The Getting a Grip Duet: Complete Box Set (#MyNewLife)

by M. E. Carter

  Opening the door, I peak in and am stunned by what I see.

  “Oh. My. Gawd.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Ohmygawd,” Callie practically shrieks. “Why does Max look like a twenty-dollar truck stop hooker after a pay-per-view event?”

  I snatch my phone away from her and close the picture file. Normally, I’d be pissed about someone eluding to my daughter being a woman of the night. But considering Max woke up from her nap with black eye make-up smudged down her face, red lipstick smeared all over her cheeks, and stiff bed-head hair that looked like she’d been rolling around, the assessment is somewhat valid.

  “See what I’m dealing with? The make-up took long enough to get off of her. But do you know how many times I had to wash and condition her hair before I could finally get a comb through it?”

  “Five?”

  I freeze. “How did you know that?”

  “Lucky guess,” she shrugs.

  I snap out of it and continue my rant. “It was bad, Callie. Walk-of-Shame Barbie better be glad she didn’t come with James to drop them off. I would have laid into her so hard.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have.” She pulls the door open and we step inside the cool building as I concede her point.

  “Ok, fine, I wouldn’t have. But I would have thought very strongly about it! I still am.”

  “We have an appointment with Kristi,” Callie says to the sales woman behind the counter, then turns back to me. “I’m glad you told off James, at least. I’m fine with children’s pageants. They’re not my gig. But what I’m not fine with is making the child dress like an adult to take them out in public.”

  “Exactly. Teaching them how to dress and act for a performance competition is one thing. But to turn them into performance ponies every single minute of the day? That’s where they crossed the line. That’s where Keri crossed the line. I’m almost surprised none of them showed up with a fluffer in their mouth.”

  Callie barks a laugh. “A what?”

  “A fluffer.” I wave my hands in front of my face. “You know, that plastic thing that goes in their mouth. Makes their teeth look good or something.”

  “Honey, that’s not a fluffer.” Callie tries really hard to hold herself together, but she’s laughing through her words. “That’s a flipper.”

  “That’s what I meant. A flipper. Wait… what the hell is a fluffer?”

  The sales woman giggles and slaps a hand over her mouth, clearly eavesdropping. Callie gets a huge grin on her face, knowing she has an audience for our banter.

  “A fluffer is the woman who primes a porn star before the camera starts rolling.” I look at her quizzically. “You know… she gives him a blow job to get him hard so he can perform?”

  By now the sales woman isn’t even trying to cover up her amusement. If I was a lesser woman, I’d be an offended customer. But I’m not. I’m a hot mess and I know it. At least I’m making her day brighter by being the dull knife in the drawer today.

  “Well it’s a good thing they didn’t come home with that in their mouths either,” I respond, making the cashier laugh so hard she has actual tears in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she says while fanning her face with her fingers. “I’m not trying to listen. I just… oh boy, I needed that laugh. I’ll move over to this register now.” I watch her move down a couple stations, wiping the wetness from under her eyes.

  “I love that you don’t get offended when other people laugh at your expense,” Callie mentions as a side note.

  “What’s the point of being offended? If I was going to be offended by anything, it would be you calling my daughter a woman of the night.”

  “Are you here for a makeover?” a voice inquires behind me. I barely notice the look on Callie’s face before turning around. I really should have paid attention.

  “Yes.” Standing in front of me is a tall woman, maybe five ten or so, with curves that go on for days. She’s got a beautiful face.

  And she’s scary. Really, really scary. Her eye make-up is the darkest black I’ve ever seen in my life. Like she’s trying to look like a demon. There are no less than four piercings on her face. At least a dozen more in her ears. A tattoo of a snake peaks out from under her collar. And her hair is black with some bright white stripes mixed in. She looks like a modern day Cruella de Vil, except one who makes coats out of people instead of dogs.

  “I’m Kristi,” she announces, and thrusts a tattoo-covered hand in my direction.

