Third Degree (The Lust List: Devon Stone #3)

by Mira Bailee

  She sent a limo. I was ready to go, keys in hand, and when I left my apartment, I was greeted with a long white limousine.

  We pull up in front of Raul Xavier’s right at 9:00 a.m. Today’s definitely going to be an interesting one. I check my hair and makeup in my compact mirror. I know I’m about to get it done, but I confess, I spent a little bit of time—like an hour—making sure it looked good going in. If they’re really celebrity stylists, I have to compare on some level, right? Otherwise, even I’d be laughing at myself.

  Okay, this is it. Olivia’s Cinderella fairy tale begins now. My fairy godmother, Natalia, told me not to be late, so I stop wasting time and go to the salon’s front door. I pull. It doesn’t budge.

  The damn thing is locked, and a closer look at the engraved text on the door tells me they don’t open for another two hours.

  What the hell, Natalia?

  Maybe I got the time wrong. It’s possible. The agenda is in my purse, so I dig into my bag to find it.

  “Olivia?” a voice calls. “Uh—I mean, Ms. Margot.”

  I look back up toward the salon to find the door open wide, a flustered girl holding her chest as if to catch her breath.

  “I am so sorry,” she says, pausing between each word. “I was expecting you, and I was on my way over. I can’t believe I made you wait. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Why would she be apologizing to me? Last time I went to a salon, I waited well over forty-five minutes before my stylist got to me. This was nothing.

  “It’s okay, really. I saw you open at eleven. I can come back.”

  The girl gives a shriek of laughter like this is comedy hour. “You’re hilarious. You have a private appointment. You’re the whole reason we’re here, and it’s truly an honor. Now come in.”

  She steps aside and extends an arm as if presenting me with my grand prize. I walk in expecting the usual—reception desk, waiting room chairs, and a dozen huge mirrors paired with salon chairs. What I find is extraordinary. The waiting area is a lounge, complete with plush couches and a bar. There’s no reception desk, and a silky drape separates the waiting area from the stylist stations. I take a peek past to see it’s one big room with only one chair in the middle. One wall is completely lined with mirrors. How this place stays in business only serving one client at a time, I have no idea. Oh wait, celebrities. They can afford the steep pricing, and therefore, Raul must be making a fortune. Good for him.

  “Can I get you a drink? Mimosa? Champagne? Cucumber water?” The girl heads toward the bar.

  “A water, I guess.”

  She works quickly and hands me a glass. “I’m Vivian, by the way. So sorry to not introduce myself already.”

  “No need to apologize, Vivian. I’m Olivia—”

  “Of course you are. We’re thrilled to have you here today.” She beams a toothy grin, and I still can’t understand why she’s so excited to see me.

  I sip at my refreshing, cool water and watch little slices of cucumber float around on top. Music plays from invisible speakers, pumping out electronica at a pleasant volume. If I forgot about the real purpose of this place, I could easily convince myself I was at the most peaceful nightclub. I’d be a guest every night at a hangout with this atmosphere.

  “Raul’s ready when you are, Ms. Margot.”

  “Please, call me Olivia.”

  I follow Vivian past the drapes and am met by a man in a black suit. He’s suave and dressed for a black tie event, but I’m most drawn to his hair. A mohawk extends a good six inches above his head, and it’s dyed a deep purple. I love this guy already.

  “Beautiful, Olivia. It is indeed an honor.” He does a half bow and holds out his arm for me to take.

  I loop mine through his elbow and he leads me to his chair.

  A couple hours later, Raul spins me toward the mirror, my first time seeing the final result. When I said I tried to make my hair look nice before coming here, I shouldn’t have bothered. Wow. I look like a different person. He’s dyed it a deep espresso shade, added natural extensions to give it more volume, and given me these huge, soft waves. I’m reminded of models in magazines that have perfect hair, every strand seeming to know where it belongs. It all feels so bouncy and light, yet there’s so much of it!

