Page 10

Chapter Nine

Bradley

T he Sanctuary of Beauty smelled like lavender, chemical warfare, and broken dreams.

I stood there, frozen just inside the door, staring at a pot bubbling with some strange goop. Next to it: a tray of fabric strips stacked with the same casual menace as a loaded gun.

Lola clapped her hands together like a kindergarten teacher about to lead craft time.

“Alright, darling!” she purred, already pulling on a pair of pink latex gloves with a snap that made my soul leave my body. “Let’s get this party started. Strip down and get on the table.”

My brain short-circuited.

“I… wait… like… everything?”

She arched one perfectly overdrawn eyebrow. “Unless you’ve got plans to wear a turtleneck and sweatpants in your upcoming scenes… yes. Everything.”

I stood there blinking, wondering if faking a seizure would get me out of this.

Lola pointed toward a folded paper gown on the edge of the table. “You can use that to cover your shame.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that you’ll have any left when I’m done.”

Then she gave me a wink like this was all a hilarious joke and swept out of the room, shutting the door behind her with a cheerful click.

I just stood there, staring at the closed door like I’d just been left alone with a bomb and no instruction manual.

Strip down.

Right.

I peeled off my shirt first, tossing it onto the chair. Jeans next. Then underwear.

I stood there for a beat, completely naked except for my socks, staring at my reflection in the wall mirror like: Sir, how did we get here?

My stomach twisted.

This was actually happening.

I grabbed the sad little paper gown and wrapped it around my waist like it might somehow protect me from what was coming.

Then I climbed onto the table, lying back like I was about to be embalmed.

The vinyl was cold against my skin. The ceiling tiles above me had exactly two dead bugs stuck in the fluorescent light cover. I counted them like they were my last tether to reality.

A minute later, the door swung open and Lola breezed back in like a one-woman hurricane.

“Alright, handsome!” she chirped, snapping her gloves again for dramatic effect. “Let’s get the hard part over with first. Bikini zone. You, my friend, are a situation down there.”

I went still.

“Wait. Hold up. Bikini zone? Like… down… down there?”

“Yes, darling,” she said, while cheerfully stirring the mystery goop with a tongue depressor. “Front. Back. Sides. If it grows, it goes.”

I made a noise I didn’t know I was capable of making. Somewhere between a whimper and a cat being stepped on.

“You sure this is necessary?” I croaked.

“Sweetheart, you could hide classified documents in your bush. I’m doing the world a favor.”

Before I could respond, she yanked the paper gown away like she was unveiling a new car at a dealership.

“Oh, honey,” she said, staring at my crotch like she was inspecting a home renovation project gone horribly wrong. “Yeah… we’re gonna need extra strips.”

I covered my face with both hands and waited for death.

Instead, I got hot wax.

Lola worked fast. Smearing. Pressing. Smoothing.

“You’re gonna feel a little pinch,” she said sweetly, right before ripping the first strip like she was starting a lawn mower.

I screamed.

Like… full throated echo-off-the-walls screamed.

Somewhere down the hall, I swear I heard a woman laugh. Probably Nessa, that bitch.

Lola just kept going. Strip after strip. My legs twitched involuntarily, like I was being tasered.

By the fifth pull, I was bargaining with God.

By the eighth, I was questioning every life decision that brought me here.

By the tenth, I blacked out for a full three seconds.

“You’re doing great, champ,” Lola cooed, pressing a cold cloth to my freshly waxed skin like she was a nurse at a battlefield hospital. “We’re halfway there.”

Halfway?

I wanted to cry.

Then she had me flip over for the back.

I will spare you the details. Just know that at one point I grabbed the edge of the table so hard I’m pretty sure I bent the metal frame.

Finally, mercifully, she finished.

I lay there, panting like I’d just run a marathon while being chased by wolves.

Lola peeled off her gloves with a satisfied snap. “And that, darling, is why I’m the best in the business.”

I lay there, trembling, with actual tears streaking down both sides of my face. I was broken. Emotionally. Spiritually. Follicularly.

Lola looked down at me with an expression that somehow managed to be both sympathetic and deeply entertained.

“Now,” she said brightly, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves, “we gotta take care of your back door.”

I blinked at her, my brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi.

“My… what?”

She tilted her head like she was explaining something to a toddler. “Your asshole, sugar.”

My whole body went stiff.

“What about it?”

Lola sighed dramatically, like this was her burden to bear.

“It’s too dark,” she said, moving around the room, grabbing a tube of something from a shelf that may as well have been labeled DOOM IN A BOTTLE. “On camera, it’ll look… unclean.” She gave me a long, pointed look. “And not the fun kind of dirty, if you catch my drift.”

A fresh wave of cold sweat broke out all over me.

“You’re joking.”

“Not to be gauche,” she said sweetly, snapping on a fresh glove, “but your asshole needs bleaching.”

I just stared at her.

“That’s… people really… do that?”

She gave me a look like I’d just asked if the Earth was flat.

“Of course they do. This is the entertainment industry, baby. Presentation matters. Now turn over.”

I covered my face with both hands. “Oh, my God.”

“Turn. Over.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if faking my death and fleeing to Canada was still a viable option.

But then…

Riley Vega’s face popped into my head.

That glare. That tone. The very clear promise of bodily harm if I didn’t start paying her back.

Okay.

Bleach or baseball bat?

I sighed like a man going to the electric chair and slowly, with zero dignity, turned over and presented my ass to fate.

