Chapter 2 Naomi
EIGHT YEARS AGO
I should have known when I asked for help getting ready tonight that winding up practically naked was on the table—after all, ‘sex pot’ is her signature look.
She zips me into a skirt that barely covers my ass, and shoves me into the vanity seat, facing her, of course, not the mirror; she never lets me see the whole look until she’s finished.
Aisha Mortez and I have been best friends since my family moved from Texas to California when I was ten. Moving in the middle of the school year wasn’t exactly smooth for a kid, but I found a friend, a sister—and that made it all easier.
“Ladybug” and “Junebug”—that’s what my momma used to call us, since we were inseparable, flitting around everywhere together.
Ladybug, for the beauty marks scattered across my skin—one beneath my lip, another on my collarbone, and several scattered along my back. Momma always said they made me unique, a touch of beauty inked by fate.
Then there’s June, her little Junebug. Momma called her that because she claimed Aisha’s skin turned its richest shade in mid-June, as if summer itself craved her warmth. Caramel against honey, deeper and sweeter each June. The names just…stuck.
We had packed up for California because my daddy had a dream for his industry, one that didn't leave room for compromise . Now, BAS Industries is in twenty countries and counting. They are breaking ground in South Africa next year.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, glaring sideways at my reflection in my vanity mirror.
Aisha’s got me in a black peasant top with huge bell sleeves, a black leather corset belt, a black -and-white jeans skirt, and black platform lace-up boots. The whole thing screams Winona Ryder meets Tara Thornton from True Blood, a show we devoured in high school.
Aisha silk-pressed my usually curly hair to perfection, leaving it to flow to the center of my back. She touched up my dark lip liner, blending it perfectly into a light brown lipstick before topping it off with a chocolate-colored gloss.
“Stop moving, and quit complaining!” She clutches my jaw, turning my face toward her again.
A touch of shimmering highlighter dust—delicately brushed onto the high points of my cheeks—catches the light, like morning dew on petals, before she uses black liquid liner to pronounce the beauty mark nestled just below my lip, adding a hint of mystery and allure to my look.
Moments later, she steps back, tilting her head thoughtfully, her eyes tracing my features with a slow, satisfied grin spreading across her face like a painter admiring their latest masterpiece.
“This is the last time I let you dress me.” I roll my eyes.
“I don’t think so. I always make you look fucking hot, bitch.” She whips the tube down on the dresser and shoves me toward my full-length mirror. “Tell me I didn’t do my thing.” She folds her arms, tilts her head slightly to the left, and raises one eyebrow in her reflection.
Her full lips curve into a smile, accentuating the freckles that scatter across her nose and onto her cheeks. Her skin, a beautiful blend of her Jamaican and Dominican heritage, shimmers with a moonlight-colored highlighter, while mine gleams in royal gold, enhancing my rich complexion.
“You did your thing,” I admit, a little dazed at my reflection. Being Aisha's model never gets old. Aisha pushes me into outfits so far out of my usual comfort zone that the transformations give me whiplash. Usually, I’m all about cute athletic gear or flowy dresses—simple, soft, sweet.
But not tonight.
She's rocking black, loose-fit jeans with silver and gold chains dangling from the belt loops, and a black mesh crop top that leaves little to the imagination.
Her hair is slicked back into a butterfly ponytail, edges perfect as usual.
Tonight, we look like every walking red flag's favorite fever dream. After a short ride to our destination, we hop out of Aisha’s midnight blue Acura and make our way to our usual brunch spot.
From the moment we step into the venue, I can smell the glitter and lip gloss in the air.
We’re here first for the “That’s So 2000s” brunch at Minx, a rooftop restaurant that converts into a nightclub on the main floor after dark, and I know we’ll more than likely be taking full advantage of both floors today.
Telling Aisha I need a day out means she will make sure we are raving from sun-up until… possibly into the next day.
The party is exactly as extra as it sounds—a Y2K-theme, pink velour booths, rhinestone curtains, and a Bratz doll mural across a wall, featuring a doll that looks like she might fight you if you disrespect her platform flip-flops.
The hostess drops off menus designed to look like Lisa Frank folders. There’s a “Mean Girls Mimosa Flight,” a “Queen Beatrix Banana Pancake Stack,” and something called “The B2K Burrito,” which I refuse to order out of sheer pride.
