“Good,” she says, spraying my head with water from a plastic bottle.
With a muted snip, the first lock falls to the floor.
7
Cass
For the rest of the day, I am kept busy with the makeover.
The injection filler doesn’t really hurt—okay it stings a bit—but it’s really nothing. I’ve had worse. The colored contact lenses are harder to get used to. They feel like grit in my eyes.
“That’s it,” the nurse—I’m assuming she’s a nurse because she wearing a white nurse’s uniform—says cheerfully.
The reclining chair is raised to an upright position and I look into the mirror she holds out to me. Oh, my God! My lips look like ten bees have stung them and they feel weird, but she tells me they will settle in twenty-four hours and will then look the way they are supposed to for the next few months.
My next destination is a small cubicle where, turbaned and completely bare, I stand in front of a stranger called Clarise while she spray-tans me. The mist feels cold and smells like malty biscuits. After two all-over layers, my skin is basically the color of mud.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask, feeling quite concerned.
Above her face mask, her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Don’t freak out. The color will fade and you will look great by tomorrow.”
It takes two more hours for Helen, Tamara’s makeup artist, to complete my transformation. My nails and eyebrows are shaped and colored in. When I look in the mirror, a stranger with blue eyes stares back at me.
“Wow,” I whisper through numb lips.
Selena comes and stands behind us. “She’ll die if she sees you. You’re better looking than her.”
“Shhh…” Helen says, giving her a funny look.
Selena shrugs nonchalantly. “Why can’t I say it? It’s the truth. Tamara used to be pretty, but she’s just gone too far now. I swear if she has another nose job, her whole nose is going to fall off. Besides all the drugs and drink…”
Helen narrows her eyes in my direction as if to say, not in front of her.
“She doesn’t look stupid enough to repeat that to anybody, let alone Tamara,” Selena says carelessly and flounces off.
For the next hour, Helen teaches me all about makeup. Some of it is useful and I file the information away to tell Jesse. She tells me that while blondes are generally advised to wear only fiery, orangey reds if they’re going to wear red lipstick, the most dramatic and stunning red lipstick for blondes is blue based.
“It will make your teeth look brighter too.” She twists open a lipstick. “Like this Cherry Lush by Tom Ford.”
She applies it on me and she is right. It makes my lips, already big and swollen, look even more prominent. “Try wearing this with a blue dress,” she advises.
She drops the lipstick into a big cosmetics bag on the table in front of me. By the time the lesson is over, the makeup bag is full of all kinds of cosmetics.
After the lesson, I am shown to another room where Tamara’s personal dresser, a woman dressed from head to toe in black, is waiting with a tape measure. I cringe inwardly, but she is deft and quick.
“Now that was not so bad, was it?” she asks a couple of minutes later.
“No, it wasn’t,” I agree.
She puts her tape measure into her bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Are we finished?”
“Uh-huh. I’ll get a couple of suitcases ready for tomorrow.”
“Don’t I get to see any of the clothes I will be wearing?”
She smiles apologetically. “Sorry, my instructions were to fill two suitcases of clothing that will suit Tamara’s style in your size.”
I can’t help it. I become a bit anxious about what I’ll find inside the bags.
That evening, I join Ms. Moore for dinner. We sit at the kitchen table and eat a delicate chicken dish made with olives and white wine served on a bed of wild rice.
“Not only are you required to look like Tamara, but you need to mimic the way she walks, talks, and moves,” Ms. Moore says and switches on the DVD player. When the videos come to an end, she pushes a notepad toward me and gives me a brief rundown of Tamara’s childhood, likes, dislikes, hobbies, mannerisms, favorite foods, and drinks. “You can start practicing to be like her from now.”
I pout the way I saw her do earlier.
“Good. Toss your hair a lot like this too,” she says, tossing hers as if she is in a shampoo ad.
It looks ridiculous but I follow her and she smiles approvingly.
