The Kiss Test (13 page)

I wrapped the comforter around my still naked body. Well, not
really
naked, as I was still clothed in about a third of a box of dried oatmeal. I moved gingerly toward the bathroom, my head still pounding, though, for the moment, I wasn’t experiencing the rolling dizziness that had overtaken me during the night.

Upon looking in the mirror, I stifled a scream to rival Candy’s when she saw me naked. I looked like hell. Worse than hell. There was a huge bruise in the center of my forehead where I connected with the faucet. Mosquito bites still marred both cheeks and the center of my nose. There was no way I’d be ready for a photo shoot in just a few hours.

What the hell was I supposed to do now?

I couldn’t think while flaking, so I stepped into the shower, hoping warm water and soap would improve not only my disposition, but my creative thinking, so I could figure out a way out of this disaster. Besides murder, which—though satisfying in the moment—would only lead to more trouble when I landed in jail. However, if unable to resist, maybe I could arrange sharing a cell with Katya after she murdered Adair.

What was it with men?

Showering helped me feel a little better, but it didn’t change the condition of my face. Time to break out the big guns. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a gun permit. A half hour and half a bottle of foundation later, I surveyed myself in the mirror. The dots were still there. So was the bruise. Only now it looked like I had leprosy superimposed on top of them.

The makeup gave my skin a vaguely fuzzy look, like well-worn suede. It left a lovely blunt line along my lower jaw, where the foundation ended and my pale, shade-loving skin began. Remembering a trick from some beauty magazine I’d read in the doctor’s office once, I wet my fingertips and tried to blend the line in by smoothing it down my jaw and on to my neck.

It left streaks.

“Grrrr!”

I barely knew which end of the mascara brush to use, so how was I expected to be able to cover up hundreds of mosquito bites? I looked like I had a case of acne on steroids, and I was supposed to be on the cover of
Today’s Country Magazine.
In three hours. I hoped they had a hell of a Photoshop expert on staff.

Conceding defeat, I scrubbed my face off again, swept my damp hair back into a ponytail and got dressed.

“I’m going to the mall,” I announced, groping my way out of the bathroom.

“Not in my Jeep, you’re not,” Chris muttered from beneath the sheets, where he sprawled on his bed.

“Then, I guess you better get up, because I don’t have time to call a cab and I am not going to my appointment looking like this. I need makeup.”

The snort from across the room fueled my fire.

“You know, if I were you, I wouldn’t piss me off right now. You’ve already used up your quota of screw-ups this trip, and my inner bitch and I have already had a detailed discussion about revenge.”

Chris didn’t move a muscle. I contemplated heaving the phone book. He owed me. Big time. I spotted his keys on the table and picked them up. I gave them an ominous jangle and headed for the door. As soon as I opened it, he moved.

While waiting for Chris to dress, I perused the maps in the phone book and marked a route to the nearest Nashville mall. With any luck, they’d have a department store with a cosmetics counter and someone who knew the difference between eye liner and lipstick. I also scribbled down the address and directions for the offices of
Today’s Country,
to save time later.

Chris didn’t speak to me when he exited the bathroom, which was just Jim Dandy fine with me. He had no right to be mad. I hadn’t decided to pick up a total stranger in a bar. I hadn’t assumed my roommate would stay clear of the motel room
all night long.
I certainly hadn’t been the one screwing all night while he was stuck in the bathroom listening.

I shoved the hastily sketched map at him on the way to the car. He ripped it out of my hand before unlocking the passenger door. He left me to get in by myself. No problem. I could get in a car without help from a man.

The mall parking lot was crowded, but I finally spotted a Dillard’s and, knowing they’d have what I needed, I gestured in that general direction. Chris got out with me.

“No need to strain yourself,” I said. “You had a long night. Feel free to stay in the car.”

“Jeep,” he corrected. “I need to burn off some energy.”

Gee. I could have sworn that’s what he’d been doing all blasted night long with Miss Cotton
Candy
for brains.

The walk through the parking lot, into the store and to the makeup counter at Dillard’s was slow and painful, as I fought to stay upright. There was only so far you could go while holding on to things. That part was tolerable. But give me open spaces and I was a wreck. Chris didn’t offer a helping hand, which was just as well because I wouldn’t have accepted it.

I wondered briefly if they sold canes here. For balance, of course, not to beat Chris senseless.

Chris continued through the store, as I stopped at the makeup counter. “Be back in half an hour,” I ordered, when he brushed past me and stalked toward the entrance into the mall. God could only hope he didn’t pick up any more women while wandering around on the loose.

The woman behind the cosmetics counter was blonde and polished, her hair upswept in some kind of bun, her makeup flawless. I felt a stirring of hope. Granted, her makeup probably wasn’t hiding what mine needed to, but she appeared to have skill with the stuff.

She took one look at me and visibly blanched.

“I’m not contagious,” I said, though it didn’t appear to convince her. “I camped inside mosquito enemy lines. I’m due in three hours for a cover shoot with
Today’s Country Magazine,
and I’ll give you my first-born child to cover up these spots. Be thankful I’m not doing a
Playboy
photo shoot, or I’d need a full-body cover up.”

She stared, open-mouthed, for a moment before her gaze settled on my forehead, her brow furrowing in concern.

I rolled my eyes upward, as if I could really see the bruise in question by doing so. “I banged my head. It’s nothing.”

Again, she stared, probably contemplating whether or not to call security. I’m sure I didn’t look much like the kind of celebrity to grace the cover of
Today’s Country.
I probably looked more like the kind of person to grace a mug shot at this point. Aside from the disaster that was my face, my hair was in its usual ponytail, stretched until my skin pulled. I hadn’t bothered to remove it from its confines yet. That would come later.

