Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,3

doubt she could bench press my measly body weight when she was ten. She wears a sunny yellow competition bikini over her even, deep-black skin, her hair swept up in a burst of perfectly arranged white braid extensions.

Her false eyelashes blink at me as if I don’t have the mental competence to understand her problem.

I steady my breath. “Tanisha, you are one of my star clients, and you know how much care I put into every single competitor on my list. But competition day gets booked solid. You didn’t even tell me you were competing today, or I would’ve left a big spot for you.”

I pull a brush from a sling lined with tools like a soldier carries bullets. “Let me blend your jawline a touch.” I run the soft bristles over her skin. She doesn’t need any fixing. She just needs me.

“Let me see your shoulders. You know those are what get you points.” She turns and I run the brush in all the shadows.

“There,” I say as she makes her way back around. “You are perfect. You have the Camryn stamp of approval.”

Her eyes mist a bit, and she touches a finger to the corner of her perfect lashes. “Thank you, love.”

“Book me for the real deal next one, okay? Send me your calendar.”

She leans down for an air kiss, then I hurry for the door.

I do feel bad I can’t do a final prep on her. Women in particular have extra needs on competition day. Cleavage shadowing, extra taping. Blending their face makeup into their neck and shoulders.

But even though I’m careful not to overbook, today is especially crazy. It’s the first regional competition of the season, and everybody’s stressed-out, dehydrated, and on edge.

It’s my job not only to make them look good, but also to keep them calm, and most importantly, avoid letting them psych themselves out.

I feel like an absolute misfit among the bronzed and oiled skins. My complexion is incredibly fair, and even though I am known for my perfect tans, I rarely apply one to myself. I’m like the handyman who never fixes his own sink. Or the gardener whose rosebushes always need pruning. I’m bathed in chemicals, oils, and bronzers all day long. When I’m alone, it’s nice to escape it.

I glance at my phone. This was supposed to be my five-minute sandwich break before attending to the next set of clients preparing for prejudging.

But no, my brother Franklin has called me with a charity case, a new training partner who apparently thinks any tan will do for competition.

It’s unlikely I will be able to do much other than fill in some splotches or blend a stripe. If it’s an overall hack job, I won’t be able to fix it. No time.

I haven’t met this new partner. I know they’ve been training together for a while, but I have to limit my time with my brother. I love Franklin, but he’s got the mother of all big-brother complexes, and he tries to control more of my life than he has any reason to.

Hopefully, his friend isn’t the same alpha, overbearing sack of machismo. If both of them try to tell me what to do, I’m going to have to walk away.

“Camryn!” squeals Amanda Johnson, a trainer who sends me lots of referrals. She’s fit and perfect in a hot pink exercise bra and matching cheetah print yoga pants. She likes to be seen.

I notice a fine white line in the crook of her elbow and a subtle streak across her shoulder. She should have me do her tans, but she doesn’t like my rates. Still, she looks good. Her green eyes sparkle as she gives me a quick hug. “I don’t want to keep you from your busy day. Did you finish up on Sean?” He’s one of her clients.

“I did. He looks great. He’s probably already getting out there, right?”

“He’s all lined up. We’re hoping third time’s the charm!”

She tweaks my hair, pulled back in a ponytail so it doesn’t get caught in my work. “Love these auburn streaks. It’s glorious.”

I can’t even thank her for the compliment before she’s off. I try to hurry, but I’m stopped three more times by clients. I try to give each of them the right amount of attention while also making clear I need to move on. The sandwich will have to wait. I have zero time to help out Franklin’s friend before I locate my ten o’clock.

The sharp scent of chemicals and oils