  “Wow, Raul. You’re a god with those scissors.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” He polishes his sheers with a square of cloth and returns them to his breast pocket. “You look as beautiful as ever, and I believe I’ll see you Saturday. I’ll give you a killer up-do, okay sweetheart?”

  I stand up and hug him. I can’t help myself. I love my hair.

  “You’re very welcome,” he says. “Vivian will walk you out. Take good care of the mane.”

  I walk alongside Vivian and realize I should probably tip him or something, right?

  “What do I owe you for all this?” I ask her.

  She laughs that giddy, shrill giggle of hers. “It’s all prepaid, tip and all—and a very generous tip at that.” She opens the door to escort me out. “It was a pleasure meeting you. We hope to see you again.”

  I return to the limo feeling like I’d just spent a weekend at a spa retreat. It’s noon, and I’m expected at Calypso Day’s studio in thirty minutes. Lunch with Rhys is at two, so I really hope this is all over by then. Only…I don’t want this star treatment to end. My confidence is already soaring and I’ve only had my hair done. Now I get to go see my dress. If you asked me a year ago, I never would’ve predicted this. I’m not sure I would’ve even been interested in all this glitz and spotlight. But I’m embracing it. And I have to admit, loving it. Who have I become?

  Calypso’s studio ends up being nearby, and the limo drops me right at the front door. This time, I knock instead of assuming I’ll get in. I’m quickly learning things run very differently in the Hollywood world. The door opens and I’m greeted by a slim woman with long black hair that belongs on a goddess.

  “Olivia, finally!” she says.

  Am I late? I’m about to apologize and explain why it took so long, but she interrupts my thoughts.

  “I’ve been so anxious waiting all morning for our appointment. I already have great ideas for your gown.” She says this with her eyes wide and bright. “You ready to get started?”

  “You must be Calypso Day?”

  She rubs the sparkling stud in her left nostril and opens the door wider to let me in. “I am. But you can call me Caly like all my friends.”

  So we’re automatic friends. Okay, I can use a friend who makes fancy dresses. Her excitement is contagious, and I’m just as eager to see what she has for me.

  I go in expecting the same luxury as the salon. Again, I’m taken by surprise. It’s a big studio with wood floors and exposed ceiling beams. It’s rustic and simple, and it’s also a mess. Everywhere I look are racks of garment bags, tables piled high with fabrics and catalogs. Every inch of space seems to be filled with supplies and finished products. Only one corner of the studio is clear of clutter. Under a window sits a single meditation cushion and a small table topped with burning incense.

  “Don’t mind the chaos. I assure you, I know where everything is. Organization and me? We broke up a long time ago.”

  No kidding. Maddie would love this place. I’m always suggesting her life would be easier if she straightened up her things. Her argument is always to challenge me. “Name something,” she’ll say. “Anything, and I’ll tell you where it is.”

  A half dozen people scramble around the studio working as Calypso—Caly—leads me toward the center where a tall mirror stands before a short round stool.

  “Please, step up.”

  I do so and find myself again mesmerized by my hair. It sounds superficial, I know, but I was told to embrace the glamour.

  “Cheryl, bring me my samples,” she calls to one of the tables. I don’t see anyone there until a woman steps out from behind a tall stack of folded silk in deep shades of blue and red and purple. Caly even knows where her associates are hidde
n. I stifle a laugh at how crazy this place is. But you can’t help but be intrigued by it all.

  Cheryl hands Caly what looks like a fat, oversized binder. Instead of papers and sheet protectors, rectangles of fabric make up the contents. Caly flips through as if looking for just the right page. Occasionally, she stops and pulls out one of the colors. After a couple minutes, she has about twenty layers of fabric draped on one shoulder. She pulls a pencil from her back pocket, hands the sample book back to Cheryl, and grabs a sketchbook.

  “I was under the impression you were doing a regular dress fitting,” I say, letting my curiosity get to me. “Like an already finished dress?”