  I only hesitate for a second before taking it and squeaking out, “Elena”.

  The Amazon woman who calls herself Kristi shakes my hand once, extra hard, and then drops it like a rock. “Follow me to my station.” Then she turns and barrels away. And I do mean barrels away. She looks like a woman on a mission walking through the store and people move out of her way when they see her coming.

  Callie and I follow her, a good ten feet behind.

  Leaning into Callie, I whisper, “I don’t understand. What did you sign me up for?”

  “I asked for their best make-up artist,” she whispers back. “They said Kristi is it.”

  “But, I… her make up is… goth. I don’t want to be goth.”

  “Give her a chance,” Callie hisses. “She has to be popular for a reason. I paid extra to get you squeezed in today.”

  Kristi points to a tall chair next to one of the makeup counters. “Sit here,” she orders and pulls various brushes out of the apron she’s wearing. I do as she says, not quite sure what else to do. “What are we doing today.”

  “I don’t want to be pierced,” I blurt out. Callie takes a step back like she’s distancing herself from what is sure to be a shit show, the traitor.

  Kristi rolls her eyes. “We don’t do that here. We do make-up. That’s why the store is called Make Up Alley, not Piercing Alley.”

  “Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “Today is my fortieth birthday and I’m already emotional and my ex-husband made my little girls look like hookers so I have a love/hate relationship with make-up, and I haven’t had anyone show me how to do this in at least fifteen years so I have no idea what to expect and I’m afraid I’m going to look like a clown and my ex’s new little arm candy will have yet another reason to make snide comments towards me.” I finish my rant and take a breath and the strangest thing happens.

  Kristi stares at me, arms crossed, and then her face softens.

  “I have a dickhead ex, too.”

  “You do?”

  “Asshole cheated on me so I kicked him to the curb. We’ve been divorced for twelve years and he still hasn’t paid a lick of child support.” Her voice sounds gruff, but I can tell we’re having some sort of a moment. “Yours traded you in for a younger model?”

  I nod.

  “What a dick. You’re turning forty and your skin looks thirty-two. He’ll regret that when the new missus ages faster than you do. It’s always the way.”

  I feel my body relax into the chair as we find some common ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Callie inch forward as well. Kristi doesn’t seem scary anymore. She seems like a woman who has lived and has interesting stories to tell.

  “Ok, Elena…” She looks at my face from all angles, assessing me. “What is our goal here? Do you want to be super glam? A nice daytime look? Or something that will knock your ex to his knees so you can kick him while he’s down?”

  Callie laughs. “I like the way she thinks.”

  “Honestly, I just want to feel pretty,” I admit. “I don’t want to feel forty. I want men to look at me. Not ogle or anything. But a double take every now and then would be nice.”

  “You want a more polished version of you,” Kristi clarifies.

  “Yes!” I say excitedly. “That’s exactly what I want!”

  “And you shall have it.”

  Kristi proceeds to work her way around the store, gathering different supplies. None of the make-up comes from the same brand. It’s a mixture of whatever she thinks will look good
.

  “What do you think?” Callie asks, as we watch her plod around the room. It’s almost like watching that proverbial bull in a china shop. Except I’m not worried she’s going to break anything. Except possibly my nose if I say the wrong thing.

  “I think she’s going to do an amazing job. She seems kind of artistic. Plus, she seems to hate any man who falls under the ‘ex’ category, so I think that will work to my advantage.”

  “Unless she makes you look like a motor-cycle chick.”

  “At which time we will smile, nod politely, hand over our money and go to the nearest grocery store to find some scrub brushes for my face.”

  Callie nods in silent agreement and steps out of the way as Kristi returns and dumps all the products on the table in front of us.

  “First lesson,” Kristi begins. “Always start with your eyes. That way if you get them wrong, you can redo it without having to fix your whole face. They are your most important feature. Once you get them the way you want them, the rest of your make up will complete the look.”

