Page 90 of Paint the Town, Dove
To show someone higher than me, higher than them, that I was worth their buy-out money.
My reflection was a disoriented glaze in the mirror. With all the movement in my dressing room; hands touching up my face, covering blemishes, scars buried deep in my skin from times past…
Was this who I was?
This… thisportraitof a rock star. A painting for other people to stare at?
Guess so, people pay good money to see you (fail).
Shut up. Not today.
I felt the moisture building in thecracks of my palm. “Can I have a towel, please?”
Two were placed in my hands, one hot, one cold.
Quick as a drum.
“Hair’s all done, Octo.” Belinda, I think her name was. “Not a single strand out of place.” And she was out the door before I could say thank you.
I… I would’ve, by the way.
I would’ve said thank you.
People weren’t used to the niceties. They didn’t expect it.
I just wish I could be the one to throw them off their game, give them some semblance of kindness.Even if it’s not worth much.
In an industry like this, I’d say it’s worth everything.
“I really must insist he tries on the vest, Octo.” A designer, stylist,I don’t fucking know, said from my left.
Vest. I never wore vests. Jaw & Lion wore black and that was that.
Rolling my eyes, I glanced at Octavius in the mirror, hoping for help.
“You’ve been here for,” he held up his watch, “ten seconds. You don’t get to demand what a rock star wears.”
With that, the designer/stylist ducked out of the room, a huff of curse words training his wake.
I bumped his fist. “Thanks, Octo. Or should I say, award winning makeup artist of the year.”
He smiled, a row of pearly white teeth against fuchsia lipstick. “Flatter me more, I insist.”
“Ah, let’s see… Forbesmakings-of-a-millionaire, top five in the world of highest demand…”
“The list goes on,” he waved, roughing up my hair. “You look like a spectacle, Mr. Spectre. In the best way, of course.”
“Thanks to your magic hands,” I teased.
“And yet,” his eyes narrowed, “something bothers you.”
My smile faded as I caught his gaze in the mirror, attempting to hide the shame.
I tried, so help me fuckingfuckI tried, willing the corners of my lips to raise. They didn’t move.
Was I making it that obvious? Did it really show?
What the fuck’s wrong with me?
