sharply. We both know I’m not car sick, but I appreciate his willingness to spare me added embarrassment. Cinnamon flavored anything ties too closely with the liquor I drank too much of at the bar, and my stomach somersaults. I can count the number of times I’ve been hungover in my life on one hand. When I feel this badly, it’s hard not to wonder if this was how Cricket felt every single day. What I can’t imagine myself doing is picking up another bottle of whisky to postpone a hangover this bad.
Cricket had a permanent stench of alcohol that followed her around. It was there after she showered and brushed her teeth, and it was present under whatever cheap body spray she poured on herself before she danced. The odor became stronger as the night got later, and to this day, the scent of vodka is a direct link to my mother’s affection. The stinging chemical smell reminds me of her sloppy kisses and broken promises.
“This life isn’t for us, Lydia,” she’d lie at the end of a particularly hard day or after another night spent in the car. Cricket sat behind the steering wheel, drinking mini bottles of the liquor store’s cheapest vodka. “One day we’ll have a house with a little backyard. Maybe we can get a pet. Would you like that, baby? Would you like to have your own room?”
While she told drunken stories about a life we’d never have together, I tried to sleep in the back, curled up in a ball. By the time I was too tall to stretch my legs out across the back seat, I was old enough to realize Cricket was full of shit. I didn’t have any friends because no one at school wanted to talk to the girl who only showed up some of the time, and a strip club is a terrible place for someone my age to meet anyone. I was the only underage girl in the dressing room because it’s not a place for kids. Cricket was a terrible mom. She loved me as much as she could, but she was horrible. She never tried.
And then she had the audacity to die.
Now I feel like I’ve embodied her, stepping directly into Cricket Montgomery’s footsteps—the rightful successor to the kingdom of low-down debauchery. No one who knew us back then would be surprised to see me hungover and on my way to fuck some old man for cash. I’d fit in with the sleaze.
Pretenses can fuck off.
Doubling over, I hide my face between my knees and squeeze my eyes shut, wrangling with the memory of my mom and the chance she never gave me for a life better than this.
“Do you need me to pull over, Miss?” the driver asks.
“No,” I say, sitting back up. I push my hair out of my face and practically stick my head out the window to escape the scent of alcoholism.
I’ll never drink again.
Talent Ridge can shove his charm up his ass. I’m tired of him trying to ruin my life.
Instead of heading to Gary’s office once I arrive to the studio, I make a beeline for the women’s restroom and lock myself inside. He likes me to keep my hair down, but it’s sticking to the back of my neck and is more frizzy than straight after having the wind blown through it on the drive over. I find a hair tie in my purse and use my fingers to slick it back into a ponytail. It seconds as a facelift, tightening the circles under my eyes and reducing the puffiness in my lids. Red lipstick that usually looks seductive looks trashy and I wipe it off, applying a clear gloss over the pinkish stain the rouge left behind.
Gary Brooker sells fine art to fine people, and the restrooms in his gallery cater to the rich. Thank God. Spinning off the top to the mouthwash, I pour it into my mouth and swish it around until the tip of my tongue feels like it’s on fire and my eyes water. He doesn’t like me to smell like anything artificial, but I squirt the body spray he’s supplied for his guests on myself and don’t bother to look at my reflection before getting this shit over with.
Like with Cristian’s architectural models, I love to browse Gary’s art collection. He buys and sells them so often, the pieces are different every time I visit. The movements and styles of each painting