  I spend the next fifteen minutes learning about eye primers and watching as Kristi paints one of my eyes, then do my best to mimic her work on the other side. It’s not exactly the same, but according to her, it’s the only way I’ll learn to do it on my own.

  “That wingy thing doesn’t look right,” I mention, looking at the eyeliner I’m trying to master.

  “Sisters but not twins,” Kristi says. “Good enough for now. You’ll get it.”

  “I hope so.” I blink rapidly a few times, getting used to having this much make-up around my eyes. I don’t think my eyelashes have ever felt so heavy.

  “What made you decide to come get a makeover anyway?” Kristi focuses her attention on the circles under my eyes, brushing concealer this way and that as she tries to cover up several years’ worth of sleep deprivation kids bring with them.

  Looking at the ceiling to keep my eyes open wide, I try to answer without moving my face too much. “Um, I got a good look at myself in the mirror the other day and started thinking about how I wish I knew how good I looked when I was twenty. Why didn’t I flaunt it back then? Why didn’t I play it up, ya know?”

  “Relax your face.” Kristi pulls the brush away from my face. I look around for Callie who seems to have gotten lost in the abyss of never-ending cosmetics.

  “I started thinking about what it’ll be like when I’m sixty. I don’t want to wake up in twenty years and think about how good I had it when I was forty. Why not play it up now?”

  “I like that perspective.” Kristi hands me the concealer and the same brush she was using. “Here, do what I did.”

  I look in the round mirror next to me and try to imitate her moves. Three small dots of concealer, and brushing in downward strokes until it’s covering the whole circle. Good lord, I’m carrying around more baggage than I thought and it’s all under my eyes.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” I keep stroking, trying to get my under-eyes just right.

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you decide to be a make-up artist? You don’t look the part.” I catch her eyes in the mirror and the glare I get in return scares me. “Ohmygod, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound judgmental. I’m… oh geez…”

  Kristi breaks out into a huge grin and starts laughing. “I’m kidding. I’m not offended at all.” She takes the brush from my hands and wipes it off on a tissue before grabbing something new and continuing with her work. “I like make-up. I like how you can manipulate it to present any image you want. For me, I like people to think I’m tough. I like people to think I’m intimidating. But I also like when I can help make someone feel pretty. Or more confident because we covered a scar or something. It’s like art to me.”

  And like a true artist, she begins painting foundation on my face. I don’t usually like the goop, but I’ve never tried it with a brush before. It doesn’t feel as heavy as I was expecting.

  “That’s really nice, Kristi. No wonder you’re so popular here.”

  She stops her movements and looks at me quizzically. “You think I’m popular here?”

  “That’s what the lady who scheduled our appointment said. She said you’re the best make-up artist they have.”

  She whips her head around to look at the same saleswoman who eavesdropped on our fluffer converstion. The same woman who accidentally catches Kristi looking at her, gets wide eyed and quickly looks away. “Huh,” Kristi says under her breath. “I guess I better call her by her name now.”

  “What do you normally call her?”

  “What?” she asks, seeming startled that I heard what she had said. “Oh, um, I call her Gretchen. Like Gretchen Weiner from that movie Mean Girls. She’s always come across as a prissy little bitch. I had no idea she respected my work so much.”

  I smirk. “Well she’s probably too intimidated to tell you to your face. That’s what you wanted to present, right?”

  “Good to know my art works.” She smiles and once again, I can’t help but think about how beautiful she really is. I wonder if she even knows, or if anyone has ever told her how stunning she is. Inside and out. I toy with saying something but realize that’s probably crossing a really awkward line.

  Plus, I genuinely don’t trust that she won’t shank me just to prove a point about how tough she is, so I let it go.

  Thirty minutes later, Callie walks up, handbasket full of products Ben is going to be thrilled to pay for later.

  “Holy shit, Elena. You look fucking amazing.” She looks shocked, I kind of want to smack her. “Greg is going to shit himself when he sees you.”

  Now I want to smack her for bringing up my crush that I refuse to admit I have a crush on.

