Page 23 of The Naughty Professor

Chapter Twenty-One

Lux

I woke up in a panic.

Everything was spinning — the lights, the ceiling, maybe my soul. I fluttered my eyelids open, and for a brief moment I imagined I had died and become a disco ball.

Then my brain rebooted.

Wait. Who was I? Where was I? Why did the floor feel like it was covered in rhinestones?

I pushed myself upright, swaying. “Okay,” I croaked. “Check for pulse. Check for dignity.”

No pulse problems. Dignity… pending results.

I looked up — and froze.

The mirror across the room reflected something tragic: black lipstick smudged like I’d made out with a chimney, raccoon eyeliner, a tangle of black and blue hair that looked like it had lost a fight with a leaf blower.

“Oh hell no,” I rasped. My reflection blinked back, equally horrified. “I am not that bitch anymore.”

Something inside me snapped, fizzed, and rewired all at once — like someone had poured espresso into my DNA. I felt awake for the first time in my life.

A grin curled across my lips. “I’m Lux.”

It came out naturally, like the name had been hiding under my tongue waiting for the right dramatic entrance.

Music thumped beyond the dressing-room door — heavy bass, a crowd screaming, and a deep masculine voice roaring, “JAX!”

I staggered to the door, cracked it open, and peeked out. There he was — gold thong, glitter and glory — Jax himself.

My muse, and the vessel that contained my creator, Dr. Sterling.

He was performing like sin in motion. The crowd adored him. Phones were flashing, hands reaching for him. I felt an ache of envy — no, not envy. Hunger.

I wanted to be out there too. To be seen, worshiped, and adored. But not looking like Siouxsie Sioux and Robert Smith’s unwanted love child.

I slammed the door and looked around for salvation. That’s when I saw it: a jar of cold cream sitting beside the mirror like a beacon from the gods of reinvention.

“Well,” I said to myself, “every resurrection starts with a deep cleanse.”

I dipped my fingers in and smeared the cool cream across my face. Black streaks slid down my cheeks in oily rivers. My eyeliner surrendered first, then the lipstick, until all that remained was… me.

And holy hell.

I leaned in. For the first time in my life, I actually saw her — wide eyes, soft mouth, cheekbones that could start small wars. No armor. No sarcasm. Just skin and light.

“Oh damn,” I whispered. “I’m this fucking hot?”

The universe, clearly amused, offered no comment.

But something was missing. No makeup, no sparkle — I looked like a clean canvas, and that just wouldn’t do. A diva without glitter is just a civilian.

I scanned the counter. Empty. Just a few lonely bowls of body glitter sparkled under the vanity lights.

Then I noticed her — sprawled on the floor like a collapsed chandelier: Velvetina Jackson, still out cold, mouth open in a perfect “O,” with one leg bent in a way that defied basic geometry.

“Sorry, sis,” I said, crouching beside her. “But desperate times call for petty crimes.”

I tried to pry her rhinestone-encrusted purse from her manicured grip, but the purse gave a stubborn little tug back.

I froze.

A low groan rose from the heap of sequins on the floor. One glitter-caked eyelid fluttered open.

“Unhand my Chanel knock-off!” Velvetina croaked. Her wig was sideways, one lash dangling like a sad tarantula on her cheek, but the menace was real.

“Oh, you’re awake,” I said brightly. “Great! Now go back to sleep.”

“Over my dead, perfectly contoured body!” She sat up with the grace of a resurrected diva, clutching the purse to her chest. “That’s Velvetina Jackson’s emergency glam kit, and I don’t share foundation shades or life advice with anybody!”

We locked eyes—predator versus glitter-addict.

I grabbed the purse and yanked. She yanked back. The purse made a noise like a dying accordion.

“Let go!” I hissed.

“Never!” she shrieked, wobbling to her feet in stilettos that could double as murder weapons.

She swung the purse like a mace. Lipsticks and false lashes went flying, a high-speed cloud of cosmetics. A compact whizzed past my ear, exploding against the mirror like a grenade of pressed powder.

“Girl!” I shouted. “Do you mind? I NEED THAT MAKEUP!”

Velvetina bared her teeth. “Nobody steals my look, baby—especially not a Hot Topic wannabe!”

“You fucking bitch!”

I lunged. She counter-lunged. We collided in a shower of sequins. For thirty glorious seconds, it was less catfight and more interpretive dance of rage—two sparkly demons tangled in a whirl of wigs, powders, and profanity.

“You fucking drama queen!” Velvetina growled. “Let go of my shit!”

She tried to choke me with her feather boa. I grabbed it mid-swing and yanked, spinning her like a glittery tornado. “You asked for drama!” I cried.

“I am drama!” she screamed back—right before tripping over her own stiletto heels.

Velvetina pinwheeled, arms flailing, and I swear time slowed down.

“Ya-a-a-as!” echoed through the room before she toppled backward into the vanity. A rain of rhinestones followed, and Velvetina Jackson went down.

Silence.

I stood there, panting, boa in one hand, purse in the other. Glitter drifted through the air like angel dust.

“Sweet dreams, queen.”