Christmas with a Rockstar (Rock Revenge Trilogy 3.50)

Get a move on, Jewel, my precious gem. Nothing’s worse than time that’s wasted.

Gran’s age-warbled voice was only in my mind nowadays, but hearing it echo in the lonely hallways of the past made tears prick my eyes.

“I miss you,” I whispered to the painting of her that hung on the wall opposite my bed. Eyes a golden shade nearly identical to mine, though infinitely wiser, seemed to gaze back sympathetically. If only I’d heeded her wisdom. “I’m sorry, Gran.”

Her serene expression radiated forgiveness because that was the way I wanted to read it. But there would never be any absolution. All that remained was the portrait. An amateur one. After all, it had been my hand that had painted it. The lessons to improve my craft that I’d hoped to take when I moved out to LA had never come to pass. More practical concerns like food and shelter had quickly taken precedence over art and dreams.

Reminded of those pressing needs, I tossed aside my threadbare covers, bolted upright in bed, and threw my legs over the side. I needed to get ready. No one was going to wave a magic wand and make money appear.

Swallowing hard, I grounded myself by gripping the edge of the bed—the cot that functioned as one—in my apartment that was barely larger than a broom closet. A translucent scarf thrown over a light bulb didn’t soften the harsh reality.

My current accommodations were a far cry from the comforts I’d once enjoyed inside my grandmother’s foursquare home. Cardboard boxes served as tables. Plastic cartons stacked as shelves. Foil over the lone window curtained the light during the day.

My already sagging spirits sank lower when I noted the other cot beside me was unoccupied. The rumpled sheets provided no clue as to where my roommate had gone. She was probably gallivanting around doing who-knew-what as usual. Camaro Montepulciano had a kind heart, taking me in when I had nowhere else to go. She’d shown me the ropes. But she rode on the winds of her everchanging moods.

I let out a disappointed sigh, but I didn’t fault her. Cam had her flights of indulgence; I had mine. Painting, mainly, though I only had the dregs of a few basic colors left to work with and no more canvases. No escaping through the strokes of an imagined reality today.

Feet to the floor, I firmed my frown into a determined line and got out of bed. I stood, my fingers curled inward into my palms. The embers of a once-bright hope flickered uncertainly inside my chest. Wishes couldn’t fan them to a healthy glow, not when blanketed by so many suffocating regrets.

I closed my eyes, allowing myself a moment in the meadow in my imagination. A crown of common daisies on my head and a handful of them in my tiny grip. My grandmother beside me, her strong fingers wrapped around my own.

Gran had been my firm foundation when the world around me was shaken. It had been eighteen months since she passed, but her loss hadn’t gotten any easier. For me, grief wasn’t just a burden, it was a razor-sharp knife that had carved out a permanent cavity inside me.

Opening my eyes, I blinked through the sting of tears and ineffectively rubbed my hand over my aching heart before I shuffled to the shower.

Predictably, the hot water ran out halfway through, and I had to rinse out my hair in a cold stream. Sliding the plastic curtain back, I stepped over the rim of the tub and placed my feet on the old towel that stood in for a bathmat. Ribbons of russet against my slim shoulders wept rivers that rushed downward over the slopes of my breasts. I grabbed a towel from the rack and draped it around my slender frame. It absorbed the excess moisture from my body, but it couldn’t wipe away the pain.

At the cracked pedestal sink, I picked up the comb from the glass shelf and began the time-consuming process of running it through the long strands to untangle my hair. My empty stomach grumbled. I ignored it and the reflection of myself in the rusted mirror. I preferred not to acknowledge the hard-learned lessons reflected in my eyes. Finished with my hair, I set aside the comb and returned to the adjoining room. Maybe I had a leftover packet of crackers in the bottom of my bag.

Crouching beside my cot, I removed the slouchy handbag I stored under it. I rummaged through the contents, looking for money and food, but discovered it was as empty as my stomach. Setting it to the side, I pulled out the box that contained my clothes. Not the ones I was most comfortable in. The other ones.

My work clothes.

I laid out the lace and the silk on the bed. Seductive undergarments on one side. All the pieces to the costume that made up my outward persona on the other. It helped to compartmentalize the two aspects of my life. What happened to her didn’t happen to me. It was a lie, but some of the time I believed it.

Lingerie and outfit on, nail polish and makeup applied. I tucked my own hair under a wig and arranged its platinum-blond pigtails around my face, avoiding looking at my heavily mascaraed eyes rimmed in kohl as I took a quick glance at my reflection.

The white oxford shirt had been too tame before I took a pair of shears to it, cutting off the sleeves and baring the midriff all the way to my bra. The red-and-black-sequined skirt I’d salvaged from the dumpster at Goodwill was so short it revealed the racy crimson-and-black garters that held up my fishnet stockings. Black sky-high stilettos completed the look.

The whole effect was my artistic bent put to practical use. When I was done, my persona was part naughty Catholic schoolgirl and part comic-book villainess.

I tugged on a hoodie against the night chill and stuck out my tongue at myself before I left the bathroom. This chick doesn’t take anything seriously. She doesn’t put up with shit, and she does what needs to be done.

Shoulders back, spine straight, invisible armor against reality in place, I exited the apartment. Outside, the musty corridor was deserted, thankfully, except for a half-naked man lying on the hallway floor. I stepped over him, and he grunted.

“Sorry, Terrance.”

“It’s okay, Jules.” His wizened face riddled with pockmarks, he peered up at me through his good eye. “You going out?” The idea of that seemed to make him sad. He wasn’t alone in that sentiment.

“Yeah.” My gaze slid away. I had no food. The rent was overdue. I had no choice.

There’s always a choice. Gran’s voice echoed inside my head again. Only she was gone, her bright, shining ideals carried off with her, leaving me alone with no one but myself to rely on.

“Watch out for Wanda,” I told Terrance.

“She on the warpath?”

“If you mean is she on a mission to clear out the nonpaying residents who like to nap for free in the hall, then yeah, that’s what she’s on for sure.”