go.” I tip the small jar over my pink panther, or in this case dark coarse curly panther, and watch as the slow thick stream of molten lava makes its way down. “Ooh!” It’s warm, very, very warm, but not unbearable. Ha! It sort of does feel like a spa treatment. They’re forever doing wild things to you at the spa, like rubbing mud all over your body and playing toss the lava rocks onto your back. This is totally up-that-insane-feel-good-alley. “Oh, yes!” I groan a little too loud without meaning to.
“Still good?” Jet’s deep, well meaning voice calls to me from the living room, and there’s something about having my legs parted, the warm sensation dripping down to my sweet spot that makes me yearn to have him near.
“Still good!” Just a few more hours and I’ll get to surprise him with my newly shorn nether regions. I might be staunch on the fact there will be a Jet Madden moratorium in my very near future, but tonight there are a few pressing needs he should tend to.
The wax begins to thicken, so I dump the pot upside down, making sure to cover every square inch of this shag rug I’ve successfully hidden from the free world.
“Ooh, ooh, ooh! Ahh, ahh, ahh!” It comes out as sing-song and cheery as possible in the event my superhero roomie feels the need to burst onto the scene.
Dirty Kisses Page 9
