by Mina Vaughn
I grabbed my keys, leaned across the counter, and gave Aston a kiss. “I’m going to the fabric store. Need anything?”
He shook his head. “I’m meeting with that casino guy tonight,” he said, wiping his brow.
“What?” I asked, eyes flying open. “I thought it wasn’t for a week!”
He shrugged. “Busy guy, wants to get the restaurant going as soon as possible.”
I full-on hopped across the counter and gave Aston a huge hug. “Good luck!”
Aston waved as if it were nothing, a gesture that was a remnant of his more arrogant days. “I got this. You focus on being a bombshell.”
I swung a leg over the counter and arched my back and he pretended to take a picture. “Back in a while, babe,” I said, sliding off the granite and heading out the door with a plan.
THE NEXT MORNING, I found myself asleep on the couch with a pair of scissors at my feet and covered in fabric scraps.
“What the hell,” I mumbled, pushing myself to sitting. I glanced over at the bedroom, where I saw Aston sound asleep. While I’d love to wake him like I did yesterday, I had more pressing things on my mind.
Like the pageant today. I looked at the clock and saw it was ten. We had to be at roll call at eleven. Glancing down at the bathing suit that was on the coffee table, I smiled. It was really good, despite being made in one day by hand. I cracked my knuckles, picked it up, and began to try it on. It slid over every curve perfectly. I looked in the mirror and grinned—it was absolutely perfect. And I knew just how I’d do my hair.
I sauntered into the bedroom and gave Aston a little nudge. “Well?” I asked, posing.
His eyes flew open and his jaw dropped. “Wow.”
I curtseyed. “That was all I needed to hear. How was the interview?”
Aston pushed himself up, then glanced at the clock in alarm. “Holy shit, don’t you have to—”
I nodded and planted a kiss on his mouth. “Yeah, I do, but tell me about the interview!”
“I’ll tell you after the pageant—no need to bore you with the details now.”
I frowned but smooched him again. “Fine, but you’re telling me later. See you at the show.”
He grabbed my head and pulled me in for another kiss. “So proud of you.”
“Proud of you, too,” I said, and dashed off to put together my gown, my suits, a casual outfit for the talent segment, my makeup, and my hair products. Then I was out the door.
The crowd at roll call wasn’t as huge as I’d expected. There were a dozen or so pinups, the judges, and some of the winners from years before. They were there to offer their help, which I thought was nice. I waved to the girls I had met the other night but didn’t make a big deal of it—wouldn’t want anyone to think there was any favoritism going on. The dressing room complex was decked out like a luau, complete with nonalcoholic punch and fruit salad for the contestants. I dug in, unembarrassed about eating. A few of the other girls did, too. I was glad this modeling world wasn’t as cutthroat as more traditional modeling.
A small, Wayne Newtonish–looking older man gathered the crowd around him and he brandished an iPad. “Hello girls, I’m Nelson Wallace, and I’ll be the show’s host today. Here’s the schedule,” he said, swiping his hand across the screen. “The revue starts at one—all the girls will be in their sailor suits. There will be a musical number from the Hot Jalapeño Army, along with a moment where we read each girl’s bio. Then, you’ll change into your swimsuits. We’ll have you strike a few poses for the judges, then come back to the green room where you’ll pose in front of some of our sets. That’s for the print magazine portion. Next, we’ll do the talents. Here’s the order in which you’ll go: Debra, Helena, Katherine, Alice, Nina, Erika, Leisa, Shannon, and Veronika. Depending on the order, you’ll have anywhere from five minutes to fifty to get ready. Sorry, but it was chosen at random.”
Some of the girls looked nervously among themselves. I was last, which was good for getting ready but awful for my nerves.
“You’ll have a few minutes afterward to get into your evening regalia, take some more poses for the judges, then some more for print. The judging will take place over the course of a half hour. We’ll have some more musical acts for the audience while they deliberate, and you’ll all be called back onstage in your evening gowns. All right, ladies, best of luck. Knock ’em dead!”
