Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
___
It was 1:35 p.m., but we'd been here since 6. I don't play about rehearsal days, especially not in Chicago. Not when it's show weekend. I needed to feel everything. The hair, the makeup, and the fit, under those lights before the crowd was in the seats.
I sat still while my glam team moved around me like a NASCAR pit crew. I had brought glam to the media room as I'd just finished giving a few notes. Rudy buffed powder into my cheekbones, Malcolm adjusted my curls, and Cam was tweaking the highlight on the bridge of my nose. The outfit for the opener—this heavy, gold embellished piece—shimmered under the tent lighting, but that didn't mean it would read the same on stage.
"Okay, so we thought the smoky situation with the gold glitter would be good for this look." Cam said, standing back and admiring his work as he held a mirror to my face.
I nodded. "I like it. But when we hit that second chorus, I think we need a gold spotlight, just warm enough to catch the rhinestones. I don't want that icy blue light they used in LA."
Rudy paused, brush hovering. "They said the light team already calibrated the rigs for the whole set."
"Then they need to recalibrate." I said flatly. "No blue. It muddies everything. Makes it look cheap."
Cam laughed under his breath, then glanced over at the camera monitor. "Also, about that lens you asked for—the 18.5 with the adjustable track? Keith out there whispering, saying those don't exist."
I slowly opened my eyes and looked at him. "They do. I looked it up myself. They just don't have it."
Malcolm mumbled. "Or they don't want to go get it."
I shook my head. I wasn't even mad—just tired of the bullshit. "I'm not asking for nothing that's impossible. I do my research. They not about to 'that's not real' me."
Before anyone could respond, a shift in the room energy pulled me towards the door. I turned my head towards it—a familiar presence entering.
Footsteps. Then, a voice.
"What up, bae?"
She was supposed to have been here so we could eat lunch together.
Y/n's voice was low. Deep and raspy like she'd just woke up, except I knew better. Her hoodie was damn near off her head and she had a Popeyes bag with two boxes in it, hanging from one finger like a purse. I could smell the weed before I saw her, and the second she stepped into view, I caught the red tint in her eyes.
I smiled softly, rolling my eyes. "Hi, baby."
The crew gave me space to stand up.
She walked up to me slowly, eyes scanning me from the top of my head to the bottom of my heels. Her gaze dragged across my mouth, my chest, the way the outfit hugged my hips. The Popeyes bag hit my hip lightly when she pulled me into her.
