Chapter 28

Then waxing.

“Let’s start with her,” one stylist said, pointing at me.

“No waxing,” I growled. “You try waxing my eyebrows and I will file a complaint to the United Nations.”

“Understood. Just threading.”

Of course they didn't listen.

Few seconds later. I swear I saw angels. How could someone get through that torture? And they call this pampering?

Hell. If this wasn’t torture, I don’t know what is anymore. Forget waterboarding, forget military interrogation—try getting your leg hair ripped out by a woman named Daisy who smiles like she’s snacking on your screams.

“I promise it’s not that bad!” Mylene had said, like a traitor. “It’s just a wax.”

WAX, she said.

They should call it Skin-Ripping Hell Melted From Satan’s Armpit. I was gripping the edge of the spa bed like I was about to give birth to a cactus.

“Breathe,” Daisy cooed, applying the next patch.

I did breathe. I breathed fire. I swore. I screamed. I saw the face of every enemy I’ve ever made—and whispered promises of vengeance with each yank.

Meanwhile, Jhing Jhing was beside me, in a fluffy white robe, sipping lemon cucumber detox water like she was royalty reborn. “This is self-care,” she said. SELF-CARE.

Self-care, my ass.

Then came the facial.

I thought that meant cucumber slices and relaxing music. No. That was a lie sold by movies. This one involved a machine that hissed steam into my face like a dragon burping rage. Then some sort of tool that felt like a miniature chainsaw scraped at my pores while a woman named Giselle whispered about exfoliating layers of sin from my past lives.

“Oh, your skin’s dry,” she said.

Of course it’s dry! I’ve aged ten years in thirty minutes!

Then the hair.

It wasn't that bad.

“I want curls,” I said with the confidence of a warrior.

“Soft and bouncy?”

“No. Dangerously seductive. Like I sell poison for fun.”

“Copy that, sister.”

When I looked around, I saw an imposing, blond woman enter the office. In contrast to the girl by the window’s flamboyance, she dressed solemnly in black, which contrasted sharply with her pale skin.

"I'm Santy, dear," she said as she entered the room. "I do hair and makeup." She placed a huge make-up case on the carpet, then opened it to retrieve a hair brush and drier. "Please have a seat, sweetie.”

I nodded and bit my lips. Of course, they have their own fashionistas—very cool make-up artists that even Paris Hilton would envy. I sat in one of the office chairs, meticulously altering my clothes so I didn't show too much skin.

I, the assassin, the kingpin, Leon Darrow, finally succumbed to hair and makeup.

My hair was fluffed around my shoulders by the girl. And I swear it felt like forever.

"It shouldn't be too fine or too thick. Your hair is amazing. Is this your natural skin tone?"

"Yes," I replied. Thanks to Catherine’s hidden gem.

"Lovely, you have very healthy hair, dear," she said as she combed the brush over my hair, teasing out some snarls.

"Thank you."

Then the make up.

“Just a little makeup, okay?” I said.

Santy blinked. “Of course, sweetheart. Just a little,” she murmured in response as she looked through her make-up case. Brandishing a pair of tweezers, she said, “You know what, girl? Your skin is like fine porcelain; to cover it with anything would be a sin. Such amazing skin. I love it." With a deft touch, she plucked my eyebrows. I screamed. Then I sat like a hostage while another woman approached with a collection of brushes and creams like she was going to paint the Mona Lisa on my forehead.

“What’s your usual makeup routine?” she asked.

“I Google ‘how not to look dead’ and hope for the best,” I replied.

“Oh, honey,” she said, and that was it. That was the moment I lost my dignity.

She went in like Michelangelo at war. Which, in beauty-speak, apparently meant: foundation, concealer, primer, bronzer, highlighter, three types of blush, two types of mascara, something called ‘baking powder’ that’s not even edible, and a setting spray that made me feel like I was being lacquered for display. Lashes longer than my fingers. I couldn’t blink without feeling like a ceiling fan. I sneezed and the highlighter on my cheek reflected light into another dimension.

“Please take it easy on me,” I begged and sneezed again, and the glitter on my cheeks caught the light like a disco ball at a rave.

“Absolutely, girl,”

To say I was happy and disappointed at the same time was an understatement. Yes, they pampered me, but Jesus, the pain was too much! To ignore the pain, I asked, "Santy, have you worked here for a long time?" I winced. What I really wanted to learn and know was how someone ended up torturing their client but I wasn't willing to say it so directly.