Dirty Bet Page 12

  “Fine,” I say, cutting him off. “I’ll see you at the party.”

  “Hey Tracy,” I say, walking into the kitchen. “Do you know who Vincent Copeland is?”

  “The Vincent Copeland?” She asks, looking up.

  “I guess that means you know who he is.”

  “He’s a huge deal in the fashion world,” Tracy says. “His wife, Andrea, is a reality TV bigwig.”

  “So she’s like a Kardashian, and he’s—”

  “No,” Tracy says. “Andrea’s like a producer, director... behind the camera using her influence to make Vincent an even bigger deal.”

  My eyes glazed over at the Wikipedia article. It was one of those articles where I read it and understand all the individual words, but still couldn’t figure out why these people were actually famous.

  “Anyway,” I say, “I’m going to their party with Eric.”

  “Oh my God!” Tracy says, almost squealing from excitement.

  “How annoyed do you think I’d make everyone if I just wore my usual there?”

  “You can’t!” Tracy says, looking mortified.

  “I’m kind of pissed off at Eric,” I say. “I kind of want to get a rise out of him.”

  Tracy sighs. “Ruth, sweetie, you’re not going to get a rise out of the guy by dressing like you always do. Come on now.”

  “What do you suggest then?”

  Tracy gets a huge smile on her face, but she tries to suppress it.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Promise you won’t get mad if I suggest it,” Tracy says.

  “I promise.”

  “Makeover! Let me give you a totally killer makeover. I’ll make you shine so bright that he’ll get a rise alright, and if he does whatever it is that’s pisisng you off so much, you’ll make him feel like a total idiot when you walk out on him and the party,” she says with a pleased smile.

  I want to protest, to say it’s a terrible idea and that I’m allergic to makeup, but I think she’s right. What would get Eric more flustered than if I suddenly look hot as hell?

  I sigh. “Okay, Tracy, I’ll do it, but it’s for you, not for me—”

  “Tell yourself whatever you have to,” Tracy says. “As long as I get to do it. Let’s go shopping!”

  We go shopping in Manhattan, and I can almost hear the damn musical makeover montage playing in my head as Tracy hands me different articles of clothing to try on.

  What music would be playing during my montage? If it were a 90s teen movie, maybe one of those old bands that were a big deal that disappeared off the face of the Earth, like Six Pence None The Richer? Or maybe if the movie wanted to really play up my transformation, it could play something like Punk is Dead to symbolize how much I am totally selling out by shedding my “I don’t care” appearance to appeal to some reality TV assholes at a snobby party.

  As cynical as I want to be, I have to admit I’m having fun. Tracy makes picking out clothes and trying them on way less nerve-wracking than it is when I do it by myself. I usually see something I think might look good on me, but then I convince myself that it’s too different, and I walk away from it feeling dumb for even considering it. Tracy convinces me that it’s not too different and would look great on me, and then she tells me it looks great after I’ve finally tried it on.

  Four hours later, I have three bags full of clothes, including two “evening dresses” that will be appropriate attire for the party.

  “Now,” Tracy says, “don’t get mad, but we have to do something about your hair.”

  “Are you saying my hair looks like shit, Tracy?”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth, Ruth,” she says. “But in this case, those are the words I was going to say anyway. Yes, your hair looks like you cut it yourself while having a seizure. Using garden shears.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I did cut it myself, but I didn’t have a seizure, my hands just get shaky when I hold scissors.”

  “Jesus, Ruth,” she says. “I’ll take you to a place that can fix it. You’ll thank me later.”

  Tracy takes me into a super fancy looking salon. I’ve never been to a salon in my life, only places like Supercuts. Even Supercuts eventually... got cut. I decided a while back that paying twenty bucks for a haircut is stupid when I can cut my own hair for free.

  This salon is several tiers above Supercuts, to say the least. It has soothing music playing, a little mini waterfall thing going on in the corner, and everyone there looks rich and beautiful.

