Page 39 of The Casting Couch

I made a noise I didn’t know I was capable of making.Somewhere between a whimper and a cat being stepped on.

“You sure this is necessary?”I croaked.

“Sweetheart, you could hide classified documents in your bush.I’m doing the world a favor.”

Before I could respond, she yanked the paper gown away like she was unveiling a new car at a dealership.

“Oh, honey,” she said, staring at my crotch like she was inspecting a home renovation project gone horribly wrong.“Yeah… we’re gonna need extra strips.”

I covered my face with both hands and waited for death.

Instead, I got hot wax.

Lola worked fast.Smearing.Pressing.Smoothing.

“You’re gonna feel a little pinch,” she said sweetly, right before ripping the first strip like she was starting a lawn mower.

I screamed.

Like… full throated echo-off-the-walls screamed.

Somewhere down the hall, I swear I heard a woman laugh.Probably Nessa, that bitch.

Lola just kept going.Strip after strip.My legs twitched involuntarily, like I was being tasered.

By the fifth pull, I was bargaining with God.

By the eighth, I was questioning every life decision that brought me here.

By the tenth, I blacked out for a full three seconds.

“You’re doing great, champ,” Lola cooed, pressing a cold cloth to my freshly waxed skin like she was a nurse at a battlefield hospital.“We’re halfway there.”

Halfway?

I wanted to cry.

Then she had me flip over for the back.

I will spare you the details.Just know that at one point I grabbed the edge of the table so hard I’m pretty sure I bent the metal frame.

Finally, mercifully, she finished.

I lay there, panting like I’d just run a marathon while being chased by wolves.

Lola peeled off her gloves with a satisfied snap.“And that, darling, is why I’m the best in the business.”

I lay there, trembling, with actual tears streaking down both sides of my face.I was broken.Emotionally.Spiritually.Follicularly.

Lola looked down at me with an expression that somehow managed to be both sympathetic and deeply entertained.

“Now,” she said brightly, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves, “we gotta take care of your back door.”

I blinked at her, my brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi.

“My… what?”

She tilted her head like she was explaining something to a toddler.“Your asshole, sugar.”

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