Driftwood Dreary (The Dead Rockstar Trilogy #3)
Prologue
The little bell tinkled, and a girl walked in, probably no older than nineteen, huddled in a huge blue coat that seemed to dwarf her. It was a nineties relic, the coat; corduroy and slate-blue with an off-white fleece-lined hood that the woman at the booth, busily sweeping up hair, recognized immediately as a catalogue item from the original Delia’s. The woman’s best friend had once had that exact same coat, in the exact same color. She felt a pang at the memory, a pang that quickly turned to anger.
The girl approached the counter and hovered there. The hood that had covered her dark-brown hair slipped a little and exposed her face, which was far too beautiful and made-up for the type of client who came into a small-town salon, and for her to be wearing such a coat…
The woman swept the fresh-cut hair into a dustpan and sauntered over, forcing her cheeks into a bright smile, her customers-only smile. “Hi, welcome to the Curling Dervish. How can I help you today? Looking for a cut, a color, just a trim…?”
“None of the above,” the girl said with an equally fake smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, and she stepped a little closer, lowering her voice just as a tad. “I’m here for…for the makeup.”
“Oh! Great! Are you looking for a full makeover, a certain look for an event or…?” the woman responded, her voice a little louder than necessary. “I can do certain looks for events like prom, homecoming, weddings, photo shoots…some cosplay stuff. I’m just getting started, so I don’t really have a portfolio, but if you tell me what you’re looking for, I’m sure we can?—"
“The other,” the girl interrupted, her voice going lower still. It was actually irritating, the woman thought, the way she was trying to make herself disappear. Far more conspicuous than just being…you know, normal. “I just want to buy the…”
“I see,” she responded brightly, cutting the girl off and reaching for a business card. “You want a tutorial!”
The girl’s brow furrowed. “No, I?—"
“Generally, with those, I give you a brief rundown on how to do a certain look yourself, and then you can buy any of the products you like at wholesale. Just tell me what type of event you’re prepping for, and we’ll go from there.”
“Cinderella,” the girl said, her voice little more than a whisper now.
“Excuse me?”
“Cinderella.”
The woman slow blinked and put the business card back down. “Gotcha.” She glanced around the shop, then said, “Follow me. Let’s go sit down in the back and talk about your look.” The girl was supposed to say Cinderella’s Ball, but the woman could tell just from looking at her that the girl had forgotten most of the protocol either from nerves or outright terror, but it didn’t really matter which. She was certain the girl was on the up and up, one of the sudden influx of clients she was getting by word of mouth. Despite her confidence in her abilities, the woman was surprised at how fast the word had traveled and how many people wanted her services. As much as she hated social media, she had to admit the cursed clock app had propelled her into the stratosphere. She smiled to herself, leading the way to the back room. She was finally getting somewhere. After all those years of scraping to get by, there was nowhere to go but up.
The girl was shaking under that heavy coat as the woman directed her to sit down beside the ancient hairdryer that only little old ladies asked for. Despite the girl’s expertly applied face and striking physical beauty, she was shrinking into herself, as if trying her very best to become invisible. It wasn’t unusual; many people, much older and much less innocent than her, started to get cold feet once they got back here.
“Okay. So. You’re prepping for a Cinderella ball,” the woman said, reaching into the locked shelf behind her for a small leather makeup case. “You’ll want something a little dreamy, a little romantic, but still understated. Simple and elegant; just a little innocent. Sound about right?”
“Sure.” The girl was staring down at her feet. She wasn’t even looking at the products.
“What color is your gown?”
The girl seemed to dig into her memory to produce an answer. “It’s pink,” she said as she looked up, her voice getting a little stronger. “Rose pink.”
“Oh, beautiful,” the woman answered, rummaging in her case. “How about something pastel, soft, with a brown-black eyeliner to bring out your eyes and make that pink pop?” She met the girl’s eyes, which wasn’t easy, because she was downright shifty. “No doubt you want to knock your date’s socks off, but we don’t want to go too heavy. Is your guy the debonair Prince Charming type? Or more of a sly fox?”
“A little bit of both,” the girl said, her cheeks flushing. “Depending on who he’s with.”
“Gotcha. So a look that’s subtle but still dramatic. Just the perfect blend of soft romance that packs a punch where it counts.” She produced a tiny palette and held it up triumphantly. “I’ve got just the thing you need. This palette has several pastel shades that go on super creamy and have just a hint of sparkle, but don’t worry—it won’t leave traces of glitter all over your cheeks; it stays put. You won’t detect it anywhere else, you know what I mean?”
“Yes.” The girl’s eyes shone with tears.
“This’ll be so gorgeous. Let me show you how to apply it, and then we’ll wrap it up and get you out of here.” The woman stood and turned the girl’s chair around so she could see herself in the mirror. She leaned down close to her ear, close enough to touch, and whispered, “This look is going to be so totally killer.”
“Totally,” the girl whispered back, her eyes wide and bright.
Sloan opened the palette with a smile, a genuine one this time.