“No, but let’s talk about it. Are you really gonna order that burrito?” I fake a gagging sound, shutting my menu. “It doesn’t even sound appealing.”
“It’s a brunch experience, Naomi, not a damn diet. ” Aisha says without looking up, already halfway through ordering three cocktails.
I roll my eyes, but a grin sneaks up on me anyway.
This. This is what I had needed. After the longest week—dozens of clients, two new team members, and contract signings—a little glitter-soaked nostalgia, my bestie, and Destiny’s Child humming through the speakers like the soundtrack to our childhood—is just what the doctor ordered.
“Alright, bitch,” Aisha leans forward with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Tell me about him.”
I blink, deadpanning as a waitress sets down our first round of cocktails. “Which one?”
She throws her head back and laughs so loud that half the restaurant turns to look. “You’re really out here needing a chart and a PowerPoint just to keep track of your situationships?”
I bite back a groan and sip my Bellini. “I just don’t want a steady relationship right now,” I huff. “It's not the right time. Plus, everyone just wants to fuck, and I want my first time to be...meaningful.”
Her eyes search mine, and she sighs. “Well, this got way too serious for my liking.” She fishes an apple out of her sangria, chomping down on the liquor-soaked fruit before taking a sip.
And that's why I love my best friend. She always knows exactly when to change a subject. I didn’t come here to talk about men or past relationships. I just need to let loose tonight, and somewhere between the sparkles, syrup, and the sound of Ciara’s 1, 2 Step—my week from hell is forgotten.
After what feels like an entire day of throwing back drinks and dropping that thang to every beat, my throat is raw from screaming song lyrics, and I'm the drunkest I've been since college.
The liquor is still flowing by the time I decide to leave, but Aisha’s still on the dance floor “pop, lock, and dropping it” with Damon, aka Super Papi, her newest fling.
One night when her car broke down, Damon swooped in like a knight in a not-so-shining tow truck, and she’s been swooning ever since.
He’s been plying us with Incredible Hulks all night.
I think he’s trying to see what she looks like out of those jeans, and something tells me she's got the same thoughts on her mind. As soon as the beat drops on Bubba Sparks’ 2006 hits, she puts her hands on her knees, and starts furiously throwing something that Damon barely catches—that ass.
Meanwhile, I’ve got an early morning tomorrow and need to be at least half human for a big project I’m finishing.
Shoving through the club doors, the night air cools my heated skin.
I’ve just made it to the curb when my phone vibrates, and I know it's Aisha—her worrisome ass couldn’t even let me step five feet outside before calling.
Yanking the phone from my clutch, I answer, barely looking at the screen as I shout over the blaring bass thumping in her background.
“Don’t worry, June! I’ll text you as soon as I’m home!”
“Okay! Don’t make me send the whole damn police department after you!” she hollers back, her voice barely audible over “Ms. New Booty”.
“I won’t!” I yell back.
“Stay on the phone ‘til the car gets there!” she insists.
“I’m fine, girl! Have fun with Super Papi.”
“You sure?” Aisha asks, concern oozing into her voice.
“Yes, I love you! Bye!” I hang up before she can protest, wrapping my jacket tighter as I dash to the black car Max—my oldest brother— sent to pick me up. Robert, one of our newer drivers, is waiting in the front seat.
It’s not cold in California, but this outfit barely covers anything; this trench coat is doing the Lord’s work right now.
One wrong move, and everything from my roota to my toota would be on display for all to see.
As I slide into the backseat, Robert’s eyes rake over my legs in the rearview, but he doesn’t say anything off-putting, so I don't pay it any attention.
He jerks the car away from the curb, his eyes flicking to the rearview several times, before settling on the road.
Thankfully, the ride home is silent, and I don’t pry for any details on how mad Max is—my brother and father are always on me about my constant need to escape.
They insist on reminding me that things are different now, that I need to be escorted by security or one of them.
But this life—this life that my father built—has become increasingly suffocating, and sometimes, it feels like the walls of my freedom are closing in.
Sometimes I miss the way it was in Texas, when I could walk down the street to get ice cream without one of them accompanying me or some dumb guard trailing after me.
I mean, I guess it’s not that bad. It’s not like Daddy is a well-known celebrity… yet.
But that’s the part that worries me: what happens once his company makes it big?
I blink those thoughts away as we turn onto my street.