Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
My best friend smugly resumes the wacky, agreed upon Cindy Lou hairstyle she was roped into creating while her niece nervously uses a compact to inspect every step of the process.
I can do hair.
I can do my own hair.
Working at Diamonds and Fire & Ash forced me to perfect that skill.
The thing is…that’s a different type of performance hairstyle.
That’s make a man stare at your tits for tips.
This is more…dance routine display, which is right up Janae’s ally.
Literally.
The dancers have to abide by her rules and standards given that she not only created a new dance specific department to the Highland Hellcats organization – that encompasses all branches that bear the branding – but runs the division like she’s the one true chosen duchess of dance.
And she might as well be.
Since leaving her choreography and liaison position for this one, she’s managed to triple what the dancers bring to the united brand as a whole and double the income along with income possibilities for the dancers that maintain residency in their respective leagues for at least two years.
She also started a nonprofit dance program for the Hellcats organization which financially serves as a dual purpose for tax write offs and scouting future talent while providing marginalized communities a safe place for their young, aspiring performers to hone their budding skills.
Janae has beauty, brains, and benignity.
I’m glad she’s the girls’ aunt and godmother.
Although, it’s not like Vanessa fought for the position.
She claims raising her one practically alone is enough.
And I agree.
Most people don’t realize that being with someone who has a “secret” government job is not nearly as much fun as it is on T.V.
I swear, someone just mentioning a Fed show sends her into a blinding rage.
It’s fucking hilarious.
And horrifying.
“Why?” grouses my son, on an adjustment of his surfboard printed bowtie. “Why won’t you standup to Dad about this?”
“First of all, you can fuck off with that phrasing,” I scold enroute, damn near tripping on the tiny pink rug that matches the rest of her “Paris threw up in here” décor that she somehow inherited from her deceased grandmother. “This isn’t about me not standing up to your dad.” Artfully dodging the sparkly pink boots waiting to be put on is done next. “This is about me not undermining your dad who is also my husband.”
My freckled face offspring doesn’t bother hiding his sneer.
“Sometimes shit like this happens in relationships.” Avoiding the rehearsal half circle space that she created in front of her cushioned full-length mirror to riffle around her dresser drawers occurs between statements. “Sometimes you disagree with one another but have to engage in compromise.”
“You giving up on me is compromise?”
My hands wind around the handles at the same time I latch onto his gaze. “I’m not giving up on you simply because I’m not giving you exactly what you want.”
“That’s how it feels.”
“Okay, but that’s not how it fucking is, Fins.” One hard tug to the drawer is delivered. “I just refuse to disregard your dad’s feelings,” another hard pull leaves me, “for yours,” one more sharp yank, “and vice versa.” Blowing a fallen strand of hair out of my face occurs at the same time I drop my glare to the piece of furniture. “What the ‘Operation: Annihilate’ is wrong with this fucking thing?!”
“I don’t think Blake’s dresser is a secret flying parasite,” Nae casually comments in between picking out ponytail holders. “And I don’t think you’re considering how hard it is for your mom to be stuck in the middle of the Narada vs the U.S.S. Kelvin-”
“Dad’s the Narada.”
“-or the self-sacrifice she’s trying to make to guarantee mass survivors versus mass casualties.”
Gah, I love having a chick best friend that speaks my fucking language.
And a son that understands it.
Minus this whole hates me because I won’t give into his tantrum demands thing…I really am quite lucky.
“My leggings aren’t in there, Mom,” Blakely insists in between choosing ribbons. “I would never put performance wear with my school wear.”
On this side of the shore, I know that.
I appreciate it.
On the other?
I loathe having daughters more organized than me.
What’s wrong with being a little messy?
Or a lotta messy?
Other than needing something very specific at a very specific time for a very specific event?
Ugh.
Fuck. Me.
Who am I kidding?
Them organized typically makes my life so much easier.
“Okay, The Who Determined to Give Me a Migraine for Christmas…” I remove my grip entirely from the piece of furniture. “Where might they be?” My hands fall to my red, V-neck, sweater dress covered hips on a defeated huff. “Narrow down this search and rescue mission for me.”
“Um…” her tiny already painted rosy nose scrunches in thought. “Not in my dresser because that’s only for school stuff. Not in my closet because I already checked there. Not under my bed because then they could get linty.”