Page 4 of Lust & Lollipops

“You’re not a bother.”

“Bye.” I hung up quickly, biting my lip.

“I’m going to need your phone,” Rhett said, as the elevator stopped on the bottom floor.

I started to protest, but the look he leveled at me said it wasn’t a request.

So, I handed it over.

He shut it off and tucked it in his pocket before leading me to the armored vehicle I’d expected. That, at least, was normal.

We didn’t drive to the mansion.

We drove to a private airport, instead.

The beauty team I’d been expecting was there.

They’d set up a makeshift studio in a corner of the airport. Rhett gestured me toward the makeup chair before stepping to the side of the room, and a whirlwind began immediately.

Someone started throwing what I thought were highlights in my hair. There was no mirror, but I recognized the bleach and foils from videos I’d seen of people having their hair done.

Someone else did my nails, while another person ran something warm over my face.

Someone forced me to my back and gave me eyelash extensions while someone else washed the bleach from my hair.

Yet another person scrubbed my feet and legs with some kind of exfoliant.

I tried to ask questions whenever I could.

Why weren’t we at the mansion, which I knew was only a few hours by car from the city I lived in?

Where was I going?

What was happening?

None of them had a clue. Or if they did, they also weren’t authorized to tell me.

At least no one brought out any hot wax. Getting a Brazilian in a room full of people would’ve been nightmare-worthy.

Eventually, all the beauty shit was over, and one of the people led me behind a changing screen. She handed me an olive-green bikini and a pair of ripped cutoff shorts in the same color.

I blinked down at them.

“We’re running out of time. Hurry,” the woman urged.

“I’m supposed to be going to the Bachelorette mansion,” I said, my voice uncertain. “I shouldn’t need a bikini right now.”

“We don’t have time for this. If we’re not on time, the Society doesn’t tip us,” the woman said, her voice impatient.

As bad as I felt for that, we were talking about my life. My future. I’d just spent two hours getting beautified—I wasn’t going to put on a bikini and strut out without at least one answer.

“Tell me why I need to wear this, and I’ll put it on,” I finally said.

The woman scowled.

I gave her a hard look.

I wasn’t budging on that, whatever the consequences were for her. I didn’t want her or the rest of the team to lose money, but I needed an answer.

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