Rebel Soul

Unfortunately, my successful cohabitation is pretty much the only good thing in my life right about now.

My dad is still in jail—and judging from his downtrodden tone, Ken Kellan is not suited for life on the inside. And don’t even get me started on Mom. She pretty much never leaves the couch in the rental cottage, and I’m pretty sure my grandparents are at their wit’s end with her.

The pressure to bring Dad home is weighing on me heavier and heavier every passing day, but I’m stuck. So fucking stuck. I’ve even started searching for a second job, and while a few listings look semi-promising, none of them are going to bring in enough extra money for me to pay a retainer to a lawyer—much less to post Dad’s bond.

Not to mention, today’s the day I have to let Maren know I’ve been looking for other jobs. She has a firm non-compete in place, but I should be okay, seeing as I’m looking at desk jobs and retail. Hopefully she gets it and isn’t upset. Fingers crossed.

Tired of my downtrodden and mopey thoughts, I crank the music in my car, drowning my anger and hopelessness in some Brand New. By the time I make it to work, I’ve played half of the album; I don’t feel any better, though. I drain the last dregs of my coffee—here’s to fake smiles and hoping making people pretty does the trick.

“Hey, girl, hey!” Joy greets as I enter the studio. Her infectious smile lifts my spirits a little. “Maren added a bride to your book after lunch—she’s having her bridals done, and her original girl came down with the flu.”

“Yes!” I do a little happy dance. “Not that I’m celebrating someone being sick, but more money is always a good thing.”

“Yeah, girl. Plus, if you end up wowing her, and she books her actual wedding with you, I think she said she has like eight girls in her party that will all need their makeup done as well.”

“She’ll book.” I sound cocky, but it’s called confidence when you have the skills to back it up, right?

Joy updates me on the rest of my day—two expectant mothers, a woman who is announcing her retirement, and a handful of date night-ers. Oh, and my bride.

I head back to my station and start prepping my supplies. Even though we don’t technically open for another twenty minutes, there’s a sort of energy flowing through the space, the kind that amps you up and renews your kickass attitude. Or maybe that’s just the Billie Eilish Maren has pumping through the speakers. Either way, I’m ready.

Six hours later, I’m dead on my feet, but…the bride booked me not only for her wedding but for her engagement pictures, shower, and rehearsal dinner, as well. Cha-ching.

“Maren,” I say as I pass her to finish cleaning my brushes. “Can we talk really quick?”

“Sure.” She pops a bubble with the gum she’s always chewing. “Come find me in the back when you’re done.”

After stowing away my brushes, wiping down my station, and cleaning my mirror, I head off in search of Maren. “Hey,” I say, as I walk into the breakroom where she’s playing on her phone.

She places it on the table, screen down. “What’s up?”

I suck in a deep breath and bite the bullet. “First, I wanna thank you for the extra appointments.”

She arches a perfectly sculpted brow at me. “Uh-huh. You’re welcome.”

“But I still need to make more money, so I’m looking for a second job. I wanted to be totally transparent with you, and I promise it won’t interfere with my time here or breach my non-compete.”

“Did you think I was gonna be mad?” Maren asks, sounding almost a little hurt.

“No. Yes. Maybe. Everything feels so topsy-turvy right now for me that I don’t know up from down.”

“I hate this for you.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’ll land a part-time job that pays crazy good?” She casts a dubious look my way. “Hey, a girl can hope.”

“You know,” she says, pausing dramatically. “If you really need funds, I might know of something.”

Eagerly, I pull the free chair closer to her before plopping down into it. “Tell me more—everything. Tell me everything.”

She clasps my hands in hers. “You’ll have to keep an open mind.”

“As long as you’re not suggesting prostitution or stripping.”

Maren rolls her neck. “Not exactly.” I start to protest, but she stops me. “Hear me out! There’s this app called Virtual Kitty. It’s like…I can’t really explain it.”

“Try,” I deadpan, just desperate enough to stick around for what she has to say.

“So, it’s like a porn app. But like…gah! Okay, let me just show it to you.” Maren grabs her phone, unlocks it, and passes it to me. “Click here.”

I tap the icon, and the entire screen goes black before a little animated cat pops up, followed by the words ‘pick your kitty, watch her purr.’