Dirty Kisses (9 page)

I lay a towel down on the floor and assume the butterfly position, flapping my knees like I’m about to take flight.

Hey, this is kind of freeing, what with the breeze in places breezes shouldn’t be, and the fact I have a total clear visual of Jet Madden’s favorite red rose with what feels like a white-hot spotlight over my privates. So this is what he sees—or
feels
night after night. The perverted boy probably wishes he had this bird’s eye view, but we haven’t hit it with the lights on yet.

Yet
? I shake the thought out of my head. Being Geisha Grill’s number one sushi girl is my new life goal. Who would have thought hot wax and raw fish would go hand in hand in securing my financial future? Let’s not forget the fig leaf that will somehow demand to protect my honor.

My fingers dance over the counter until I land on the giant Popsicle stick that came with the wax kit. I pop the lid off the slow cooker one last time and dip and stir from this awkward position. I figure I’d best leave it plugged in, melting away, in the event it takes me a little longer to frost my landing strip than anticipated. I give the wax a hearty swirl, and the pot tips sideways.

“Oh no, no, no!” I manage to bump it into place, but not before a tiny wax waterfall dribbles down the front of the cabinetry. Not a big deal. I’ll just wait until morning, and it’ll practically chip itself off. This is wax, not rocket science. This is simply an exercise in thermodynamics—temperature, energy, and entropy. I studied all about it last spring in my physics class, which I totally didn’t even need, but I figured what the hell. I can’t take all art classes and expect it to look great when I app for law school.

Once I finally manage to scoop a decent dollop of wax onto the stick, a tiny bit of it drips onto my pinkie.

“Oh my shit!” I bark out at the top of my lungs without meaning to. It’s hella hotter than I thought it would be, which just made my vaginal rose clench as if Jet were coming at it. If that boy can do one thing right, it’s administer a proper pounding to my love canal.

“Everything all right in there?” a deep voice strums from the other side of the door.

“Just fine!” I sing back. Crap. The last thing I need is Jet trying to play superhero—Vagina Man. In a fit of self-preservation, I kick the scale, trashcan, and throw the rug against the door in an effort to barricade it from his efforts. By the time I get back to the stick at hand, the wax has already coagulated to its opaque state.

“No!” I pluck it off, burning the hell out of my fingers in the process. “
Geez
.” Now that I’ve ridded myself of fingerprints, I can get on that bank heist I’ve been meaning to get to. God knows if it doesn’t involve losing the hair below my eyebrows, I’m in like sin.

I make another feeble attempt to dip that ridiculous stick into the melter, and the pot almost tips for good this time.

“Dammit.” I unplug the stupid device and bring that melted bowl of hell right to my lap where it belongs. I’ll just pour the wax on before the entire thing turns to stone. God knows I need to get this over with so I can get some shut-eye before midnight. It’s sort of a Cinderella moment, if Cinderella were about to become a sushi girl and have the royal court dine on deep-sea creatures off her naked flesh before midnight, lest her godmother, the
stripper
, unwittingly has Cindy’s pumpkin impounded.

“Okay, God—here we go.” I tip the small jar over my pink panther, or in this case dark coarse curly panther, and watch as the slow thick stream of molten lava makes its way down. “
Ooh
!” It’s warm, very,
very
warm, but not unbearable. Ha! It sort of
does
feel like a spa treatment. They’re forever doing wild things to you at the spa, like rubbing mud all over your body and playing toss the lava rocks onto your back. This is totally up-that-insane-feel-good-alley. “Oh,
yes
!” I groan a little too loud without meaning to.

“Still good?” Jet’s deep, well meaning voice calls to me from the living room, and there’s something about having my legs parted, the warm sensation dripping down to my sweet spot that makes me yearn to have him near.

“Still good!” Just a few more hours and I’ll get to surprise him with my newly shorn nether regions. I might be staunch on the fact there will be a Jet Madden moratorium in my very near future, but tonight there are a few pressing needs he should tend to.