  “Oh hell no,” Caly shouts. “Olivia Margot is not getting a pre-made. You’re going to that gala with a custom as every celebrity should.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’m no celebrity. They’re making me out to be a big deal, and I mostly feel like a sham.”

  “I’ve been there,” she says, shaking her head and smiling. She begins holding different pieces of cloth up to my face. When she speaks again, she goes a mile a minute, seeming to never stop for a breath. “This fabric is exclusively mine. It’s elite quality, sent to me directly by my private manufacturers, and is my best kept secret. This is how I’m going to make it big in the industry. Other designers? They’re begging to find out what I’m doing that’s so different from them. All I do is laugh, because when it comes to it, those other designers are creating what the masses want and expect. I not only think outside the box, I’ve banned the box from being anywhere near me. They need to realize it’s all about creativity and—oh my god, this is it!”

  She’s holding an icy blue satin to my face. She moves down, holding it over my shoulder. She rests it on my breasts, letting it go and analyzing the way it lays over my curves. This entire charade is almost comical, but I’m getting the impression that I’m truly watching an artist at work right now.

  “What do you think?” she asks me.

  “Oh, I really know nothing about this stuff.”

  “Well I know one thing. You are gonna be hot. That’s with a capital H.” She turns her focus to her sketchbook and I watch as lines and curves, swirls and scribbles transform into an illustrated version of me—fancy hair and all—donning a one-strap, full length ball gown. Her plans show it trailing behind me with a short train, and the whole thing hugs my curves as if the satin has been poured over my body.

  “That looks great.”

  “Oh this. This is nothing, just a first draft. The final product—now that will blow your mind.”

  She digs into her pockets looking for something but not finding it. Wandering to a table, she scoops up a few books and dumps them onto a nearby shelf. Then she pushes paper and boxes and empty coffee mugs aside until she snatches something in her hand with an “aha”.

  Caly comes back to me, opening her hand and revealing a tape measure. Mumbling to herself, she takes my measurements and scribbles them onto her sketch. When she finishes, she holds out a hand for me to take. Helping me off the raised platform, she pulls me into a hug.

  “Thank you so much for coming by. I promise, I won’t disappoint.”

  I’m still so caught off guard by everyone’s reactions today. What happened while I was sleeping last night? Was a memo sent out informing the LA population that I was now some sort of big deal? Why didn’t I receive one?

  “Oh, before you go, can I ask a huge favor?” Caly rushes to one of the many clothes racks, sifts through it, and pulls down one of the garment bags. She swivels around to another rack, finding two more bags and adding them to the first. She comes back to me, dumps these into my arms, and before I can ask what’s going on, she sprints to a far table and comes back with a fabric covered box, like the old hat boxes all our grandma’s used to have.

  “This is all unreleased product from my new line. Can you take it home, check it out, and consider trying on the things you like?”

  Really? “Oh, you’re way too generous. You don’t have to do this for me. The gown you design will be well enough.”

  “No, no. I need you wearing these. It’ll help my career. I’ve gotten lucky so far getting one of my gowns featured on an attendee at the HIT Awards.” She turns away as if looking off into the distance. “Of course, that one ended up destroyed…” She looks back at me with big pleading eyes. “Please don’t destroy these your first time wearing them. But do enjoy them.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Of course I’ll take them.” Never mind my pitiful wardrobe at home. She doesn’t need to know how uncool I really am.

  I start to pry open the box when Caly shoves it back shut. “Oh, don’t open them yet. I love surprising people with surprises. Check them out after you leave.” She gives a little squeal and hugs me again before leading me to the door and holding it for me.

  I dump everything into the back seat of the limo and pull my phone from my purse. Crap. I definitely don’t have enough time to get home, grab my car, and get to Rhys. My driver assures me he’s in no hurry, so I tell him where to take me next. I could get used to this.