We scrambled into the grand dressing room, where stations had been set up for each of us. Each one was equipped with a lighted vanity mirror, plugs, and a table for all our makeup and hair accoutrements. There was a rack where we could hang our garments, and luckily my bags were dark because I didn’t want the other contestants to see what I was wearing. It was also holding the sailor suit for the revue number at the beginning of the show.
I took the outfit out of the bag and smiled. It was red, white, and blue, of course. There was gold trim and some stars and had the big sailor lapels and high-waisted shorts with gold buttons. Totally adorable. I paired it with red pumps that I’d packed for just such an occasion.
Now for hair. I began to backcomb it all over, since I hadn’t decided how to wear it yet. There was a little sailor cap, but I didn’t know where I was going to position it—toward the back, jauntily tipped toward the front, or off to the side like a fascinator. After a few minutes of trying out several positions all over my head, I decided on the first ’do: I’d place it off to the back and do a nice big pompadour roll out front, with a small roll high and on each side. The hat would be sort of nestled between the three. It would also set my hair nicely for the bathing suit segment. I’d be taking it down and redoing it, so I had to be ready to go.
As for makeup, I’d keep it classic but a slightly different look from what I could see the other girls doing. The cat eye was synonymous with the pinup girl, but mine was going to differ just enough. I was going to do an Egyptian eye—like a cat eye but with the line extending inward as well, dipping down near my tear duct with almost the opposite shape as the outside corner. It was a bold move, but I knew that to stand out, I had to be original. I wouldn’t go with the drastic under-eye liner that often accompanied an Egyptian eye, so the look was even more unique. Once I’d completed it, I smiled. It was looking great. I did a bit of contouring with a highlighter and some bronzer, added some peachy blush and a well-lined red lip and pow!—bombshell. I wished Aston were here—he’d love this look.
I slid on the top of the sailor suit and it fit snugly over my breasts. There was more than a little cleavage popping out, but I wasn’t concerned. Other girls were padding themselves and trying to get the look I was achieving naturally. I guess that eating a little more than I should ended up benefiting me a tad.
The shorts, however, were a size too small. I gaped at them, horrified that I couldn’t get the zipper up all the way. Tears threatened, and I remembered that it was Derek who had entered me into this contest. Derek, who would obviously write a size smaller than I was. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for a miracle.
“Need a little tape, doll?” a girl asked. It was Leisa, a dark-haired pinup with adorable horn-rimmed glasses.
“I—” I stammered, unable to complete my thought. What would I need tape for?
She smiled at me sweetly. “I use it all the time,” she said, pulling down the top of her shorts. “My shorts looked like that when I put them on, but once I scooted some skin around and slapped this into place, they looked like they were tailor-made.”
I stared at her perfectly fitting shorts and the crisscross of tape she showed me underneath. “It’s like Spanx,” she said, zipping back up, “but lets you show more leg and tummy.”
I nodded and took some of her tape as she showed me how to get the shorts perfect. After a minute, she was right—the shorts looked tailor-made.
Take that, Derek!
The model wandered off, offering her tape to others, as I put
the finishing touches on my hair, makeup, and outfit. When I looked in the mirror, I was proud of what was before me.
I was going to dominate this competition.
The girls queued up by the door, and we were led to the wings of the stage by the announcer’s assistant, a sweet young girl named Paola. She seemed to be a pinup in training, and I wondered if she was the daughter of one of the organizers.
“Excited?” she asked me, watching me fidget with the strap on my shoes.
I nodded. “You?”
She bobbed her head. “I look forward to this every year. Someday, I’ll be just like you guys.” Her twelve-, maybe thirteen-year-old form straightened, doing a little pose with her hand behind her head. I gave her a thumbs-up, and we were walked to the stage.
