Page 87 of Forgotten Comeback
More creepy dudes are getting blocked, but one message catches my attention.
I’m interested in purchasing your piece, Madness’s Muse. What’s your asking price?
“Oh my God, someone wants to buy my artwork!” I squeal, jumping up and down.
But what is my asking price?
Having never sold artwork before, I’m not sure how to value it. Not to mention whether it’s ethical to sell this painting without Gavin’s consent.
Wait just a damn second. He didn’t get my consent before he went on his crime spree, and I don’t owe him anything. Besides, if I’m really gonna go for this artist thing, then I refuse to be the starving stereotype.
Five hundred. Will you need shipping?
Yes.
What’s your zip code? Let me research the cost, and I can give you a more accurate quote.
19720
A quick search tells me this individual is in Delaware. After another search of my painting’s dimensions with the shipping company, I feel bad for even typing this.
Shipping looks to be around that same amount.
Perfect. Send me the invoice.
Unsure how to do that since I don’t have abusiness, I get on my money app and create a QR code, sending it to them.
My phone alerts moments later, and I pull up the app.
Holy shit. A thousand bucks sits in my account.
I break out into another little happy dance before tossing my phone in my bag, and I’m out the door.
I’m flying high on the way to the warehouse, no roller coaster ride needed.
Chapter
Thirty-Four
Taylor
“Not happening.” I throw the thong bikini at the headset guy, aka the fight promoter, Steve.
He catches it. “This is the new ring girl outfit,” he argues, throwing it back at me.
Catching it, I throw it back at him. “Not anymore. I’m the new ring girl, and I get final approval on my outfit,” I parrot what Gavin told me, hoping he wasn’t blowing smoke up my ass. Which will be a freaking bare one if headset guy gets his way.
“Then what do you propose?” Steve says with an annoyed huff.
“This is what I’m wearing for the weigh-in.” I motion to my dress. “And I’ll agree to the bikini for the fight,” I tell him, snatching the set from him. “But I’m wearing boy shorts over the thong. Oh, and I’m wearing sneakers, not heels.” Climbing through the ropes is difficult enough without teetering on four inches of unstable stiletto.
Steve sighs heavily. “We’ll have a riot on our hands.”
“If grown ass men can’t handle the fact that I am a human being with agency, then so be it. And hey, at least there’s no glass beer bottles.”
“Knew you were going to be a pain in the ass,” he says in a resigned tone, and I shrug, following him to the stage in the adjoining room. Workers are milling about, getting chairs set up. “You’ll stand near the back of the stage and smile while the fighters are weighed.”
“That’s it?” I wonder.