“Good boy,” Lola chirped, already pulling on her little headlamp like she was prepping for a cave rescue mission.

I heard the snap of another latex glove. The rustle of paper towels. The squirt of something being squeezed from a tube.

“Now,” she said, coming in hot, “you’re gonna feel a little tingle. Maybe a minor burning sensation.”

“What kind of burn?” I whimpered, clutching the edges of the table like I was bracing for impact.

She paused just long enough to keep me awake at night for the rest of my life.

“The fun kind,” she said cheerfully, then went in.

It hit me instantly.

Like battery acid and betrayal had a baby, and that baby was now doing gymnastics on my most sensitive area.

“Holy SHIT,” I yelled, jerking so hard my knee slammed into the table.

“Language!” she scolded, tapping my butt like I was an unruly toddler. “This is a professional environment.”

I gasped for air, biting my knuckles, legs twitching like I was possessed.

“Why does it feel like I’m being punished for something I did in a past life?” I groaned.

“It’s just the glycolic acid, sugar. It’s lifting pigment and dissolving dead skin cells. Totally safe. Usually.”

“Usually?!”

She hummed a little tune, something upbeat and deeply inappropriate for the moment, while applying another layer.

“It’s important to exfoliate first,” she said conversationally, like we were chatting about brunch plans. “Otherwise the results won’t be even. And we can’t have a patchy hole, now can we?”

I wanted the Earth to open up and swallow me whole.

At some point, I lost track of time. The burning gave way to a weird, icy numbness. Like, my entire lower half had disassociated from the experience out of sheer survival instinct.

Lola finally peeled off her gloves and stepped back, looking at her handiwork with the pride of a woman who had just remodeled a kitchen on a reality show.

“Perfect,” she declared. “You’re gonna look fabulous. Very… cinematic.”

I stayed facedown, breathing into the table cushion, contemplating all the ways my life had gone off the rails.

Lola patted my shoulder. “Stay like that for a few minutes. Let everything settle down. I’m gonna get you some soothing cream.”

As the door swung shut behind her, I squeezed my eyes closed and let out a long, suffering sigh.

Riley Vega’s face flashed through my mind again.

She didn’t mess around.

And I guess…

This was still better than getting my kneecaps broken in an alley.

Barely.

I was still lying face-down, cheeks clenched tighter than a jar of pickles, when I heard the door swing open again.

“Alright, sugar, let’s get you moisturized before you burst into flames,” Lola announced, breezing back in.

But… she wasn’t alone.

I cracked one eye open just in time to see not just Lola… but Nessa and Moira trailing in behind her like the goddamn Greek chorus of my personal nightmare.

I nearly rolled off the table.

“What the—?!” I yelped, grabbing for the paper gown like it was a life raft.

“Oh, calm down,” Nessa said, waving me off with her long red nails. “It’s not like you got anything we haven’t seen before.”

“Speak for yourself,” Moira added, leaning against the doorframe, eyeing me like I was both a threat and a snack. “But… damn, okay… I see you, Mitchell.”

My face went nuclear.

“WHY are you in here?!” I spluttered, trying to hide behind what was basically a glorified napkin.

Nessa crossed her arms, a slow, evil smile spreading across her face like she’d waited all day for this moment.

“Just wanted to check on your progress,” she said sweetly, like I was a science fair project. “Liam and Jack said you’d need some… grooming.”

Lola chimed in, totally unfazed by my near-death level embarrassment. “He was a whole rainforest down there. But don’t worry, I fixed him.”

Nessa fake-gasped, clutching her imaginary pearls. “Oh, no… poor baby. Was it traumatic? Are you feeling… vulnerable?”

Moira snorted. “You mean besides lying ass-up on a wax table while three women stare at him? Yeah, probably.”

I buried my face in my hands.

“Can you all just… go?” I groaned.

“Nope.” Nessa perched herself on the edge of the counter like she had tickets to a show. “You’re in the big leagues now, Bradley. This is part of the job. Get used to people seeing… everything!”

Lola popped open a jar of thick, creamy lotion and started slathering it onto my poor, overworked butthole, like she was frosting a cake.

I whimpered. Loudly.

“Oh my God, stop being dramatic,” Moira teased. “You’re lucky. If I didn’t know your whole shady history, I’d be offering to help rub that in.”

Nessa muttered, “Moira. Thirst. Contain it.”

“I’m just saying!” Moira shrugged, still very much ogling me. “Felons can be hot too.”

I considered death as an escape plan.

Lola gave my freshly waxed and bleached ass one final, approving slap. Not hard. But still.

“There we go,” she said with pride. “Smooth as a dolphin and camera-ready.”

I flopped onto my back, pulling the paper gown over me like a shroud.

“I hate everything,” I muttered.

Nessa stood, dusted off her hands like this had been a productive team-building exercise, and headed for the door with Moira trailing after her.

Just before leaving, Nessa poked her head back in and grinned at me like the cat who’d eaten the canary… and the canary’s extended family.

“Welcome to Boys On Film, Mitchell,” she said sweetly. “Break a leg… but, like, not literally. Insurance doesn’t cover that.”

Moira gave me one last lingering once-over and winked.

And just like that… they were gone.

Lola pulled off her gloves, tossed them in the trash, and handed me a small jar of cream.

“For the itching,” she said with a pat on my shoulder. “You’re gonna need it.”

I lay there for another full minute, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I could fake a sudden, irreversible medical condition.

But no.

I had debt.

I had consequences.

And apparently… I now had the world’s most aggressively maintained butthole.