“Of course, your first-born child won’t be necessary,” she said, her twang reminding me for a minute how far from home I was. She warily eyed my blemishes.

No sense bothering to mention I offered her my offspring to show her the depth of my need, not because I’d ever actually
have
offspring. She didn’t need to know that much. As long as she understood my desperation.

I sat under a white smock and tried to ignore the looks I received from passing customers and the makeup lady herself. They had me exceedingly worried she wouldn’t be able to accomplish the miracle I needed.

“Relax your face, miss. You’re frowning.”

Darn right I’m frowning,
I wanted to say. This was the most important day of my life and I was a mess. I’d had two hours of very restless sleep—in a damned bathtub. I cracked my forehead on a spigot and probably had another concussion. And, in three hours, I’d be photographed for a magazine article that could make or break my career.

No stress there.

The cosmetic consultant spent a few moments choosing products I’d be guilted into purchasing before the session was over, and then turned back to me. She brushed aside some strands of hair from my forehead.

“You know, there are places you can call.” She dabbed something gently onto the bruise. I tried not to flinch when it smarted.

“You mean like…cosmetics places?” I asked, unsure what we were talking about.

She stepped back and gave me a pitying look. I knew it, she couldn’t fix me. I’d have my picture on the cover of
Today’s Country
and become the poster child for
Today’s Dermatology
all at the same time.

“No.” She looked deeply into my eyes and patted my arm. “Places that will help you get away from him.”

“Him?” I frowned again. “Him, who?”

She leaned over conspiratorially. I noticed that her nametag said Bebe.

“The guy who did this to you. That guy you came in with.”

Suddenly the light dawned on me. “Oh, it’s not what you—”

“You have to stand up for yourself.”

“But, you don’t under—”

“I do!” she said, a bit more loudly, drawing stares from a few of her coworkers, who peered at us from around the center island of the cosmetics counter. “My sister. Her husband beat on her for years.” She stared up at the ceiling for a minute, obviously collecting herself before she continued. “I covered up her bruises, too. Until she finally had the sense to throw him out. Best thing she ever did. You need to do the same.”

“But, I’m not even married.” I tried again to convince her she had the wrong idea.

“It doesn’t matter. An abuser is an abuser, no matter what the relationship. I’ll find you the number of the crisis center before you leave.”

“But, I don’t need—”

She silenced me with a finger to my lips. I leaned back to get her foundation-covered finger away from my mouth.

“You
do
need to do this, sugar. For women everywhere. Not just for yourself. We need to put a stop to the violence.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. What do you say at a time like this? Every protest made it seem like I was in denial. Every argument I made against being a battered woman would make her that much more sure I was exactly that.

So, I just nodded.

Thirty minutes later, Chris showed up. My
new
best friend, Bebe—who managed to miraculously make two dozen mosquito bites and a fist-sized bruise disappear from my face and neck—pulled herself up to her full height and squared her shoulders, leveling Chris with a look that could have curdled milk.

“Pond scum,” she muttered, just loud enough that Chris turned and looked at her in surprise before following me out of the store, carrying a bag of cosmetics to mail to Katya (purchased at the battered woman’s forty-percent-off price) and the phone number of the local women’s shelter.

“What the hell was that about?” Chris followed me back to the Jeep, while I tried my darndest to pretend I felt normal. I’d stood up too quickly, trying to get free of Bebe’s clutches, and my equilibrium was…nonexistent.

I still didn’t feel like talking to Chris. Thirty minutes had not been enough to alleviate my anger. In fact it had been magnified by the half-hour lecture on the rights of women to be free of violence in their lives I just received. My head was spinning and my blood was still boiling. Walking in a straight line required all my concentration.

A speed bump finally proved too much for my reeling head, and I fell over it, landing on the trunk of a parked car. Unfortunately, the car had an alarm, and it blared out a warning that had me clutching my ears and spinning wildly away from the obnoxious noise.

Chris caught my arm before I fell over onto anything else.

“Geez! Would you slow down and relax?” His grip tightened on my elbow as I tried to pull away from him. “You’re going to get us arrested.”

“I am not,” I snapped, finally releasing my arm from his grasp as we got to the Jeep. He unlocked the door and, despite my protests, practically lifted me into my seat.

So very chivalrous. Ass.

On the road again, he took up questioning where he left off, apparently in a better mood than he’d been when we parted company less than an hour ago. He’d probably found some slutty woman to nail in the service hallway. Most likely while some innocent person was trapped around the corner, forced to listen.

“What did you tell that woman that has her thinking I’m the devil’s spawn?”

I shrugged, leaving it open for interpretation. My attention wasn’t on explaining the actions of the woman at Dillard’s. I suddenly realized if the makeup on my face didn’t last for the next several hours—and the air was already sweaty-hot—chances were the staff at
Today’s Country Magazine
would come to the same conclusion as Bebe.

I was doomed.

Here I was, accepting an award I never even dreamed of receiving, and I looked more like a battered woman than a popular DJ. It was all Chris’s fault.

“Hello? Earth to Margo.”

“Margo’s out.” I stared out the window at the passing scenery.

“Out of her mind,” Chris muttered. “I suppose you’re going to pout like this for the rest of the trip?”

“Maybe I am. You deserve it.”

“Because I had sex and you didn’t?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. The last thing he should have done is remind me he burned off energy in more ways than one in the last twenty-four hours and I hadn’t. Nor would I be. “Because you had sex, in my room, while I slept in a goddamn bathtub covered in dried oatmeal and freezing my ass off! Because I was awakened, after listening to you two go at it all night long, by a screaming banshee! Because, not once, while you were screwing Candy’s brains out last night, did it occur to you to wonder where the hell
I
was sleeping!”