  I arrive at Colin’s Diner a few minutes after two. Several round tables with big umbrellas are scattered around a front patio, intertwined with randomly placed pots of colorful flowers. A propped open door invites hungry patrons inside, but I don’t have to go that far. I spot Rhys before I have both legs out of the limo. He stares down at a menu, and for a moment, I’m convinced I’ve gone back in time. But then he looks up, and the grown up Rhys makes eye contact. I close the door behind me and walk toward him. The California sun has left him tan, and no doubt a gym membership has left him toned. The scruff on his face suggests he’s down-to-Earth while his button down and shined shoes say he’s professional. The shaggy mop on his head appears to be the only thing he’s kept all these years.

  “Well well, Miss Hollywood. It’s good to see you.” He stands up and comes around the table to give me a big hug. “Look at you. If I had to describe the Olivia I thought I’d be meeting here today, I would’ve assumed she’d have blue hair and a hundred piercings. I would never have expected this supermodel arriving in her limo.”

  Should I tell him about the salon trip and how the limo is unexpected? Nah. I feel too good right now.

  “You’re sweet, but I was just coming from something. I assure you, I’m not usually this put together.”

  He motions for me to sit, and we both take our places. “Well, if I was in any way attracted to girls, Devon would need to watch out.”

  I let out a laugh. “So, since you’re into guys, should I be the one watching out instead?”

  “Ooh, do you think I’d really have a chance with him?”

  I playfully kick him under the table. “Oh stop. I’m not here to talk about him.”

  We order drinks and lunch and continue to catch up. This is actually pretty great. He’s the first person from my past I’ve seen in years. I haven’t heard from my parents in months, and even then it’s a short phone call here or a half-assed email there. I’m not sure how Rhys felt about me and my family after we lost Jared, but it seems like things could be better now—like a little part of my past has healed.

  “So married man. Congratulations, by the way.”

  He bows his head as if accepting an award. “Thank you. Christopher and I are very happy. I started a software company a year and a half ago, Everton Tech. Christopher was an intern at the time.”

  “He was promoted pretty fast I take it?”

  “You could say that. Intern to spouse in one year, one month, and five days, to be exact.”

  My heart swoons at him knowing the exact number of days. I let him talk about Christopher as long as he wants, living vicariously through his young, happy marriage. I’m almost in a daze wondering how drastically things would be different if it were Devon and I who married at twenty years old. I’m yanked from this awkward contemplation when Rhys turns the attention on me.

  “So tell me about you.
It’s obvious you’ve done a lot in a few short years. How’d you get to this point?”

  I wave my hand to erase the very idea. “No, no. I—I’m an unemployed college grad.” I laugh. Our food arrives. “In fact, I really don’t know what’s going on right now. In fact, the celebrity mirage I seem to be displaying is partly why I asked to talk to you.”

  “Now I’m truly intrigued.”

  “Um…it also has to do with Jared.”

  The mood of the entire patio seems to dull at the sound of his name. A flood of memories sweeps over our table, and Rhys and I give each other a reassuring half-smile. We’ve both been in this dark place. We both understand.

  “The way I look. My current mode of transportation. Someone thinks I’m more important than I really am. Like I’m a star or—”

  “Look, Hollywood,” Rhys cuts in, between bites of his club sandwich. “You’re dating someone who was once referred to as American royalty. If he’s a prince, and you’re dating him, that makes you a…”

  “A princess…or duchess or whatever. This is all too weird for me. It really is. Anyway, there’s a charity gala on Saturday being put on by the YOUTHelp Foundation. I’ve been invited as a guest of honor, and I know you probably have to get back home soon, but I wanted to see if you’d come along.” I shrug my shoulders to make it clear it’s no big deal if he can’t. I’d be disappointed though. I’d like more time to catch up with him.

  “You want me to be your date?”

  “Not exactly. I’m supposed to bring Devon as well.” I take a bite of my sandwich and almost choke as he answers.

  “So you want me to be yours and Devon’s date? Nice.”

  “You’re ridiculous. Bring Christopher. I’d like to meet him.”

  “I think we can work that out. Send me all the details, and we’ll meet you there.”

  “Perfect. Now, tell me—”

  Click.