I wash my face and brush my teeth as I survey the pallets of make-up, brushes, a veritable tower oflipstick.
“Screw that,” I say to my reflection. “I’m not getting all made-up for Prince f*****g Charming.”
My eyes flash back in the mirror. A little You go, girl! from me to me.
I just wish I felt as confident as I looked.
Before I can talk myself into doing anything brash—like oh, I dunno, slapping Lucio Mazzeo right inhis smug f*****g face—I turn tail and leave.
I’m in enough trouble as it is.
As advertised, the surly stranger is waiting out in the hallway for me. He gives me only a cursoryglance before he starts walking down the hall, forcing me to follow.
“Do you have a name?” I ask conversationally.
“No name, huh?” I say. “Does the big bad boss man give you all
