Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Peeking out from the curtain, I watch the crowd for their reaction. I feel faint, my vision nearly swimming, but as I blink and focus, I see something that gives me the tiniest shred of hope. Other than a frown from one woman, who looks like she has a dead cat on her head, nobody else seems to notice.
If anything, I see some positive looks. I pray they’re because they like my dress and not because they’re ready for the show to be over so they can get out of here.
Jeanette does her best, keeping her shoulders still for the slow, sensual walk and focusing on swinging her hips more. And for her pose at the end of the runway, she spins, giving the cameras her back to highlight the buttons and lace. And the perfect curve of her ass.
Thank God she’s such a pro!
When she walks through the curtain to the backstage area, I tackle her in a hug as we all loudly celebrate the completion of another week’s show. For better or worse, we did it.
“Woo-hoo!” Yori shouts.
“Fuck yeah!” Molly answers, high-fiving one of her models.
“Thank you! Thank you!” I tell Jeanette.
She winces, curving her back to get her chest away from my full-contact hug. “You pull boobie.”
“Oh!” I exclaim, realizing that my hug is probably shifting the tape and therefore, her skin, painfully. “Come on, let’s get you out of this thing and see what we can do to keep your nipple attached to you and not the tape.”
Carefully, I peel the fabric from the tape, holding her skin taut. “Does anyone have rubbing alcohol?” I ask the room.
There’s a chorus of ‘no’ and ‘sorry’ and then Katarina says, “What about vodka?”
It’s not the same, but it’s worth a shot. Actually, maybe literally a shot.
Katarina gives her flask to Jeanette, and I tell her, “Drink, for the pain.” She takes it, throwing a swig back easily. “Damn, that stuff is strong and you’re swallowing it like water!”
Jeanette smiles, not sure what I’m saying but getting my meaning.
I pour a bit of the vodka on a cotton ball the makeup artist hands me and then dab it on the tape. I’m not sure it’s working, so I do it again with more vodka. And then with an apologetic look to Katarina, I turn the flask upside down and empty it over the tape and Jeanette’s breast like a bad start to a Girls Gone Wild spring break porn video. Finding the corner, I peel it slowly and carefully.
“Ooh-ooh-ooh,” Jeanette whines in pain, but quickly, it’s done. I hold pressure over the red streaks on her skin, remembering what Molly said about it being like a waxing. Of course, that means I’m basically going to second base with Jeanette.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I whisper.
Jeanette puts her hand over mine. “It’s okay. I’m okay. We did it. Go, you have more work.”
I press my cheek to Jeanette’s, doing the French bise kiss thing. “Thank you so much.”
It’s not nearly enough appreciation for what she’s done, but I don’t know what else to say. There’s no Hallmark card for ‘thanks for risking your nipple for me.’
I make quick work of putting my garments back in their bags for transport to the workroom, cursing at my fucked-up finale gown, and straighten my own clothing a bit as I ready myself for the schmoozing with the show guests.
I spend a few minutes mingling with the crowd, trying to catch the vibe of the event.
I overhear many conversations about who’s the best. Regretfully, I think it might be Katarina. Every single outfit of hers oozed sexy, powerful femininity turned toward one purpose . . . getting you in her bed. Or couch. Or wherever she wants it, as long as she’s the one in charge. It was pure seduction.
“Mademoiselle Fister!” a woman calls, mispronouncing my name, but I let it slide, hoping it’s merely the accent. I look over to see the woman with the dead cat on her head, although as she approaches, I think it’s faux fur. Either that, or a badly stuffed mongoose. “What a delightful set!”
“Mille merci,” I reply, dipping my chin deferentially. After all, sucking up is part of the job. “I am glad you enjoyed it.” I consider asking her name, maybe taking the chance to correct her on my own, but it feels like I’m already supposed to know who she is.
“That first piece? Tres magnifique,” Dead Cat Lady says dramatically, kissing her fingertips in a ‘chef’s kiss’ move. “Shame about the last, though. The model . . . like one of your American biscuit tubes. Pop!” She puffs her cheeks out, her eyes wide and her hands making an explosion-type movement.
Is she serious? Is she talking about canned biscuits? She cannot be implying that Jeanette is fat, right? I mean, she’s barely curvier than a twig.