The bright lights assaulted me as the cheers rose from the audience. I held my hand over my eyes as if in a military salute, and the girls fell into line. The band played, and we all sort of just bounced our hips in time. The crowd was diverse, much like the car show audiences—families, old dudes looking for some cheesecake, and I could even see other pinups as spectators. The judges’ table was up front, and comprised two of the pinups I’d met the other night, along with the Wayne Newton dude and another older man. I swallowed and gave them my best winning smile.
Then, Nelson ascended the stage and introduced the show. “Welcome to the twentieth annual Miss Pinup Las Vegas contest!”
The audience went wild, cheering, clapping, wolf-whistling.
“This afternoon we have a number of lovely ladies to introduce. First up, Debra!”
I was blinded by the lights, but as he began to read off the names, I searched the audience for Aston. It was hard, since there were so many people, but toward the back I could see a figure that sent a jolt of excitement through my bones. It was Aston; he was here.
“Finally, we have Miss Veronika Kane all the way from Rhode Island!” he said, and I took a step forward to my mark. The crowd roared, and I gave a little dip and curtsey as he continued to read. “Miss Kane isn’t just a pretty face, friends. She owns and operates her own garage, where she restores antique and vintage cars!” There was uproarious applause at this comment. “She can change my oil any time.”
I blinked at the comment and, without missing a beat, I crossed my arms and did the “no-no” gesture at him. The audience burst out laughing and so did the announcer, but I worried that my dominant nature had just shot down one of the judges. But I didn’t want him to get away with the sexist comment!
And as soon as it had begun, the revue was over and we walked in line back to the dressing room.
I didn’t know if I just made thousands of friends and one important enemy, but I didn’t care.
Like Frankie said, I did it my way.
In a frantic rush to get my hair done for the next round, I pulled out all the pins and shook it out wildly. I checked the mirror and saw how the teased waves had fallen. Bouffant, errant, untamed. Perfection.
I watched a giant volcano prop and tiki god get wheeled out onto the stage in preparation for the bathing suit segment and I knew I’d made the right decision. I patted my wanton hair in appreciation.
Then I found my suit and began to put it on. It had a fair amount of straps and it had to be twisted and placed just right. In fact, I repurposed some of Leisa’s tape so that it all stuck to my skin in the right places. While other contestants fidgeted with their bikinis and put on towering espadrilles or platforms, I decided to go barefoot.
Because I wasn’t going to be sacrificed. I was dressed in a leopard bikini that was a mix between Bettie Page and Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C. I was going onstage as an Amazon, not a virgin. A tiki god would never eat a Domme. We lined up again, and I got some interesting looks from the girls. Some were stunned, others looked smug. Good. Question my decision, that’s fine with me. I’m the one with the balls, so just watch.
Each one slowly paraded out, took some pictures for the crowd, posed at the altar in either a cheesecake pose or some sort of body draping. They all did the shocked, scared face made famous in the old King Kong movie or pulp comics. This did nothing but embolden me.
When it was my turn, I walked out onto the stage slowly, stalking like a cat. There was a collective gasp from the crowd.
“Well, hello Veronika, or should I say Raquel?” Nelson said.
I didn’t smile, I just continued my Amazon stride across the stage, owning the place. I kept a stoic face and a proud pose, surveying the crowd as if it were my territory. The crowd went absolutely bonkers. When I was escorted up to the tiki altar, I don’t know what came over me, but I knocked it over and hefted my foot up on it, claiming it as my own. Nobody else was after me, so it wasn’t like I was ruining anyone’s chances by taking it down.
The crowd’s whoops and whistles hit a fever pitch, and the judges scribbled furiously on their pads. I had no idea if this was a good thing or a bad thing, but I knew that I enjoyed it and I was making the impression I wanted to, and for now, that was all that counted.
The girls all scrambled to get dressed in the casual wear or costumes we had for the talent portion. Since I had no idea what it was I was doing, I just picked something cute that I always loved to wear. It was a sundress with a pattern of various tropical fruits. Now that I knew it was a luau-themed pageant, I figured nothing could be better. The dress itself was white and Marilyn-style with a halter neck and flowing skirt. I paired the dress with simple white patent leather Mary Jane pumps.