“When you get there, you’ll have to make some calls to Tamara and me. You better key our numbers into your phone now.”
I realize that I must be extremely blunt with her. “I don’t want to sound disrespectful, Ms. Moore, but I have twenty-three dollars and a pack of mints in my pocket. That twenty-three dollars is all the money I have left after paying my landlord. Since my cell phone is a pay-as-you-go, I will not be able to call anyone long distance.”
Ms. Moore’s eyes narrow. “If you want to act like Tamara, you must do better than that. Neither your attitude nor your words were disrespectful.”
I place the palms of my hands against my temples. “I’m sorry. I promise you that I can and I will impersonate Tamara’s behavior to the best of my ability as soon as I get to Montana, but for now, the last thing I want to do is be ungrateful to you. You have taken me under your wing and given me a huge break. You cannot imagine how big a break, so please don’t get upset with me for not being rude to you. I just needed to make you understand my situation. Mainly, that I don’t have any money at all.”
She sighs, her eyes suddenly filling with compassion. “I was in your position a few years back.”
I find that hard to believe. To me, she is the epitome of effortless glamor and sophistication.
She stands up and goes to the kitchen counter where her black patent leather purse is. She reaches into it, pulls out a wallet, and extracts a few bills.
When she extends the bills in my direction, I take them awkwardly and look at them. Five hundred in crisp new bills. I shake my head. “I can’t take all this from you.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not coming from me. You can’t go to Montana without any money. I’ll make sure you have a phone by tomorrow too. Tamara Honeywell would never be seen without the latest one.”
I fold the bills. “Thank you, Ms. Moore. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“Like I said, I’ve been where you are before, maybe even worse. You’re a strong girl, Cass. You’ll find your way out of your pit.” She smiles and stands up. “Time you were in bed. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning. Your flight is at eleven and there are still some things to iron out.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, please don’t go wandering around the house. Tamara tends to be active at night.”
“I won’t,” I promise. The last person I want to meet ever again is her.
“Tamara and you will leave from the same airport, only she will be getting on her friend’s private jet and you’ll be flying first class to Montana.”
My eyes widen. First class. My, my what will Jesse say?
“Goodnight,” she says and starts walking away from me.
“Ms. Moore,” I call when she is almost at the door. She turns to me with an emotionless expression on her face. She may seem to be all business, but the woman has a hidden heart of gold. “Just so you know in case it happens again, there are thirty-seven pearls in her necklace.”
“I knew that,” she says with a faint smile.
“So why did you say thirty-six.”
She gives a small shrug. “It was a test to see what you would do.”
“Did I pass the test?”
“You passed one and failed another.”
“Passed what and failed what?’
“You’re trustworthy, but you’re too naïve to survive around Tamara.”
She was a lot braver than me. “You took
a chance. I could have gotten you in trouble and she could have fired you.”
She smiles confidently. “Tamara knows better than to fire me. Her loss will be her competitors’ gain, and she has many of those. Sleep well, Cass.”
She opens the door and walks out.
Alone in the kitchen, I go to flip my hair over my shoulder and realize that it’s no longer the same. The tips brush against my shoulder blades and I try to ignore the fact that I’m no longer myself. My mouth, my hair, the color of skin...
For thirty thousand dollars, I sold my individuality.
8
Lars
“What?”
“Ryan broke his leg,” my brother, Matt, repeats patiently.
“How the hell did he do that?” I yell into the phone.
“He got tossed off Thunder.”
“That dumbass! What was he doing with him?”
“Trying to ride him,” my brother says dryly.
“Why in heaven’s name? I told the damn fool to keep away from that beast.”
“You know how he is. He was trying to please you.”
I take a deep breath to calm myself. This the last fucking thing I need. “Right. We have to find a backup trainer. The spoiled brat has to be picked up,” I look at my watch, “in an hour. Who do we have?”
“Nobody,” my brother says cheerfully. “Thunder put Jimbo out of commission last week with a few cracked ribs, remember?”
