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As we get our costumes together, the weight that has been pressing down for me for weeks before my presentation becomes more manageable. Jazzy always has this effect on me, allowing me to live in the moment. This weekend I’ll embrace it and leave my stress behind.
With our makeup done and our clothes on, all we have left to do is hair. Jazzy sits down so that I can style her pink Perona wig.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, why the whole weekend? When I looked it up, the convention is ends tomorrow.” I twirl a lock of hair around the curling rod and hold it.
“Oh, I needed to get out of the house. The whole kept woman thing is kind of losing its shine for me.” She lapses into silence then catches herself with a smile. “Anyway, since Greg isn’t around and I wanted company, I knew I could count on you.”
“Of course you can. And when I get my furniture back from Glamma Onyx, you can have your pick of rooms…if you decide you want to move out of that amazing house.”
Jazzy squeezes my hand as a tear slips past her defenses. “Thanks, Kiwi.”
“Thank me with less tears. We don’t want all your eye makeup to go to waste.” I pat her cheek dry.
“Right. Can you promise me one thing though?”
“Of course.”
“Before we return, let’s get totally shit faced.”
My stomach rebels from the recent memory where I indulged in G-mama’s concoctions. With a hard swallow, I request, “Let’s wait until tomorrow then. Two nights in a row can’t be good for my liver.”
But it can be good for smexy times with our red-haired Adonis.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Cameron
“Liquid Obsession plays on Jazzy’s radio as she drives our foursome into Felicidad. Before leaving Kenya’s she admitted the group is her glamma’s current fave, but she’s not as familiar with us as her or Jazzy. Mixed feelings roil inside me. Elation that she won’t want to dissect everything I say thanks to my sister’s great idea for my costume, and no small hint of dejection that as famous as our band is, we aren’t in her listening rotation.
Although the song playing on the radio is one of our upbeat numbers, the atmosphere in the car is tense and has been since Khadijah forced me into this get up. This is how not to be subtle.
Not even Jackpot’s presence is enough to dissipate the strained air. The cat doesn’t bother with us, too busy peering at the passing scenery.
“I still can’t get over how uncanny your resemblance is to the lead singer and drummer of Liquid Obsession.” The wonder in Jazzy’s voice is almost at fangirl status and it only makes me more uncomfortable with the information I’m withholding from Kenya.
“Makeup works wonders,” I say dryly.
“Yeah, but even your costumes. I swear the lead singer, KD, has the exact same outfit.”
I glare at Khadijah who smiles at me. I’m about to whisper a threatening warning to her, but I catch Kenya watching us from the rear view mirror.
“I’m a super fan,” Khadijah shrugs. “I was just lucky to have matching costumes in my hotel room and it was close enough for me to get them and put our looks together.”
“Very convenient,” I supply while shooting her with my most lethal glare.
“Well I say even your makeup skills are on point. Are you a professional?” Jazzy’s curiosity is not helping the situation. If she finds enough clues or Khadijah breaks character, she is sure to expose the truth to Kenya. For the time being Jazzy seems oblivious to the silent war I’m waging with my sister.
Khadijah coughs but I can see the corners of her mouth twitching as if fighting a laugh. She glances at me and straightens, maybe for the first time taking me seriously. “No, I just have an eye.”
“What about you? Your costume and makeup are flawless,” I deflect the question back to Jazzy.
“I’m just an amateur.”
“Don’t downplay your talent. You’re more skilled than some professionals I know,” Kenya defends her best friend.
A sheepish expression takes over Jazzy’s features. I get the sense there is more to her self-deprecation based on the fierceness of Kenya’s defense. When the opening chords of our last single plays, Jazzy excitedly increases the volume and sings along to the lyrics. Her mannerisms seem exaggerated as if she is burying strong emotions beneath her smile. A peek at Kenya tells me she isn’t buying Jazzy’s act but will let it pass for now.
The rest of the ride to the hotel goes smoothly enough, although I tense every time another Liquid Obsession song plays on the radio. At the front desk Jazzy and Kenya check in while Khadijah and I book our rooms.
