Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Casey looks up, phone still in hand. “You worked at Applebee’s, Mom. Not, like, the world’s swankiest BDSM playground.”
“That’s enough,” June says, voice steely and I notice the sweat breaking out on her forehead. My ever-supportive mother is trying to keep her cool but I can tell it’s wearing on her.
But Casey’s on a roll. “Are you gonna have a stage name, like ‘Red Robin’ or ‘Mistress Bardot’? That would be iconic.”
“Pretty sure they just call me ‘Naomi,’” I reply. “But thanks for the confidence boost.” I pull on the ancient cardigan and button it up, only for it to gape at the chest anyway. My girls are not easily contained. At least it will mostly cover them so I don’t walk through downtown Silver Spoon Falls looking like I’m about to stand on the street corner and look for business.
I check the mirror again and try not to cringe. My cheeks are flushed, not from embarrassment but from the persistent, throbbing hum of anxiety that comes with starting anything new. When I left for California, I pictured myself walking all the red carpets. When I came home, I pictured myself teaching high school drama and dating some guy with a Subaru and a rescue dog. I never once imagined this.
Casey picks up a pillow and hugs it to her chest. “Just don’t forget about us when you’re rich and infamous.” She flashes me a rare, earnest smile. “For real, Nomes. You got this.”
Even my mother softens, the battle over. “Call when you’re on your way home, even if it’s late. And don’t accept drinks from anyone unless you pour it yourself.” That’s easy to promise. Raven and Roman Sterling made it very clear that I’m there to serve the members drinks, not make friends or participate.
“Yes, Mom,” I say, giving her a sideways squeeze.
She takes a step back and beams at both of us, but there’s a flicker of worry behind her smile. I think she wants to say something else but she just pats my shoulder, straightens my cardigan one last time, and leaves.
Casey lingers, eyes twinkling with mischief. “So… if you catch anyone famous doing something scandalous, you have to tell me, okay?”
“Not happening,” I say, scooping up my purse. That was another thing the Sterlings insisted on—I had to sign an iron-clad NDA.
She grins. “Not yet, anyway.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile, and head for the stairs. Behind me, I hear Casey call out, “Go break a leg, Mistress Bardot!” as my mother shushes her.
It’s not Hollywood, but it’s home. And that’s even better. When I moved away after high school, I had no idea how much I’d miss my family and hometown.
I thought I’d find fame and fortune in Hollywood but all I found was utter disappointment.
I tried out for every freaking part my agent could find. I did it again, and again, and again, until I learned that “sexier” just meant “skinnier and less like yourself.” The acting gigs dried up as soon as I ran out of patience, and the bills didn’t stop just because I was out of work. One month I was background in a car commercial, the next I was eating cold noodles at midnight and calling my mom to beg to come home.
By the time I actually admitted defeat and bought a one-way ticket home, the version of Naomi Bardot who left Silver Spoon Falls at nineteen was already dead. All that was left was the girl in the mirror, praying her new job wouldn’t require latex gloves or pole dancing skills.
I pause in my makeup, stare at myself, and try to picture any possible future version that doesn’t look so… temporary. The only thing I can conjure is tonight, and maybe tomorrow, and then the next day after that. “One shift at a time,” I tell my reflection, and she rolls her eyes but lets me finish the mascara anyway.
“Naomi! You’re going to be late if you don’t get moving!” Mom’s voice is a rocket blast from downstairs, and I can practically feel her hovering by the front door, clutching the Tupperware of dinner she’s definitely packed for me.
I throw the last few essentials in my battered purse, lip gloss, wallet, pepper spray, breath mints, and two pens then I snap the bag closed. I pause at the doorway and look back at my childhood bedroom. It still looks like a Pepto Bismol bottle threw up in it, it’s still plastered with theater posters and old Playbills and there’s a weird comfort in knowing I’ll probably never get around to redecorating.
At the bottom of the stairs, my mom is waiting with a bright orange Tupperware bowl in hand. The smell of her homemade chicken salad hits me before her lecture does.
“Eat something on your break,” she orders, pressing the container into my hands. “They probably won’t let you take a real dinner.”