Page 1 of Sweet as Sin (Bad Habit 1)
Had I known my horoscope would be an accurate indicator of just how bizarre and life altering my day would turn out to be, I might never have gotten out of bed in the first place.
After a lengthy absence, Saturn returns to your sign today, bringing strange luck, creating problems, changing your plans, and exposing your faults. There’s no avoiding it: today is a major turning point in your life.
Sprawled in bed with my iPad and my second cup of coffee, I made what my best friend Grace calls my “period cramps” face, and snorted. The only turning point I was looking forward to at that moment was the on-ramp to the 405 South at the end of the day, followed by two—okay three—margaritas when I returned home.
I had at least ten grueling hours ahead of me on a job I’d been dreading for weeks: the over-hyped, over-budget, and completely over-the-top shoot for the video for the infamous rock band Bad Habit’s latest chart-topping release—the shoot that had already been rescheduled three times due to one band member being briefly jailed on a weapons charge, another flying on a whim to a beach party in Thailand without bothering to notify anyone, and another deciding to give an impromptu concert at a local bar and ending up mobbed, mauled, and hospitalized overnight for the many minor injuries one suffers when a room full of drunk, horny females makes a collective attempt to rip off your clothing and jump your bones.
Don’t get me started.
I hate celebrities. I hate rock music. I hate celebrity rock musicians. None of which matters, because no one gives a rat’s ass about my opinion about any of the foregoing. I’d been hired to do the hair and makeup for the video, not spout my personal feelings about entitled, pampered, immature adults with too much money and too little common sense. However, I’d met too many of them over the past six years working as a makeup artist in “the industry” not to have some pretty strong feelings on the subject. Models, actors, musicians, producers, newscasters, athletes . . . the list goes on, but one thing they all seem to have in common is a big overestimation of their own worth in relation to that of the common people.
Meaning me.
I tossed the iPad aside, gulped down the dregs of my coffee, threw on some clothes, and suffered a minor heart attack when I realized I was running fifteen minutes late. It probably wouldn’t matter because undoubtedly the band would be way later than that—if they showed at all—but I’m one of those people who has to get everywhere ten minutes early, just in case. In case of LA traffic, for instance, which, being that today was Friday, was sure to be a nightmare.
I was right. What should’ve been an easy twenty-minute trip from my place in Venice to Greystone Mansion in Beverly Hills turned into a forty-five minute, curse-filled, heart-hammering drive straight out of the movie Death Race. By the time I arrived at Greystone, I was sweating like a farm animal. I cleared security at the massive iron gates to the estate, parked my Fiat at the far side of a parking lot the size of a football field, and hustled inside with my makeup kit in tow.
And immediately heard, “Kat! You made it!”
I turned toward the familiar voice. The girl bounding toward me with the enthusiasm of a puppy and the blond, sporty good looks of a cheerleader was my other best friend, Chloe. She’s always sunny, always smiling, always dispensing these chest-crushing hugs that might be weird coming from anyone else, but from her are adorable.
In fact, that’s the perfect word for her: adorable. She’s like one of those insanely happy Labradors you can’t help but love, even when it’s clawing your legs and slobbering all over your new dress.
“Finally,” I said into her shoulder as she threw her arms around me. When she pulled away I had to look up to meet her eyes; at five four, I’m a good six inches shorter than Chloe. With her waifish figure and perfect skin, she should really be a model, but she’s a florist instead. And an extremely talented one. Looking around the vast entryway of the manor, there wasn’t a flat surface without a spectacular flower display. Even the carved wood banisters that flanked the sweeping main staircase had garlands dripping with roses and lilies.
“Amazing job, Lo,” I said, impressed.
She wrinkled her nose. “It looks like a gangster’s funeral. Nothing classy about it, totally overdone and gaudy, Vegas meets Turkish bordello. But that’s what the client wants, so that’s what the client gets.” Her blue eyes glinted with a mischievous twinkle. “And they’ve got deep pockets, so I can’t complain.”
“What time did you get here? Traffic was a freakin’ nightmare this morning.” Chloe was the one who’d recommended me to the production company for the job, so I felt doubly guilty for being late.
“My crew’s been setting up since midnight, but I only got here at four.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “As in, a.m.?”
In my opinion, there are only two acceptable reasons to be awake at four a.m.: earthquake or zombie apocalypse. If I don’t get my eight hours of beauty sleep, it’s as if the Kraken has been released. All over my face.
Chloe looked chagrined. “I know. I totally overslept. Miles came over last night with a bottle of wine, and, well . . . ” She looked away.
“So you’re back together?”
I couldn’t keep the disapproval from my voice. Miles was a douche bag, no doubt about it. One of those Ivy League, trust-fund guys, he’d been an on-again, off-again presence in Chloe’s life for the past two years. He was a jerk and didn’t treat her very well, but she loved him. So for the most part, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t have a leg to stand on, anyway.
Bad taste in men and a history of disastrous relationships are two things Chloe and I have in common.