  “Greg? Is that the fucker’s name?” Kristi growls, making Callie take a step back.

  That’s what you get for bringing him up, Callie. Of course, I don’t say that out loud. Instead I pat Kristi’s arm reassuringly. “No. Greg is a friend of ours, right Callie?” I narrow my eyes at her. “He’s a friend.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Sure. He’s a friend.”

  “Thank you.”

  “A friend who wants to jump your bones.”

  “Callie!” I screech.

  She turns to Kristi. “It’s true. He’s tall and handsome and good with his daughter. And he has the hots for her, but she won’t admit she has the hots right back.”

  I gasp in indignation. “I do not have… I don’t… He just…”

  “See?” Callie raises an eyebrow, and Kristi nods.

  “Oh yeah. She’s got it bad.”

  “Et tu, Kristi?” I try to give off the most pathetic look I can muster, but neither of them is falling for it.

  “Don’t try throwing Shakespere at me,” Kristi says, as she starts tossing cosmetics into Callie’s basket. “I majored in English lit. It doesn’t work on me.”

  I should be surprised by that last comment, but after spending the last hour with her, nothing about Kristi surprises me anymore.

  Taking a final glance at myself in the mirror, I climb off the chair, thanking Kristi profusely for making me look like a way better version of me. She quickly moves away and on to the next customer without so much as a good bye.

  Ok. I guess we didn’t bond as much as I thought we did.

  “I can’t wait for you to try out your new makeover on lover boy.” Callie switches the basket from one hand to the other, grunting as she moves it. It’s filled almost all the way to the top.

  “I don’t know who lover boy is.”

  She frowns at me. “Greg. I’m talking about Greg.”

  “Oh. He’s not my lover boy. And I’m not wearing this to the kids’ gymnastics class anyway.”

  “I’m not talking about the class.” I know that look on her face. She’s getting ready to drop some sort of bomb on me. “I mean at Christopher’s birthday party.”

  I stop in my tracks. “He’s coming to Christopher’s party?”

  She turns aro
und and smiles at me. “Sure is. I texted him this morning and he’s bringing Peyton.”

  I’m not sure what to feel first. Excited that he’s coming or annoyed that she has his phone number and they apparently text now. I’ll stick with indifference for now.

  “Pfft… he’s coming on Saturday. We’re friends. It’s no big deal.”

  Callie threads her arm through mine and drags me to the checkout counter. “Good. That means you can relax and have fun. Even though you’re full of shit and are totally into him.”

  I opt to ignore her accusation. No use in arguing when we both know she’s right. I’ll make her pay for all the make-up instead.

  Chapter Eight

  Today is not the day to be running late. I promised Callie I’d be here an hour before Christopher’s birthday party started, but of course it’s the only day my doctor had an opening for my wellness check for the next two months. And of course, he was running forty-five minutes late. And of course, he wanted blood work done and the phlebotomist was on break so I had to wait an additional half hour until she got back from lunch.

  Of course.

  I’m now half an hour late for the party, despite my mother getting the girls ready to go and wrapping the present for me. There’s no way they would still be clean with perfect bows in their hair if I had been the one to do it.

  Sometimes I think she’s a witch.

  Fortunately, the weather cooperated. It’s a beautiful day for a backyard barbeque. The sun is out, it’s not too hot, and there’s a light breeze to keep things cool.

  I think the birds are chirping as well, but as I stumble my way through the gate, trying not to drop anything, I can’t hear them over Christopher. He keeps yelling at the top of his lungs before running and charging into the football training bag he got for his birthday.

  Seriously. What three-year-old needs a giant, NFL grade tackle dummy attached to a speed sled? Christopher the Crazy. That’s who.

  “Need help with that?” a familiar deep voice says behind me, as I struggle with the present I’m carrying, as well as the diaper bag, my purse, and my cell phone that somehow ended up falling on the ground. The girls, who were too excited to help me carry everything because they’re “big girls”, ditched me the minute they saw a dinosaur-shaped piñata.