Rock Chick Reawakening (Rock Chick 0.5)(27)

And the only reason it hadn’t crushed me was that I had help keeping it buoyed up with an apartment full of daisies.

He did that by stating, “If you think your lip gloss is important, it is. You were correct. You have every right in every way in everything to do what you wish to do, go where you wish to go, be what you wish to be. No one has the right to take that away. It isn’t the lip gloss. It isn’t the man at Smithie’s who left his post. It’s the fact an animal was loose that night. A monster. And he caught you in the dark. No one is to blame but him. No one should shoulder that but him. And no one will. But him.”

I stood staring at Marcus, breathing heavily, having had to put my hand up and hold on to the edge of the door while his words sheared a burden the size of a mountain from me.

“Do you understand that, darling?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Tonight, Daisy, seven. And if you need anything before then, you know how to contact me or just come down to my man watching your apartment and ask. I don’t give a f*ck you’re about out of coffee. He’ll send someone to get it for you.”

Oh.

My.

Lord.

“Now do you understand that?” he pressed, and that question was important. More important than it seemed. So important, my answer was going to change my life.

I knew it. I knew it better than I knew the best ways to rat my hair to give it maximum volume.

And in that moment, I had no choice in the answer I gave.

I nodded.

“Good,” he whispered, his blue eyes warming me from six feet away to the point my toes curled in, I was just that toasty.

Then he was gone.





Chapter Six



Patch of Light

Daisy



“If you’re feelin’ the love for rock ’n’ roll, tonight at Herman’s Hideaway, hit up a new band that’s made the scene, Stella and The Blue Moon Gypsies. The lead singer has been rockin’ clubs in Denver for a while. But she’s found her groove with the Gypsies. Trust me, I caught them as an opening act at the Gothic last weekend and they blew the roof off. To get you into the feel, I’ll play a song Stella and her crew kill when they cover it. La Grange, by ZZ Top.”

The radio was playing while I was getting ready for Marcus to take me out to dinner.

I was a Southern girl, which meant I was a country girl. I could kick back to the sound of Patsy, Loretta, Barbara, Tammy, Emmylou, Shania, Wynonna, Trisha, Reba, and the best of all time, Dolly.

But there were times in my life when I had to switch to something else with deep Southern roots.

That’s when I hit up my rock ’n’ roll.

And in my getup, it was a rock ’n’ roll night sure as certain.

Obviously, I’d decided to go out with Marcus.

He wanted to convince me we were meant to be together, he’d been kind enough to me he’d earned that shot.

But he was going to know what he was getting.

To this end, I was wearing my leopard print (or one of them). A skintight mini-dress that only went down to there. The back was scooped all the way out and the front was scooped to maximum cleavage potential (and with the maximums of my cleavage, this might be awe-inspiring to some; heck, it was my cleavage and it was still that to me).

I was going to pair this with my sky-high platform sandals with the black patent across the balls of my feet, open toes to show off the new fire-engine-red pedicure I’d given myself (along with the same in a manicure, but on my long talons, I’d added a curve of amber rhinestones all along one side of the outer edge of each ring finger). The platform and heel of the shoes were covered in leopard.

My hair was even more sky-high than my platforms. Teased to mammoth proportions at the top and sides, I’d smoothed that back and then curled the hell out of the rest of my tresses so they fell in soft, defined swirls from a high-rise at the crown all the way down my back (the bangs were blown out straight and brushing my forehead).

My makeup was how I’d do it if I was stripping, which was how I’d do it when I wasn’t stripping. My eyes weren’t smoky. They were smoke. My skin bronzed. The sides of my nose and under my cheekbones shaded. My cheeks a dewy tangerine. My lips a nude-y, super-glossed, glittering peach.

I had in bronze chandelier earrings that nearly swept my shoulders and were liberally dosed with black and amber beads. A bronze statement necklace practically covered my upper chest and I had so many dangly bracelets on, if Marcus got through the night without the noise of them tinkling driving him to murder me, he’d definitely pass an important test.

I thought I looked divine. I had a cute little body, fantastic bosoms, a whole lot of thick hair, and skin to die for, and everything I’d done to augment it only made it that much better.

I also knew that not a lot of people agreed with me.

But Miss Annamae had told me to embrace my style when I found it (and boy had I found it) and not to let anyone cut me down.

Personally, I thought every woman should have at least one leopard print item in her closet. I didn’t care if it was just a clutch and I also didn’t care if that woman usually wore oxford shirts and loafers. She still needed leopard.

If someone didn’t agree with me on that, or my platforms, my big hair, and my heavy hand with eyeliner, they could go f*ck themselves.