  And the way that everyone looks at me and my homemade hair cut tells me that I’m not supposed to be here.

  “Tracy,” I whisper. “Let’s just—”

  “Shh,” Tracy says. “You’re doing this.”

  “We don’t even have an appointment…”

  “I made you one without telling you. Right before we left for Manhattan.”

  The receptionist looks at me skeptically, but Ruth leans in and says, “This is Ruth, she’s scheduled for four o’clock.”

  “You’ve never been here before, I take it?” The receptionist asks, staring wide-eyed at my mangled bangs.

  “Nope,” I say, smiling.

  Does she really need to ask?

  The receptionist purses her lips. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”

  Tracy shoves in front of me. “Look at her hair, don’t ask her. Do whatever you can to save it, she’s going to Vincent Copeland’s party tomorrow—”

  The receptionist’s eyes widen, and she snaps her fingers.

  “Nadia!” the receptionist shouts. “Come here.”

  The little double-doors in back swing open, and a woman who looks almost six feet tall saunters across the salon toward us.

  “Yes?” Nadia asks, her voice silky smooth.

  “It’s her, look,” the receptionist says.

  “Ahh,” Nadia says, eyeing all the shopping bags that I put under the chairs in the waiting room. “And you’re finally ready to shed your skin and find your true appearance?”

  “Uh, something like that,” I say uncomfortably.

  “She’s going to Vincent Copeland’s party tomorrow,” the receptionist says. “That’s a good advertising opportunity for us…”

  Nadia holds up a hand. “I’m doing this for love of the art, not for advertising or money.”

  “So it’s free?” Tracy asks.

  Nadia laughs. “Nothing is free, honey, but the money isn’t what will drive me on this. There’s beauty in you, Ruth, and I can bring it out better than anyone else. Lily, call Donovan, tell him to bring the big guns.”

  I’m sort of surprised she knows my name, but then I remember that Eric and I have been all over the news lately

  “Yes, ma’am,” the receptionist says, scrambling toward the phone.

  Nadia gestures for me to sit down by the sink. She leans my head back and starts washing my hair.

  As her fingers move the shampoo through my hair, she massages my skull. “You have a good head shape.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Nice and round,” she says. “Your parents must have rotated you well when you were a baby.”

  “Like a meat skewer on the grill,” I say.

  Nadia doesn’t laugh. “Head shape is very important. This... thing... you’ve done to your hair completely masks it. It looks like you have a bowl on your head. Or half a watermelon. It’s like having beautiful breasts and covering them with a big awful hoodie.”

  Nadia shakes her head and massages my skull some more. It starts to tingle and feel really nice. The water is warm, and the sound is soothing.

  “Up,” Nadia says. “All done.”

  I get up reluctantly, and she towel dries my hair.

  “You’re not going to do anything crazy, right?” I ask.

  She scoffs at me, takes me by the shoulders, and plops me down into one of the chairs. “Ruthie, the inner you has lived inside of you for twenty-five some odd years, why be afraid of her? She’s already halfway out now, isn’t sh
e? Just look her in the eyes and smile. Wave at her if you want to, but don’t scare her off.”

  “So you’re going to do something crazy then?”

  “Shoulders back.” Nadia snaps, “Chin up.”

  Before I have time to obey the order, she pulls me back, then grabs my chin and forces my head up.

  I don’t know why, but I expected some kind of slow and calculated chops. I expected her to think and fret after each cut while she planned her next move. Apparently, Nadia had already solidified the plan in her head because she chops and slices at my hair in a frantic flurry. Nadia definitely knows what she’s doing, though. She’s cutting faster than I can keep up with, her face the picture of concentration as she works.

  “Look down,” she barks.

  I look down and hear more of my hair getting cut. The ground is covered in my hair; I’m surprised there’s anything left on my head.

  Nadia switches to the weird scissors that are used for layering. I remember buying a pair of those once, only to find that—in my hands—they only cut half my hair. Nadia wields them like a knight wields his sword, and she holds and teases up pieces of my hair as she chop-chops away.

