Page 6 of Sweet as Sin (Bad Habit 1)
Nico was silent. He gave me one last, inscrutable look, then turned and strode through the room, carrying Avery away, ignoring the whispers that rose in his wake. Confused by my interaction with Nico, conflicted by my response to him, wondering what would happen next, I watched until they vanished around the corner.
“No. Oh no no no no!”
Startled, I turned to see a young Asian guy standing a few feet away, staring after Avery and Nico in dismay. With his shaved head, smoky eye makeup, and long, leather trench coat, he looked like a Mini-Me of Morpheus from The Matrix. Beside him was a mobile garment rack bursting with white wedding gowns in various lengths and designs. His zebra-print platform boots added enough lift to his tiny frame that we stood about the same height.
When he looked at me, blinking, his fake eyelashes curling up to nearly his eyebrows, I decided he was so fabulous I wanted to tuck him into my purse and take him home with me.
“Don’t tell me girlfriend fell off the wagon again.”
I wasn’t sure how much to divulge, especially since I’d already decided to take Avery’s side. So I went with a nonchalant expression and purposeful vagueness. “Let’s just say . . . I don’t think girlfriend will be back anytime soon.”
Asian Matrix Guy’s sigh was weary. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sweet baby Jesus, what did I do to deserve this shit?”
I stood there awkwardly. Clearly I was not sweet baby Jesus, so his question didn’t require a response.
He sighed again, then lifted his gaze to the ceiling far above. He waved an imperious hand. “Fine, then, universe! Bring it! Kenji will not be defeated!” He turned to me with a dazzling smile, all anxiety forgotten. “Hello, lovey. I’m Kenji, stylist for the band. Who’re you?”
“I’m Kat, the makeup artist,” I said, charmed by this zany character.
We shook hands, then he squealed. “Cat! Of course—because of the eyes, right?”
That wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. The shape and color of my eyes were distinctly feline. “Actually, no. It’s Kat with a k. Short for Katherine.”
Eyes narrowed, Kenji looked me up and down. “What are you, Japanese and Irish?”
My mouth must have fallen open, because Kenji grinned.
“You’re the first person to ever guess that right! How could you tell?”
He scoffed, “Honey, I can spot a fellow egg roll a mile away. But you’ve also got freckles, clover green eyes, a European name, and a Murphy’s Irish Draught sticker on your bag that reads, ‘Light beer is for pussies.’ Doesn’t exactly take a genius.”
Silence ensued. Then I countered with some genius logic of my own. “Egg rolls are Chinese.”
The imperial hand wave reappeared. “You know what I mean. So, what’d you get called?”
“Called?”
“Yeah, you know, in school. What’d the other kids call you?”
An ancient flush of shame swept through me. How easily he cut to the heart of the matter, the differences we get teased and tortured for as children, that can, years later, make friends from strangers in seconds flat. I remembered with perfect clarity the sneers that accompanied the taunt that followed me as a kid. In the small elementary school I’d attended in Kentucky before my family moved to LA, I was as obvious as a leper. And about as popular.
“Rucky Charms.”
Kenji’s laugh was like the tinkling of a bell. “Good one! Bonus points for creativity. They called me Gookemon.”
I groaned. Gookemon was a mashup of the slur “gook,” plus Pokemon, a word which literally translated from Japanese means “pocket monsters.” In spite of the cruelty of the sentiment, I had to admit he did bear more than a passing resemblance to a tiny animated character.
“Well, now that we’ve got the introductions out of the way, Kitty Kat, we’re going to be best friends, yes?” Kenji batted his fake lashes at me.
“Yes,” I replied firmly, “and you have to tell me where you got those lashes because they’re amazing.”
Kenji preened. “Right? They’re my signature lashes. I never leave the house without them. These and my Laura Mercier lip plumper make me the goddess I am.”
“Have you tried the Smashbox O-Plump? It’s just as good as the Mercier, and cheaper.”
I turned to dig in my kit, found the tube, and held it out to Kenji. The two of us started an impromptu discussion of the merits of different lip plumpers and fake lashes, which led to a discussion about the best foundation to conceal five o’clock shadow, which then led to a raunchy, in-depth debate about whether Spanx was meant to be worn with or without panties.
In the middle of what I considered a brilliant line of reasoning about how fabrics that don’t breathe can cause yeast infections—or, in Kenji’s case, an unsightly rash of the nether regions—Nico showed up.
