meltdown at a brothel turned out to be my lucky break from the
headline hounds.
“What
are we doing here anyway?” I ask, stepping onto the curb in front of a shop
called Retroradical.
“Camaron
gives the orders,” Dominick shrugs, stepping onto the curb beside me. “All I do
is carry them out. But,” he smirks, “I’ll bet it has something to do with
shopping…”
“Hmm,”
I say, rolling my eyes. “She couldn’t get you a new personality on Amazon,
huh?”
“Smart
ass woman,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re a bassist, not a comedian.”
The
double doors fly open, out steps a man with brown hair that is all swept to the
right side of his face. The pale pink v-neck shirt he has on is tucked into his
perfectly fitted dark gray jeans. The black Fedora on his head perfectly matching
the watch on his wrist and leather boots on his feet. “I’m Trey, I’ll bet every
tube of Decay Revolution lip gloss in my bag that you’re Ireland,” he says,
smiling at me. “Girl, I’m gonna turn that flunk rock princess look you’re
workin’ with into something show stopping.”
“Wait,
what” I ask, staring blankly at Trey. “Camaron sent us here for a makeover?”
“Uhh,”
Trey says, before his eyes move to Dominick. “You? Yes. Him? Honey, I may be
the gay goddess of all things glam and gorgeous,” he says, scrunching his nose
at Dominick and shaking his head. “But, I do magic, not miracles.”
Dominick
shakes his head, only looking mildly insulted, but says nothing. Trey hooks my
arm with his and leads me through the door of the shop. Racks and shelves are
all lined with clothes, shoes, and accessories. In the far corner, there is a
gold chaise lounge alongside full-length mirrors and a brightly lit vanity
lined with containers of makeup brushes. The entire place looks like old school
Hollywood Glam. There’s even a strip of red carpet that runs the length of the
store.
“I
cannot tell you how happy I was to see Shaft in my appointment book today,” he
says, scooping up things without even checking the sizes. “It’s times like
those that’ll put an extra bit of butt in your strut, honey.”
“Do
you do a lot of work for the band?” I ask, following him back toward the
dressing rooms.
Yanking
open a long black curtain, Trey hangs clothes on a hook, then places more on
the red leather bench seat inside. His eyes meet mine, and he grins, arching a
brow at me. “No. So far, it’s just been the girls,” rubbing his hands together,
his grin turns into wicked smile. “If I ever get those delicious men in here,
I’ll burn everything they own and not sell them one goddamn thing,” he winks,
yanking the curtain closed.
Shifting
the hangers, I look through the dresses, shirts, and pants hanging in front of
me, trying to decide what I like and want to try first. “Rule one, don’t judge
clothes on their hanger. Put it on, strut it out in front of the mirrors, then
decide.”
“Why
isn’t there a mirror in here?” I ask, glancing at the bare three walls of the
dressing room.
“Because
this isn’t a solo project,” Trey responds, yanking open the curtain. “The
average woman can see a dress on a hanger, love it enough to max out her Visa,
then dismisses it in the dressing room before it’s even all the way on her
body.” Rolling his eyes, he smacks his lips. “All because of a single piece of
reflective glass.”
“Okay…”
“It
took more than one person to build the pyramids.,” he explains, adjusting his
hat. “Takes nine, perfectly beautiful slices to make a large pizza, and took
two people in a bed one night back in the seventies to create the delicious
creature that is Matt Bomer, honey,” he says, fanning himself with one hand.
“Trust me on this, nothing beautiful or fabulous is a solo job.”
Winking
at me, Trey yanks the curtain closed again. Shoving off my clothes, I change
into the first dress hanging on the hook. The black and red strapless,
headline hounds.
“What
are we doing here anyway?” I ask, stepping onto the curb in front of a shop
called Retroradical.
“Camaron
gives the orders,” Dominick shrugs, stepping onto the curb beside me. “All I do
is carry them out. But,” he smirks, “I’ll bet it has something to do with
shopping…”
“Hmm,”
I say, rolling my eyes. “She couldn’t get you a new personality on Amazon,
huh?”
“Smart
ass woman,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re a bassist, not a comedian.”
The
double doors fly open, out steps a man with brown hair that is all swept to the
right side of his face. The pale pink v-neck shirt he has on is tucked into his
perfectly fitted dark gray jeans. The black Fedora on his head perfectly matching
the watch on his wrist and leather boots on his feet. “I’m Trey, I’ll bet every
tube of Decay Revolution lip gloss in my bag that you’re Ireland,” he says,
smiling at me. “Girl, I’m gonna turn that flunk rock princess look you’re
workin’ with into something show stopping.”
“Wait,
what” I ask, staring blankly at Trey. “Camaron sent us here for a makeover?”
“Uhh,”
Trey says, before his eyes move to Dominick. “You? Yes. Him? Honey, I may be
the gay goddess of all things glam and gorgeous,” he says, scrunching his nose
at Dominick and shaking his head. “But, I do magic, not miracles.”
Dominick
shakes his head, only looking mildly insulted, but says nothing. Trey hooks my
arm with his and leads me through the door of the shop. Racks and shelves are
all lined with clothes, shoes, and accessories. In the far corner, there is a
gold chaise lounge alongside full-length mirrors and a brightly lit vanity
lined with containers of makeup brushes. The entire place looks like old school
Hollywood Glam. There’s even a strip of red carpet that runs the length of the
store.
“I
cannot tell you how happy I was to see Shaft in my appointment book today,” he
says, scooping up things without even checking the sizes. “It’s times like
those that’ll put an extra bit of butt in your strut, honey.”
“Do
you do a lot of work for the band?” I ask, following him back toward the
dressing rooms.
Yanking
open a long black curtain, Trey hangs clothes on a hook, then places more on
the red leather bench seat inside. His eyes meet mine, and he grins, arching a
brow at me. “No. So far, it’s just been the girls,” rubbing his hands together,
his grin turns into wicked smile. “If I ever get those delicious men in here,
I’ll burn everything they own and not sell them one goddamn thing,” he winks,
yanking the curtain closed.
Shifting
the hangers, I look through the dresses, shirts, and pants hanging in front of
me, trying to decide what I like and want to try first. “Rule one, don’t judge
clothes on their hanger. Put it on, strut it out in front of the mirrors, then
decide.”
“Why
isn’t there a mirror in here?” I ask, glancing at the bare three walls of the
dressing room.
“Because
this isn’t a solo project,” Trey responds, yanking open the curtain. “The
average woman can see a dress on a hanger, love it enough to max out her Visa,
then dismisses it in the dressing room before it’s even all the way on her
body.” Rolling his eyes, he smacks his lips. “All because of a single piece of
reflective glass.”
“Okay…”
“It
took more than one person to build the pyramids.,” he explains, adjusting his
hat. “Takes nine, perfectly beautiful slices to make a large pizza, and took
two people in a bed one night back in the seventies to create the delicious
creature that is Matt Bomer, honey,” he says, fanning himself with one hand.
“Trust me on this, nothing beautiful or fabulous is a solo job.”
Winking
at me, Trey yanks the curtain closed again. Shoving off my clothes, I change
into the first dress hanging on the hook. The black and red strapless,
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