  At some point she puts the scissors down and rubs some mousse into my hair. I look up and realize that my hair looks good. My old style looked like “a bowl” as Tracy so bluntly put it, but even then it seemed raggedy and straw-like. Now, my hair is full of volume and silky smooth. I don’t know how cutting and taking away can create volume like that, but Nadia managed it.

  “I layered it,” Nadia says. “And gave it volume.”

  “Yeah,” I mumble, still looking at my reflection in disbelief. Now I look like modernized version of Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction.

  “You like it, yes?”

  I nod in stunned silence.

  Tracy comes over from the waiting room, and she holds her hands up to her face and squeals. “You look sooo good!”

  “Yes, yes,” Nadia says. “Now, Ruth, promise me you’ll never put scissors to your own head again.”

  “I promise,” I say. “But how do I style it like this at home? I can’t cut hair, and I can’t style either.”

  Nadia laughs. “I figured as much. This is a low maintenance style as far as daily routine goes. You will need to come see me every four weeks though. If you go too long without a cut it’s going to quickly become unmanageable.”

  “Okay,” I say, “I will.”

  She has me go back into the sink, washes all the mouse and excess hair away, and then sits me back down.

  “I will talk you through it,” Nadia says. “Now, one last thing. Your hair should be black.”

  “But it’s dark brown,” I say. “My genes obviously disagree.”

  Nadia shakes her head. “Your soul is separate from your body just as your inner you is separate from your genes.”

  “That analogy is flawed,” I say. “My genes are part of my body—”

  “Shh,” Nadia says, lifting up my hair. “It must be black. Trust me, Ruth.”

  I nod, and she brings me back under the knife, so to speak. Or in this case, the sink.

  When I come out again, I’m startled to see just how right Nadia was. The raven-black hair goes perfectly with my freckles and complexion. I don’t just look good, I somehow look... exotic—mysterious.

  “Now,” Nadia says, “I will show you how to style it. Follow my lead.”

  I put the mousse into my palm, and I follow her step-by-step instructions, which builds up my muscle memory so that I hopefully can style it at home on my own.

  A man with a big bag comes in as I am finishing up the styling, and Nadia gestures him over.

  “You had me bring the big guns for her?” he says.

  At first I think he’s making fun of me, but then I realize he means I don’t need the big guns. Nadia did such a good job that he can’t even recognize me for the hopeless case that walked in here just over an hour ago.

  Nadia scoffs. “You should have seen her before I got to work on her.”

  I frown, remembering.

  “She looks great,” Donovan says. “And I don’t just mean the hair.”

  I start to blush.

  “Ah,” he says. “And she looks even better with some red in her cheeks.

  He opens his bag and starts picking out different brushes and small bottles of makeup.

  “Uh,” I stammer. “The party isn’t until tomorrow. I don’t—”

  “Shh,” Nadia says. “This is the test run. You’ll come back tomorrow just before the party and we’ll do this all over again.”

  “So exciting,” Tracy says. “We get to do this all twice.”

  “Very exciting,” I say, my voice coming out extremely flat.

  Donovan spins my chair around and looks right at me. “The trial run is important, Ruth. You need to go out tonight looking fabulous. You want it to feel natural tomorrow, and get your awkward uncertainty and whatever else out of your system tonight.”

  How does he know I have awkward uncertainty? I mean, I do have it, but how does he know?

  “Mm,” Donovan says. “This is exciting. Imagine what will happen to us if she wins.”

  Nadia gets a big grin on her face.

  “Win?” I ask.

  “New York’s Best Couple,” Nadia says.

  I look at both of them confused.

  “You don’t even know?” Donovan asks.

  “No…” I say, not sure what to think.

  “It’s a new annual event,” Nadia says. “I think the actual best couple in New York is probably some old couple in Queens, some no-names that no one outside of their friends and family has ever heard of. Two people who have been together for fifty years, but that’s beside the point.”