“So, who’s going to pick her up and train her?” I almost growl.
“You.”
“Like hell I am. I’m not taking one damned minute out of my day to train a talentless, uninteresting, fake ass, ditzy drama queen.”
“Don’t hold back. Tell everybody how you really feel about a girl you’ve never met. She could turn out to be nice, you know.” My brother sounds amused, which pisses me off even more.
“Nice? God vomited and there was Tamara Honeywell is what I heard one film critic call her, and I’m inclined to agree.”
“One man’s vomit and all that…”
“Why do I have to do it? Why can’t you?” I demand.
“Me? Why should I? Bucking Bronco is your ranch.”
I swear under my breath. “If I get stuck with Honeywell, I swear she’ll be working her pampered ass off until she breaks every fucking artificial nail on her fingers.”
He laughs.
“I don’t know why you don’t take her? I hear she’s a gem at riding dick,” I say persuasively.
He chuckles. “Thanks for the kind offer, but I’ve got my hands full with Erika. You’re on your own with this one, bro.”
“Fine.” I don’t like it, but I don’t have an option in the matter, so I’ll cowboy up and take it on the chin. “I’ll pick her up. Maybe I’ll put her on Thunder.”
“Be nice,” he says. “Even vomit is precious to its father.”
“Whatever.”
“What should we do with the racehorse, Lars?” Matt asks.
I sigh and rub the back of my neck in frustration. Thunder is one of the fastest stallions this side of Montana. I know he has potential stored up in him, but I just can’t understand why he won’t work with any of our men. They’ve never had a hard time with any other horse.
“I just hope he has not become of one of those wildly independent horses that can never be tamed.”
“We spent good money on him, so I’m not giving up yet,” I insist.
“If he keeps hurting our trainers, we’ll have to get rid of him. Money doesn’t matter in a situation like this.”
“Understood,” I say. My brother holds no power here, but he makes a valid point. It will be tragic to get rid of Thunder, but until he takes to a trainer, we’re wasting time and funds on him.
I hang up the phone and stand up from my office chair. There’s a farmhand who tends to the broncos, so I don’t often interact with them, but I’ll have to do something about Thunder soon. However, there are more pressing priorities that need to come first.
I walk through my house and go outside. Bucking Bronco is a cattle ranch about 44,400 acres and expanding. With eleven full-time employees, the spread supports a sizable herd of Angus cross, mostly black hided, fall calving cows. We also farm one thousand acres of baleable forage crops and nearly two hundred acres of permanent pastures.
“Hey, Lars. Did you hear about Ryan?” Chance, one of the ranch hands shouts.
I nod and stride in the direction of the cattle barns.
“Yeah, Thunder made him chew gravel too.” Catching up with me, he keeps pace by jogging backward a couple of paces in front of me. “So, is it true that Miss Tamara is coming right here to this very spread for a couple three days?” he asks.
I spare him a glance. Chance is a good kid but naïve. His eyes are fucking on fire with excitement. “Chance, she’s not staying for a couple three days. She’s staying for a whole damned month. And stop looking so pleased about it. It’s not a good thing.”
“Whoopee. She’s hot,” he hollers, and taking his hat off, throws it into the air.
I sigh and hop into my truck. “Hot or not, she’ll still be a pain in my ass.”
It takes me forty-five minutes on dusty roads to make it to our meeting place and I am expecting her to pull up any minute. Most men would be thrilled to meet Tamara Honeywell, but brainless, pointless celebrities like her just make my skin crawl. I don’t even want to be in the same room with them. I swear, if she’s not careful, she’s going to end up bent over my knee getting what her daddy should have given her.
Fifteen minutes later, she arrives right on time in a blacked-out limo. I fill my lungs with air, step out of my truck, and lean against the hot metal. The back door of the car doesn’t open immediately. Instead, the driver exits the car and nods at me before going around to open the door for her. I scowl at the act. It is completely unnecessary for the driver to leave the vehicle. Tamara is perfectly capable of getting out herself.