As for my hair, well, it needed some work after being teased and taunted, but luckily I was going on last. I had all the time in the world.
So, I took some time to brush out the snarls while still maintaining the backcombed poof I had worked so long on this morning. Then, I parted it deeply to one side and made a swooping wave that almost doubled as bangs. At the end, I turned it into a perfect curl, where you could see the inside of the barrel I’d just made. Technical perfection, if that was something the judges voted on. I took my curling iron and made huge banana curls with the rest of my hair and pinned a large white flower over my ear.
No matter what Aston had come up with for my talent, I’d be able to handle it in this.
Before long, the fifty minutes of other girls had passed and it was my turn. When Paola brought me to the wing of the stage, however, she held up a small scrap of black.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Your blindfold,” she said sweetly.
Alarms rang in my mind. “Blindfold?!”
The petite girl nodded. “Bend down, please,” she said, and I gave in. I had to trust Aston, and if that meant I’d get blindfolded by a tween, then so be it.
If not, he was going to get the beating of his life.
A hand took mine, a male hand, and I was escorted onto the stage on shaky heels. The crowd gasped, and the announcer began to speak. “Miss Kane here is a car expert,” he said, leading me to a chair. “Please sit,” he said, not in the microphone, but in my ear. I sat, stunned and still reeling. “In fact, Miss Kane is so good at tuning up cars, she can tell the make and model of them just by the sound.”
The audience cheered and my heart seized. I swallowed and continued listening, happily stunned.
“Veronika, we have three cars onstage with you. We will turn each one on and you’ll tell us what it is!” he said. There were more shocked sounds from the audience.
I nodded, confident. Aston was right—I could do this. “Bring it on.”
Shouts, whistles, cheers. I had this.
The announcer turned on the first engine and I heard a gritty purr like an exotic cat. “Is this a joke?” I asked.
“I’m afraid this was the talent you specified—we just provided the cars.”
“I meant are you going easy on me? That’s a fifty-seven Ford Fairlane 500 Skyliner! I thought everyone had seen Die Another
Day—too mainstream! Hope your next one is more difficult.”
The crowd cheered as the announcer turned off the car and approached the second one, turning the ignition. I listened to it for a minute—it was more rattle than purr. “That’s the car from Rebel Without a Cause right there. Forty-nine Mercury Eight Coupe. And it’s in dire need of an oil change.”
Again, wild applause. I wished I could see the judges’ reactions.
“Correct!” he said, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Last one,” I muttered to myself as the Mercury engine ceased and I heard the announcer walk to the third car.
The second it started, I bolted out of my chair. “That’s my car!” I shouted.
“Come again?” the announcer asked.
I crossed my arms. “That is a nineteen sixty-four Shelby Cobra, show quality, and his name is Johnny. He’s all mine,” I said, crossing and uncrossing my legs as the sound in the amphitheater deafened my ears.
“A standing ovation!” Wayne Newton’s mini-me said. “Now, about that oil change,” he said, removing my blindfold. My eyes widened as the middle car—the Mercury Eight—was raised high, revealing a set of tools underneath.
“You were right about it needing an oil change. Will you do the honors?” he asked.
I looked down at my white dress and white heels and patted my perfect hair. “Nothing I’d like more,” I said, and took my spot beneath the car.
I shut out the crowd, the shouting, and did the job I’d done a million times. I loved my job. I ignored the grease that spattered my fingers, that dribbled onto my dress. I forgot about it when I wiped the sweat that the lights were producing on my brow. All there was was me, the car, and some ultra-premium oil.
The band began to play—something to kill time while the crowd watched me change the oil—and out of the corner of my eye I saw the audience begin to sing, clap, and dance to the music. I didn’t feel so bad about hogging the stage since I was doing my job and they were definitely entertained.