I figured it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission in regard to that bit of my history. Maybe I’d tell my future husband once I was chosen, if we became friends. I imagined we’d become friends if we were getting married and planning to have sex, but I didn’t know any rich people. Even the heavy tippers back at the strip joint didn’t have millions. They might have owned the local mechanic’s garage or a Subway sandwich shop in the second town over, but they didn’t have suit-wearing, city-type money.
Madam Alana opened a door at the end of the hall and brought us into a huge, open room. Within the space I could hear hair dryers going. My fellow candidates were sitting in their own individual chairs, and each one was talking to a different person dressed all in black. I followed Madam Alana to the one empty chair.
“Beatrice, this is Ruby. She needs the works. And I mean everything. Please make sure you take all her measurements.” Madam Alana looked at me with an assessing eye. “Ms. Dawson, is your entire wardrobe like this?” She pointed up and down at my ratty jeans and discount blazer.
“Um, I don’t put a lot of effort into my clothing as I wear a uniform at work and normally jeans and a tank during my time off.”
Madam Alana tapped her glossy red lips, but none of the color transferred to her finger, which I found super impressive .
“Ensure she has at least two weeks’ worth of clothing, Beatrice. We’ll add it to her bidder’s tab.”
I’m certain my eyes bugged out as I swallowed slowly. “But, um, what happens if I don’t get chosen?” I whispered so only the two of them could hear.
Beatrice snorted and started laughing as Madam Alana smiled coyly. She dipped her head conspiratorially, and I wondered if she did that to appease me.
“Ms. Dawson, I’ve seen you in your underwear. Your body is flawless. There isn’t a heterosexual man alive who wouldn’t want you.” She held my chin between two of her fingers. “You aren’t wearing a stitch of makeup and your face rivals that of the model Elsa Hosk. I have no doubt you will be chosen this evening. Have a little faith in your beauty, my dear.” She patted my cheek in a loving manner that felt motherly.
My cheeks heated at her compliments. “Thank you.”
“Just be on time in the future. Your chosen mate will not appreciate untimeliness, and it is a direct reflection on our company’s offerings. Understood?” Her tone had a bit of a warning within it. This woman meant business.
I nodded. “Definitely. You can count on me.”
She pressed her lips together and seemed to look deeply into my eyes as though trying to find my soul. “I do believe I can,” she agreed smoothly.
Man, I wanted to be like her. All sleek, sophisticated, and uber elegant.
“Do your best, Beatrice.”
“With a canvas like this, it will be a snap!” she gushed and gestured to her chair. “First step—let’s refresh this color. Your blonde is looking a little tired. Let’s spruce it up, give your ends a trim, and maybe add a few wispy layers to frame your face. How’s that sound?”
“Like Heaven. Thank you, Ms. Beatrice.” I sat my ass in the leather chair, and she raised it up by pumping a pedal with her foot .
“After this you’ll be getting everything waxed, scrubbed, and shined. A couple facial treatments to plump and moisten your skin, and then we move to styling. And by the looks of your outfit, we’re gonna have some fun.”
I grinned widely and bit down on my bottom lip. “Bring it on, Ms. Beatrice!”
Before I knew it, my hair was colored, cut, and blown dry to perfection. My facial was the bomb. I’d never had one before, and to say I liked it would have been an understatement. I had no idea it was so relaxing, not to mention what it actually did to the surface of the skin. My face now felt as soft as a baby’s bottom, and it glowed as though I’d spent hours in the sun. So far, the makeover experience had been awesome.
I followed the other girls who were all like me, naked though covered up with fluffy white robes. I wondered if we could take the robes with us and made a mental note to ask Beatrice when we were done with our waxing.
The six of us, Memphis our solo man included, all traipsed into a new, more private space. There were massage beds in a long line, each separated by a wall which I assumed was for privacy. I’d been waxed a million times, so I knew what to expect.
Faith nudged my shoulder. “You been waxed before?”
I nodded. “All the time.”
“How bad does it hurt?”
“Probably worse than you think,” I warned.
She bit down into her plump, pink bottom lip. “That bad, eh?”
I shrugged. “I’m used to it. The legs and face hurt the least so maybe start there? Then underarms, and then pelvis and ass.”
Her eyes about bugged out of her head. “The ass? They’re going to wax my ass hairs. I don’t even know if I have ass hairs. This is crazy. Who does this?”
I grinned. “In my experience, rich people, the Kardashians, and strippers.”
She inhaled sharply. “I’m scared.”
I put my arm around her and gave her a little hug. It was awkward but still felt good. “You can do it. I have faith in you. Ah-ha! Did you see what I did just then? Faith!” I said with all the cheesiness while nudging her.
She chuckled and rolled her eyes playfully. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”
“Well good luck to you, and everyone!” I laughed as my gal led me to my waxing lady.
Things were going just fine. The waxer gave me a pair of headphones that played some kick-ass indie rock artists when I told her what kind of tunes I listened to.
I was humming along with “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish when I heard a commotion. The waxer had just pulled a strip off my underarm, and I hissed at the fiery pain but held back any sound. Being a veteran waxing chick, I considered myself a tough girl.
I tugged down my headphones. “What happened?”
A blood-curdling scream tore through the air, and I sat up straight and looked around my private cubby as my gal went to go check it out.
Not wanting to be caught unawares, I hopped off the bed and peeked around the wall to find out what was happening. Faith and her waxer were also peeking around their stall. Our gazes caught just as the scuffle got louder and we saw a metal bowl fly across the room and smash into the opposite wall.
Then the sound of skin hitting skin bounced off the walls, and I knew fists were flying.
Episode 7
Waxing Poetic
DAKOTA
I’d never had so many people touch me in my life! Between getting my hair done, then the two facials that included treating what she called my “décolletage” which sounded French or Greek or some crapola, but turned out to be my neck, shoulders, and upper part of my boobs, I was done. Then we were dragged to a seamstress who took all of our measurements, while I was standing in my underwear with her hands all over me. And I’d had enough. More than enough.