Chapter 25
“Are you almost done?” I ask, touching the top of my head.
“Stop asking me that.” Meela pops my hand with her rattail comb. “I don’t rush my work.”
“Ouch!” I whine dramatically, snatching my hand away. “That hurt.”
So do my ass and back. Meela started on my hair about five hours ago.
I’m so ready for her to be done. When she offered to do my hair, I assumed she meant something simple, like a silk press and curl.
I’ve never gotten… What did she call these?
Oh yeah, passion twists. I’ve never gotten passion twists before—braids or cornrows either.
She insisted on knee-length, saying it’s the rage right now, which is why it’s taking so freaking long. I say it’s unnecessary torture.
“Are you dying?” Meela retorts, her hazel-green eyes shooting daggers at me.
This is the first time I’ve seen her without contacts or a wig. Her real hair is a gorgeous deep red. She once mentioned that both her parents are Black, so I’m guessing these features came from a distant ancestor.
“It feels like it.” I shift in the chair, trying to alleviate the ache in my ass.
“Girl, you working my last nerve,” she gripes, sucking her teeth. “You are the most tender-headed person I’ve ever met in my entire life. I’m not even doing your hair that tight.”
I wonder how many last nerves she has because she’s made that claim at least fifteen times already.
“It’s not my fault,” I snap at her. “I was born this way.”
I’m irritable and tired. Between the gentleman’s club and Sandman keeping me up most nights, I haven’t gotten much sleep.
A lot has happened in the last week. I gave up my role in the school musical.
Mr. Rousseau did not take my retraction lightly and delegated me to stage crew duties.
I used work and helping with my grandmother as an excuse, which softened him a bit.
It’s not a complete lie. In the end, Deja got the role and couldn’t wait to rub it in my face.
Mr. Rousseau may need to find another male lead too. Jace hasn’t been in school all week. I haven’t called him because I’m terrified of Sandman finding out. Besides, Jace probably doesn’t want to hear from me. I just hope he’s okay.
“It’s not my fault.” Meela mimics me in an unflattering tone. “Relax, crybaby. I’m almost done. Twenty minutes.”
“Good,” I deadpan. “I need to get home and soak my head in some ice water.”
“That’ll have to wait,” she states matter-of-factly. “We’re going to a bar tonight.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, but we’re not old enough to get into a bar.”
“Trust me, I’ll get us in,” she replies smugly.
“Well, I can’t wear this.” I look down at my T-shirt and sweatpants. “And I sure as heck can’t fit any of your clothes.”
“Just shower here, then we’ll swing past your house so you can change.”
“Okay, I’m down with a little teenage delinquency.” I could use a little fun and laughter in my life. “Should I call Leah and see if she wants to come?”
I saw her this morning when I went to the hospital for my interview.
With her putting in a good word for me, I’m 99.
9 percent certain I’ve got this in the bag.
I have a copy of my immunization record on hand, but I would still need to get a TB test done.
And that costs sixty bucks. Luckily, Leah said she’d front me the cash.
“Honey, don’t waste your time,” Meela scoffs, making another part in my hair. “She’s not going to come.”
“Why not?”
“For one, she was born a grandma. And two, Snake might be there.”
“Wait, what?” My entire body tenses. “Will Sandman be there?”
I haven’t told anyone about my visit to God’s Glory.
It’s easier to pretend it never happened.
My virginity is still intact, but I don’t know for how long.
Every time Sandman puts the tip in, which has been a lot lately, there’s always a chance he’ll take my virginity.
I can’t have a baby right now, especially with him.
Thankfully, I was able to get a prescription for birth control pills online for only fifteen bucks a month. I borrowed the money from my grandmother. I hated asking her, but she gave it to me—no questions asked. My first three-month supply should arrive next week.
“Maybe,” she answers. “The bar is inside the clubhouse, aka The Sanctuary.”
“Then count me out.”
I can’t show my face there. There’s no telling how many of them witnessed my shame the other night.
“I’m gonna tell you the same thing I’ve told Leah countless times. You can’t hide from the Gods in Kent,” Meela says. “It’s just not plausible. Don’t let Sandman or the club kill your vibe. Go out and do you with your head held high.”
“I don’t know…”
I’m not spunky or badass like her, and Sandman scares the crap out of me. Even her bedroom reflects her personality. She has a carriage bed frame with a sheer pink canopy for goodness’ sake. Opposite that is her collection of colorful wigs hanging from hooks on the wall.
But what really made me blink twice is the three mannequins in different stages of undress with tiaras on their heads. Meela is an aspiring fashion designer, among other things. Go figure.