The wax begins to thicken, so I dump the pot upside down, making sure to cover every square inch of this shag rug I’ve successfully hidden from the free world.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh!
Ahh, ahh, ahh
!” It comes out as sing-song and cheery as possible in the event my superhero roomie feels the need to burst onto the scene.

Why did I wait so long to do this? God, I’m nothing but wall-to-wall carpeting down south. It’s a wonder Jet hasn’t lost his way in the molasses forest and demanded I mind the landscaping before he suffocated to death.

I pull the box my way and turn it upside down, fully expecting a tiny little cotton rag to burp on out, but there’s nothing.

“Wait a minute…” I do a frantic search of the area, and the only thing I come up with is that stupid phone book they sold me. I quickly riffle through it. Included in this package: one tongue depressor, one cube of wax.

Ironic. They forgot to list their procedural policy for all things pubic. Wait a minute. A sweeping panic fills me as the wax turns opaque.

What do you mean it doesn’t come with a ridiculous little rag? I paid two fucking ninety-nine for this damn thing!

“Oh God! Oh
God
!” Quick! I need to use the towel. Wait—that won’t do. It’s too damn big.

I reach over and snatch my panties from off the toilet. It takes less than ten seconds for me to realize I’ve successfully fused a pair of pink lace undies to myself. In a flurry, I snap my makeup bag off the counter, and the contents rain down over me, landing an eye shadow applicator, a spongy wedge, my favorite pink lip-gloss, and a pair of tweezers all in the gooey pit amassed at the base of my legs.

“Oh hell.” I give an exasperated cry at the chaotic collection adhering to my body. “Okay, don’t panic.” My chest heaves because it’s pretty damn clear there’s no other alternative at the moment.

I’ll just grab on to the panties and mimic the motion I remember from Scarlett’s visit to the beauty salon. I massage the pink lace onto the wax and
riiiip
!

“
HOLYHELLMOTHERFUCKER
!”

The door rattles and cracks before it bursts open, sending a piñata of trash to the four corners of the room, along with the scale which has morphed into a flying missile.

“Shit!” Jet pants, wild-eyed, trying to take in the carnage all at once, but I’m in too much agonizing pain to care. “What the hell is going on?” He roars so loud his voice reverberates through my chest.

“I think I’ve scalped myself!” I pant, carefully looking down, totally expecting to find a raw bloody mess, but—I’m still completely intact, sponges, cosmetics, panties, and all. “What the hell? It didn’t move! Oh my God!” I shout so loud my throat rubs raw.

“What did you do?”

“I sealed myself shut!” My body starts in on an involuntary tremor. “My God, I’ll eventually have to urinate, and where the hell will it go?” A guttural sob works its way up my throat until I’m boo-hooing like a six-year-old who accidently glued her vagina shut, because, well—
hello
.

“Shit. Come here.” Jet scoops me into his arms and lands me onto his mattress before I can protest or scream—God knows I can’t run. “I’ll be right back.” He winces down at the pink ponytail my girl parts are sporting before ditching out of the room.

Great. I really am the Pink Panther now. Tail and all. Not to mention a drug store-worthy goody bag of items I’ll never use again.

Jet comes back in with a clean towel, which he promptly lays over my chest.

“We’ll save the girls for later.” He gives a little wink.

“Presumptuous, are we?”

“I’m a realist, hon.” He gives my thigh a light tap, and his bicep jumps. “Open your knees. Let’s have a look.”

I assume the butterfly position once again and allow him to peer at the caked and clotted mass where my vagina once stood proud.

“Opening a department store?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not kidding. What is this? Are purses suddenly overrated?”

“The only thing overrated here is your sense of humor. I happen to have a simple waxing mishap. I dropped a few things onto my lap, and now, well, they’re sort of a part of me, and I’d like to lose that part as soon as I can.”

