Twenty-One – Eliza
TWENTY-ONE
ELIZA
H arrison is leaning back on the couch, staring at his phone, when I make it to the living room. His shirt is half buttoned, exposing a sculpted chest that looks like it belongs in a cologne ad.
I can’t help staring at it, wondering what it would feel like under my fingers—warm, hard, distracting—until he looks up and says, “Like what you see?”
“I was looking at the painting behind you.”
“The wall behind me doesn’t have a painting.”
“Anyway—” He clears his throat. “I called in some help. Frederick Silo is the king of this type of shit. He used to turn people into polished, marketable myths for a living.”
“So he’s retired?”
“Something like that…” His voice trails off, and before I can ask what the hell that means, the doorbell rings.
He walks over to answer it, and a salt-and-pepper-haired man in a pink suit struts inside like he owns the place. Three women in beautiful cream dresses and matching stilettos follow him, their movements perfectly choreographed.
“Frederick Silo has arrived!” he announces, bowing like he’s taking the stage. “Why don’t I hear applause?”
The women clap obediently, and I mouth You’ve got to be fucking kidding me to Harrison.
“It’s good to see your ego’s larger than ever,” Harrison says. “Here I was thinking that time would make you more modest.”
“I’m tired of waiting for the world to realize how phenomenal I am,” Frederick replies, unbothered. “I know what I’ve done, and I deserve endless praise.”
“He is amazing.”
“His contributions are otherworldly.”
“We are lucky to be in his presence,” the women say in unison, as if on cue.
“Anyway—” Harrison rolls his eyes. “Are you clear on everything I need you to do?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been looking forward to this all week!” Frederick beams. “What time is your client arriving?”
“She’s already here.”
He scans the room, then peers down the hallway. “Is she in the restroom?”
“She’s right there.” Harrison points at me.
Frederick’s mouth parts like I just insulted couture itself.
His minions exchange confused looks behind him, uncertain whether to gasp or bow.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Silo?” Harrison asks, looking as offended as I feel.
Frederick doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps toward me, pulls a pen from his pocket, and twirls it through my hair like he’s testing thread count. He recoils and gasps.
“Tablet, please,” he snaps, and one of his minions whips out an iPad like they’re armed for battle.
“Split ends that haven’t seen shears in years,” he declares, lifting my chin with the tip of his pen. “Decent standing posture, but needs correction. Uneven fingernails—jagged, rough. They belong on a farmhand.”
“I do work on a farm.”
“Shhh.” He places a manicured finger over my lips. “No need to add to your list of unfortunate traits…”
I bite my tongue, hard. One more comment and I swear I’ll shove that tablet where the sun doesn’t shine.
“She has a good arch to her eyebrows, but they’re buried beneath a layer of fur,” he continues. His hands settle on my shoulders. “Beautiful collarbone structure—ruined by a terrible drop to the cleavage line.”
“She’s not wearing the right size bra,” he announces. “You strike me as a 36C. What size do you have on?”
“38B.”
“No wonder they’re not standing at attention like they should be.” He sighs, deeply disappointed. “Why aren’t your ears pierced?”
“I never got around to it.”
“We’ll need to arrange for that.” He waves it off. “Do you have any tattoos? Tramp stamps?”
“One.”
Harrison arches a brow, visibly surprised.
“Where is the tattoo?”
“Somewhere you’ll never see it.”
“When you do her full body wax, let me know where the tattoo is,” he says, already turning back to his tablet. “Moving on to?—”
“I don’t want to be waxed,” I say sharply. “Shaving is just fine.”
“It can’t be,” he scoffs, crouching to inspect my calves. “There are hints of stubble everywhere.”
“Harrison?” I look at him, holding in the scream building in my throat. “Can you please tell your friend that waxing won’t be happening?”
“Can you try not to make it painful for her?” he says instead, like this is a routine dental cleaning. “I’ll be back on Sunday.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re leaving—again?”
“I have another emergency client who needs me.” He pulls a gummy bear from his pocket and it lands in my mouth before I can object. “Do whatever needs to be done, Mr. Silo. Hope the extra day will help.”
“An extra month would help.”
“Make do with what you have.” Harrison walks out of the suite without a backward glance.
I stare after him, stunned. Then slowly turn to Frederick.
He claps his hands once. “Let’s start with the hardest part first,” he says, with theatrical delight.
Then he snaps his fingers.
“Someone get me some duct tape for her mouth…”