Page 66 of The Naughty Professor
Music thumped beyond the dressing-room door — heavy bass, a crowd screaming, and a deep masculine voice roaring, “JAX!”
I staggered to the door, cracked it open, and peeked out.There he was — gold thong, glitter and glory — Jax himself.
My muse, and the vessel that contained my creator, Dr.Sterling.
He was performing like sin in motion.The crowd adored him.Phones were flashing, hands reaching for him.I felt an ache of envy — no, not envy.Hunger.
I wanted to be out there too.To be seen, worshiped, and adored.But not looking like Siouxsie Sioux and Robert Smith’s unwanted love child.
I slammed the door and looked around for salvation.That’s when I saw it: a jar of cold cream sitting beside the mirror like a beacon from the gods of reinvention.
“Well,” I said to myself, “every resurrection starts with a deep cleanse.”
I dipped my fingers in and smeared the cool cream across my face.Black streaks slid down my cheeks in oily rivers.My eyeliner surrendered first, then the lipstick, until all that remained was… me.
And holy hell.
I leaned in.For the first time in my life, I actually saw her — wide eyes, soft mouth, cheekbones that could start small wars.No armor.No sarcasm.Just skin and light.
“Oh damn,” I whispered.“I’m this fucking hot?”
The universe, clearly amused, offered no comment.
But something was missing.No makeup, no sparkle — I looked like a clean canvas, and that just wouldn’t do.A diva without glitter is just a civilian.
I scanned the counter.Empty.Just a few lonely bowls of body glitter sparkled under the vanity lights.
Then I noticed her — sprawled on the floor like a collapsed chandelier: Velvetina Jackson, still out cold, mouth open in a perfect “O,” with one leg bent in a way that defied basic geometry.
“Sorry, sis,” I said, crouching beside her.“But desperate times call for petty crimes.”
I tried to pry her rhinestone-encrusted purse from her manicured grip, but the purse gave a stubborn little tug back.
I froze.
A low groan rose from the heap of sequins on the floor.One glitter-caked eyelid fluttered open.
“Unhand my Chanel knock-off!”Velvetina croaked.Her wig was sideways, one lash dangling like a sad tarantula on her cheek, but the menace was real.
“Oh, you’re awake,” I said brightly.“Great!Now go back to sleep.”
“Over my dead, perfectly contoured body!”She sat up with the grace of a resurrected diva, clutching the purse to her chest.“That’s Velvetina Jackson’s emergency glam kit, and I don’t share foundation shades or life advice with anybody!”
We locked eyes—predator versus glitter-addict.
I grabbed the purse and yanked.She yanked back.The purse made a noise like a dying accordion.
“Let go!”I hissed.
“Never!”she shrieked, wobbling to her feet in stilettos that could double as murder weapons.
She swung the purse like a mace.Lipsticks and false lashes went flying, a high-speed cloud of cosmetics.A compact whizzed past my ear, exploding against the mirror like a grenade of pressed powder.
“Girl!”I shouted.“Do you mind?I NEED THAT MAKEUP!”
Velvetina bared her teeth.“Nobody steals my look, baby—especially not a Hot Topic wannabe!”
“You fucking bitch!”