“Well, I do,” she remarks with conviction. “Waltz in that bar like you’re that bitch because you are that bitch. Claim it and fucking own it.” She flings a long yellow twist over my shoulder.
Meela isn’t wrong. I need to walk through Kent with my head held high, and I can’t do that by hiding. Going to the bar will show Sandman and every last God that God’s Glory didn’t break me.
“And your new do is going to give you some extra bitch pizzazz.”
“Okay, I’ll go. But I’m still not sure about this color.” I finger the curly tip. “It’s so… bright and gaudy.”
“Ungrateful skank-ass ho!” she scolds me. “This color is fire, and this style would run you at least four-fifty at a braiding shop.”
“Dang, really?” I’ve never paid that much for a hairstyle before. “My mother thinks these types of styles are ghetto.”
“Girl, fuck your mother!” Meela squawks. “She on crack or something?”
I burst out laughing. “No, she isn’t addicted to any illegal substances to my knowledge.”
Meela huffs but doesn’t respond.
“Thank you.” I turn in the chair and give her a one-arm hug, not wanting to get on her bad side. “I appreciate you taming my mane for free. I absolutely love it.”
It’s true. I don’t share my mother’s sentiments.
She smiles, her displeasure quickly forgotten. “No problem, girlie.”
“The Sanctuary, huh? A bit cliché if you ask me.”
“Cliché as fuck,” Meela agrees, and we both laugh.
She resumes her torture on my scalp, but true to her word, she’s done twenty minutes later—give or take a few minutes. She showers first, then I hop in next.
I emerge from the bathroom squeaky clean and stroll back into her bedroom, finding her butt-ass naked.
I clutch the towel to my chest, taking in her pierced nipples, belly ring, and the stunning chandelier tattoo starting between her breasts and curving over her rib cage.
I figured she’d be dressed already and give me some privacy to don my own clothes.
“What?” Meela queries, carefully rubbing Vaseline onto the garter-belt tattoo she got last week. “It’s pussy, ass, and titties… the same thing you got. Don’t be weird.”
She does have a point, and I’ve seen my fair share of naked girls in the locker room after gym class. I’m not sure why I’m being prudish now.
“Oh my God!” she shouts.
“What?” I shout too, frantically scanning the room.
“Your… your pussy,” she squawks, pointing between my thighs.
“Okay.” I glance down, seeing that a small gap in the towel has my meow on display. “What about it?”
“What’s on it?” Meela asks, scandalized.
“Um… pubic hair.” I’m thoroughly confused. Am I missing something here?
“Barbaric,” she hisses, her top lip curling in disgust.
“I trim,” I grit out, a little offended. “I just haven’t in a while.”
“Trimming is so middle school.” Meela rolls her eyes. “You’re a senior for crying out loud. Act like it.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “No worries, though. I’ll wax you before we go.”
“No, the hell you’re not.” I’m scared to death of getting waxed. “I heard it’s painful as fuck.”
“Numbing cream, babe. I use it whenever I wax myself or get a new tattoo.”
“You wax yourself?” I exclaim.
“Sure do,” she replies. “It costs nearly a hundred bucks for a Brazilian wax. I’m not paying that when I could do it myself. Anyway, it won’t hurt.”
“Okay, I’ll let you wax me, but it better not hurt.”
“It won’t,” Meela assures me.
She turns around and pulls on a skimpy thong.
I admire the dreamcatcher tattoo spanning the length of her spine and the dimple piercings on her lower back.
Meela is a literal walking advertisement for piercings and tattoos.
I coast the towel along my body, trying to keep the ugly cut healing on my torso hidden.
The last thing I need is to be bombarded with questions, especially if she spots the makeshift tattoo Sandman carved down my back.
“It’s your birthday?” I ask, noticing the birthday sash on her bed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Oh, it’s not my birthday.” She smiles. And is that a blush?
I cock an eyebrow. “Then what’s up with the birthday sash?”
“I’m on a mission tonight,” she responds vaguely.
“Keep your little secret.” I feign an attitude. “But whatever you have planned better not get us into trouble.”
“I make no promises.”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“Move out of the goddamn way!” Meela demands, her arms folded under her ample breasts.
She’s been going at it with the guy manning the bar entrance for the last ten minutes now—neither one backing down.
He’s stout and a bit nerdy, not at all how I expect an outlaw biker to look.
Then again, he’s not one yet. He’s a prospect, which means he has to prove himself before he can wear the Gods’ colors.
Even then, becoming a full-patched member isn’t guaranteed. It takes a majority vote.