An Anonymous Girl(52)

Ricky mutes the television, then peels himself from the sofa and saunters to the refrigerator. His feet are bare and he’s wearing saggy jeans and a faded T-shirt.

He pulls out a Pabst and pops the top.

“How’d she win this, anyway?” he asks. He’s only three feet away, directly under the fluorescent light. I can now see him clearly: His choppy, dirty-blond hair and sallow skin nearly match Tiffani’s, but her eyes are light blue and his are nearly black.

Then I realize his pupils are so dilated they’ve crowded out the irises.

I instinctively look toward my phone, then drag my gaze back to him. “My boss arranged it,” I say. “I think it’s a free promotion to spread the word about her company.”

I grab an eye pencil, not caring if it’s the right shade.

“Close, please,” I instruct Tiffani.

Three loud cracks erupt to the right of me.

I whip my head around. Ricky is rolling his neck from side to side. But his eyes stay fixed on me as he does it.

“So you just go around giving people free makeup?” he says. “What’s the catch?”

Tiffani pipes up: “Ricky, she’s almost done. I didn’t give her a credit card or anything. Just watch your movie and then we can go out.”

But Ricky doesn’t move. He keeps staring at me.

I need to get one more piece of information, then I’m going to finish as fast as I can and leave.

“For women like you, who are under twenty-five, I prefer a creamy blush,” I say, reaching into my case. The blush is on the top shelf, next to my phone.

I begin to blend it on Tiffani’s cheek. My fingers are unsteady but still I try to make sure my touch is gentle in case the area by her bruise is tender.

Ricky moves a step closer. “How do you know she’s under twenty-five?”

I look at my phone again. “Just guessing,” I say. He smells like old sweat and cigarette smoke and something else I can’t identify.

“What, you’re trying to sell her this stuff?” he says.

“No, of course not,” I say.

“Seems weird you picked her. We just moved here two weeks ago. How’d you get her number?”

My hand slips, smudging the blush down Tiffani’s cheek.

“I don’t—I mean, my boss just gave it to me,” I say.

Two weeks, I think. And they moved all the way from Detroit.

There’s no way Tiffani could be part of Dr. shields’s study.

I don’t even realize that I’ve stopped working on Tiffani and am staring at my phone until I see a sudden movement out of the corner of my eye.

Ricky lunges forward. I twist out of the way, a scream rising in my throat.

Tiffani is frozen. “Ricky, don’t!”

Instinctively I cower down on the floor. But it isn’t me he’s trying to grab.

It’s my phone.

He snatches it up and flips it to see the screen.

“It’s just my boss—” I start to blurt.

Ricky looks at me. “Are you a fucking narc?”

“What?”

“Nothing’s ever free in life,” he says.

I wait to hear Dr. Shields’s voice come over the speakerphone. BeautyBuzz has safeguards in place to protect us workers; they require a credit card and say we are authorized to leave immediately if something doesn’t seem right.

All I have is Dr. Shields. She’ll fix this; she’ll explain everything.

I crane my neck up to look at the phone, but Ricky pulls it out of my line of vision.

“Why do you keep staring at this?” Ricky asks. Then he slowly turns around the phone, holding it up.

The screen shows nothing but my home screen photo of Leo.

Dr. Shields has hung up.

I’m on my own.

I’m crouched on the floor, with no way to protect myself.

“My boyfriend is picking me up, so I wanted to make sure to see his call come in,” I lie, my voice high and frantic. “He should be here any second now.”

Slowly I stand up, as if I’m trying to avoid antagonizing a wild animal.

Ricky doesn’t move, but I feel as though he could explode at any second.

“I’m sorry I upset you,” I say. “I can wait outside.”

Ricky’s eyes lock onto mine. His hand closes like a fist over my phone.

“There’s something off about you,” he says.

I shake my head. “I promise, I’m just a makeup artist.”

He stares at me for another long moment.

Then he tosses my phone into the air and I scramble to catch it.

“Take your fucking phone,” he says. “I’m going back to my movie.”

I don’t exhale until he’s back on the sofa.

“I’m sorry,” Tiffani whispers.

I want to reach into my case and extract one of my cards and give it to her. I want to tell her to call me if she ever needs help.

But Ricky is too close. His awareness of me is like a force in the room.

I grab a few lip glosses out of my case and hand them to Tiffani. “Keep these,” I say.

I shove my things back into my case and shut it, then I stand up. My legs feel weak. I hurry to the door, imagining Ricky’s eyes searing into my back. By the time I reach the stairwell, I’m running, my arm straining with the effort of holding up my heavy case.