Once the door opens, one sparkle infested, sky-scraper high shoe makes its way out of the car. Attached is a disconcertingly smooth, long, golden leg. Another shoe slips out. Followed by another endless leg. Something starts happening to my temperature. Both shoes hit the ground, rustling up small clouds of dust.
Languorously, God’s own vomit unfolds itself from the limo and…whoa! It goddamn kills me to admit it, but hell, blood rushes south and I pop wood right there for Tamara Honeywell. I was a pimply-faced kid the last time just the sight of a female had that effect on me. Somewhere at the edges of my vision, I notice the driver of the vehicle moving toward the back of the car, but I can’t really focus on anything except the shining vision in front of me. I’ve had my share of women, more than my share, but this one, I can’t take my eyes off.
Sunglasses cover her eyes, but her hair is glowing like white gold—a color not one woman around these parts would dare —and her skin is apple fresh. She is wearing a short white dress that clings to her every curve, and fuck me, she has a lot of those. Like some sex zombie, my eyes latch on to and get unwittingly stuck on her full, round tits. I must look like one of those cooking show chefs who pretend to smile while they are stuffing bread up a bird’s ass.
“Up here, buddy,” she scolds. Her voice, contrary to what Rolling Stones magazine once claimed sounds something like a mix between a screeching cat and a Baccarat champagne glass being smashed in a fit of temper, is sweet and despite the angry undertone, is all kinds of sexy.
“Lars,” I introduce myself, extending a hand to her.
She doesn’t take it. “Yeah, well you know who I am. So, are you going to get my bags?”
That brings me down to earth with a bang. Reality check. That’s right, I detest what this woman stands for. Despite the banging body, she’s a lousy excuse for a human being. I turn my head toward the bags left behind the limo, which the driver has unloaded while I was examining her with my mouth hanging open. I bring my gaze back to her face. I wish she’d take those fucking shades off. It’ll help i
f I can see her eyes and look into the empty voids behind them.
“You came here to work. Start by carrying your own damned bags,” I tell her.
I notice a small smile on her lips before she tosses her hair like some goddamn horse and tilts her head. The minx pushes her sunglasses down her little nose and peers up at me with laughing blue eyes. Oh, man, I’m so fucked. How could these eyes belong to a vapid creature pairing all the sad dick hopping with alcohol and drugs?
“I figured a handsome cowboy like you wouldn’t mind carrying a few bags for little old me,” she says with a teasing lilt.
Fuck. Part of me wants to do it. Manipulative little bitch. I’m gonna need all my wits about me. “Lil’ old you had better get strong fast, because you’ll be lifting things much heavier than those bags.”
She pushes her sunglasses so they lie on top of her head. “I have a secret to tell you,” she whispers with pouting lips. Tamara takes another step closer and stands on her tiptoes to speak into my ear. Her lips only come as far as the middle of my neck because of our height difference. Her breath fans over me and goosebumps run down my arms. Jesus, she smells like a slice of heaven.
“I’m not really a bitch,” she whispers. “I’m very sweet if you do what I want.”
Even the dust motes stop swirling. And for a one crazy second I know the primitive urge to grab her sweet smelling soft body and kiss the hell out of that sexy, pouty, slutty mouth. My hands open into claws, ready to squeeze her flesh. Then sanity asserts itself. What the fuck am I thinking? This is Tamara Honeywell. STD-guaranteed-Tamara-Honeywell. Suddenly, I see the thick layer of greasepaint she has troweled on her face. The blazing heat must have affected me while waiting for her in the midday sun.
I take a giant step backward.
The suddenness of my action makes her teeter in her high heels, and she almost loses her balance. It would have done her good to land on her pampered ass, but she manages to right herself. Shame.
“You think you’re so hot ice cream would melt on your fingers, don’t ya?” I ask, laughing.
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