“I see.” Jet gives a depleted smile as he inspects the madness. He holds up a tiny pair of stainless scissors and snips through the air. “This should only take a few minutes.”

“Oh, right.” I bite down hard over my bottom lip, trying somehow to transcend the humiliation. “You don’t have to do that. I’m sure I can do it myself—or I can call Scarlett.” There’s one phone call she’ll never forget.

“I do this all the time.” My knees collapse over his hand without meaning to.

“You do
this
all the time?” I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Jet Madden is a well-rounded ladies’ man who has not only singlehandedly “fed” half the kitties at WB, but, apparently, he’s aided in a few waxing debacles to boot.

“Not this.” He pries my knees apart and kneels in front of me. “This
position
.”

“Now that I believe.”

He glances up and sheds a dirty grin that has my stomach doing a backflip and my modesty begging for relief. This isn’t exactly something that will go down as a sexy encounter.

Before I can truly protest, Jet goes to work with the meticulous precision of a surgeon and frees my panties, lip-gloss, sponges, et al., while regaling me with stories of piercings that make my skin crawl. Who knew the clitoris was such a popular place to land a needle?

“I can take it from here.” I glance down at what once was a happy, fluffy prairie of unadulterated desire that has been replaced with what looks like a defunct beehive.

I wrap myself in a towel, not sure why I bothered, and head for the bathroom once again. Three and a half hours later I finally emerge sans the sticky mass or nary a whisker from the eyebrows down.

Why do I get the feeling Caila has just railroaded me down another crooked path that I’ll forever wish to forget?

O
kay
, the first thing anybody who wishes to part ways with their pubes should know is
ouch
, and the second is
ooh
! It turns out that pubic hair has a very valuable function after all, which is to keep your body in check from demanding to have orgasms each time you sit, stand, walk, bend, or pull up your panties. This is total feel-good nonsense. I’m already chaffing in delicate places, and it’s been less than twenty-four hours since Jet Madden sheared my hedges—dear God, I can’t even think about it.

I’m just about to run into Hallowed Grounds for a quick cup of coffee before heading home to get ready for my Geisha Grill debut when my phone buzzes.

A text from Mom.
Just received a note from the school about parents’ weekend. I’m afraid your father and I aren’t available. I’m sure you’re quite embarrassed by how everything has played out. Just come home. There’s a job somewhere for you at the plant. Haven’t you done enough damage?

My heart sinks as I stare at my mother’s words. My parents aren’t exactly my biggest cheerleaders when it comes to this small-town girl earning her degree. Not only did they think school was a waste before, but I’m sure now they see it as another damning decision of mine. Not that any of my previous decisions have ever been so damning. And why is the fact I want to further my education such a mental hurdle for them? Both of their sons are attorneys. Why can’t their daughter be one, too? I wish they’d get their heads out of their 1950s mentality.

I shoot a text right back.
School is fine. No need to save me a job at the plant! Law school waits for me.

She texts back a moment later.
Law school can be tough to get into for a dancer like you. By the way, your father has doubled up on his anxiety medication. Please do find another means to support yourself. I’ll speak to your brothers and see if there’s anything we can do to help.

I’m sickened. The thought of my father trying to control his anxiety with medication because of what I’ve done tears me to pieces. I’m sure when he saw those pictures, read about my budding career, he about vomited up his own heart.

No need to pass the hat on my account. I promise I’ve found another job to see me through. I got this!

“I so do not
got
this,” I whisper.

“Don’t got what?”

I spin around to find a smiling Scarlett and nearly choke her with a hearty embrace.

“Everything’s gone to shit.”

“Let’s get some coffee, and you can tell me all about it.” The wind picks up and blows her hair over her head like a flame, and we laugh as we make our way inside. Fall has hit Hollow Brook like a hammer, and we’ve traded short sleeves for down jackets.

Scarlett and I put in our orders and collect our drinks.