  “Right,” Donovan cuts in. “This is a popularity contest, pure and simple. The best kind of contest.”

  “I’m not popular though,” I say. “Any semblance of popularity that I have is only because Eric is dating me—”

  “So?” Nadia says. “There is no such thing as false popularity. All that matters is that people are talking about you. Why do you think so many people leak sex tapes just to get popularity?”

  “What do you win?” I ask.

  “More popularity!” Donovan says. “It’s like being a beauty queen, you and Eric would host charity balls, make appearances, represent the city abroad.”

  I sigh. I doubt Eric has any idea about any of this either. He’s popular enough without having to become obligated to make appearances “like a beauty queen.”

  “I think there’s a lot of other couples,” I say. “Ones where both of them are rich or famous.”

  “Exactly,” Nadia says. “Sooo many couples like that. Boring.” She fakes a big yawn. “You and Eric are unique. Come to think of it, I won’t charge you for anything today, because I believe in you. Just name-drop my salon—and Donovan—any time you get interviewed. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I say, “If you do Tracy for free too, every time I come in here.”

  Nadia laughs, and Tracy looks at me wide-eyed.

  “Deal,” Nadia says.

  Tracy hugs me, but Donovan makes an annoyed sound and starts pushing her away. “Enough chitchat, let’s get to work.”

  Donovan works a lot differently than Nadia did. He applies a little bit of foundation, purses his lip, and studies my face from all angles, then adds another dab. He doesn’t let me look in the mirror at all while he works, so I just sit here and feel him putting stuff onto my face and eyelids—and plucking at my eyebrows—for seemingly no reason.

  It takes almost an hour and a half, but when he’s done, I realize it was definitely for a reason. He holds a mirror up, and it takes me two or three full seconds to realize I’m looking at myself.

  “Jesus,” I whisper.

  “Now,” Donovan says. And he pulls my glasses right off.

  Nadia gasps. “Such beautiful eyes!”

  Donovan shakes his head, “I thought so.”

  But
just as my glasses are removed, everything becomes a blur. I can’t even see my reflection anymore.

  “She’s blind without them,” Donovan says. “I’ll ask my guy. I should be able to get you something for tomorrow.”

  “Good luck,” I say. “My eye doctor says there’s nothing to be done for it, short of surgery.”

  “Never say never,” Donovan says.

  When Tracy and I get back out onto the street, she squeals and hugs me tight.

  “Careful,” I say, patting her on the back, “I don’t want to mess up my makeup.”

  “It’s a hug, Ruth,” Tracy says. “Hugs can’t ruin makeup. You really never wear it, do you?”

  I shake my head.

  “You should go to that party with your coworkers,” Tracy says.

  “I’m too tired,” I say, trying to make my voice sound extra sleepy.

  “You heard Donovan, you need to go out tonight and get used to—”

  “Come on, Tracy. That’s just like pep talk. Pep talks only works on peppy people.”

  “You’re going,” Tracy says. “I’ll go with you.”

  I sigh, deciding I’ll try to back out again later.

  23

  Dmitri

  “You look so fucking handsome,” Maya says, resting her head on my shoulder.

  I force myself to grin at her. She’s attractive, sure, but there’s an almost unbearable simplicity to her. Behind her nose piercing, dyed hair, and contrived wardrobe, she’s completely lacking confidence. I can feel her trying to attach herself to me, hoping that my success and initiative will come to define her.

  My hand is on her thigh, and I run it up and slide my fingers across her wetness. My cum is still inside her. I slide a finger inside her, and she moans, which shuts her the fuck up. I can’t stand pillow talk. Pillow talk is for women and losers.

  I finger her until she cums, and then I make her cum again until I think she’s tired enough to not talk again.

  Once she’s done, I go into the bathroom and wash my hands.

  I have to stay with her until Eric and Ruth break up, or until the contest winners are announced—whichever comes first.