Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Now she wasn’t even a spark.
The definition of burnout was not a complicated one. The tricky part was what you did about it when all that no-shit-Sherlock, Merriam-Webster came and found you. Successful careers, like all bright ideas that by some miracle worked, assumed a velocity of their own, but unlike things such as cars, airplanes, or space shuttles, there was no safety equipment to buffer a sudden braking.
So here she was. Surrounded by people who thought they knew her, a paper idol who was the only one who seemed to know she wasn’t actually hot as hell. She was flammable.
And there was a world of difference between the two—
Marcia stepped up, stepped in, stepped all over everything. “You stand over there, and we bring the line through here—let’s get moving now so you know where you are before I bring your people in.”
Her people? As if she’d written her name inside their clothes and was taking them to some kind of existential summer camp?
As Lyric let herself get positioned like a vase on a shelf, she glanced at the step and repeat. Set against a pink and pale green background, her Lyrically Dressed logo, with its little music bars forming a dress, alternated with the Trash Panda makeup brand’s—which featured a panda and a trash bin, go figure.
Glancing out past the VIP room’s archway, she measured the crowd and was shocked by how many had come. It was a surprise she’d felt before, and at least that was one part of the job that still felt fresh. First it had been ten thousand subscribers to her Zideo account, then came a hundred thousand. When she’d crossed a million, she’d thrown herself a party, and felt like she’d had a purpose.
Now she was hovering at just under five million, and she had brand deals, an appearance schedule, and a manager—
“That light needs to be re-angled.” Marcia barked out a command and then went guided missile on some poor man in overalls. “Yes—you. I’m talking to you. That is wrong! She needs it softer on her face.”
Make that, manager.
As Lyric was left in the dust, she looked around. The VIP part of Bathe had been reserved for the event, and a snaking series of ropes had been set up to keep the line organized. Seeing the special-access lounge empty of its usual crowd of top-shelf-drinking highfliers made the setup look like an egg carton for fancy shitfaced people: Twelve sunken seating areas were split in the middle and separated by an aisle you could strut down if you were so inclined. Lit by different shades of blue, from Tiffany’s signature paler shade to sapphire to seafoam, the circular couches were comfortable, liquid-resistant, and the site of many a poor decision.
And even more empty wallets.
She knew the place well. She and her friend group were regulars, and over the last year and a half had staked a claim to the back sofa by the emergency exit. The blue-black light was great for keeping things low-key, and if you tended to dematerialize as opposed to Uber out at the end of the night, the alley access by way of that emergency fire door was convenient.
What would Marcia think if she found out she was managing a vampire—
Off to the side, the woman poked her forefinger up into the face of the overall guy like he’d insulted every mother in her bloodline.
Christ, if Marcia knew the truth, she’d probably sell the rights to a tell-all as soon as she got a podcast going.
Nosfer-chat-u.
On that note, Marcia dropped the bone of the lighting and brought over a very tall, very slender woman with very long black hair extensions. It was as if Chas Addams had tossed one of his drawings into the next century, and Lyric pinned a smile.
“Of course you remember Svetlana?” Marcia did a flourish thing. “She is Trash Panda. Svet, you look amazing—let’s get the two girls of the hour together.”
Marcia clapped her hands, like the world ran on her own personal lights-on-lights-off switch, and then it was cue the small talk as the photographer rushed over in a clear attempt to avoid what the lighting guy had had airmailed at him: Svet complimented Lyric’s dress, and Lyric hit the blessings-ball back over the net with an honest appreciation for the other woman’s shoes—because hey, even though they were the size of toasters and must have weighed ten pounds apiece, at least they were dry. Then came the hair-compare and associated fluffing—at least on Svet’s side—followed by the obligatory what-mascara-is-that.
“Trash Panda all the way,” Lyric mumbled. Even though she was wearing Maybelline.
“Smile!”
Lyric front-and-centered at the lens, but her eyes returned to the VIP lounge’s entrance as the flash went off. The pair of suited sentries at the archway were looking above-it-all, and the faces on the far side were a tide they were holding back with a satisfaction that made Lyric want to spill wine on them.