Page 8 of Stroked Hard
Hollis: That salad was a delicacy!
Hollis is probably the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met. No, not probably. He is the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.
“Oh sweetie, this is a beautiful space,” my mom coos, thankfully pulling me away from my phone.
I smile brightly at her. This is a big day for me. “It’s a huge step up from my studio in Crapsville. I can actually smell the beach from here.”
My mom looks out the window, her arms crossed over her chest. “How far is the beach?”
“A few blocks. Probably a ten-minute walk. So worth it.”
Continuing to look out the window, my mom observes the view—which admittedly consists mainly of surrounding apartment buildings and a tiny spot of the ocean—while I turn back to my new living space. A one-bedroom apartment. It might not seem like a lot to some people, but it’s a lot to me. I’ve worked my ass off to get to where I am today, to be able to afford a one-bedroom apartment right outside Los Angeles, so close to the beach I can walk to it. It’s an utter dream.
And I have one person to thank . . . Bellini Chambers.
Go figure.
I’ve put up with the evil tuna-ditch for the past few years and because of my dedication to beautifying her for the camera, I’ve not only secured a well-paying job, but because of my loyalty and ability to keep my mouth shut and away from gossip magazine vying for any kind of dirt on America’s Most Hated Celebrity, I’ve earned myself a lovely little raise.
A raise that has moved me from a studio to this open-concept, one-bedroom apartment.
Do I feel a little dirty over the fact that I’m here because of saddling up next to Bellini? Not one bit. I’ve earned this apartment. From the countless times she’s called me Melon or Cantaloupe, to the many hours I’ve spent watching her look at herself in the mirror, waiting for her to make a change in her lip stain or hairdo. No, I earned this apartment.
Growing up, all I ever wanted was to live near the beach, to smell the ocean, to bury my feet in the sand whenever I wanted to. I might not have an apartment looking over the calming ocean waves, but I have the next best thing—a short walk.
It will do for now.
“I’m so proud of you.” From behind, my mom wraps her arms around my waist and hugs me. I melt into her embrace, loving the familiar warmth of her comfort.
Since I was six, it’s been her and me, taking on the world, fighting to make it in this city of opportunity. She’s taught me hard work and loyalty pays off, two lessons of life I’ve been able to apply and reap the benefits from.
Now if only I could make enough money to help my mom retire from her job. She lives a very modest life as a maid. When I graduated from high school, she made the move south to Temecula where she rents a small apartment and cleans houses with my aunt. From the few hours she’s helped me move into and clean my new apartment today, I can tell she’s slowing down. It takes her a little longer to get up from her knees, longer to walk upstairs. All around she’s slower.
It’s going to happen though. I’m working on using my makeup skills and knowledge to create my own lip-stain line. I know what you’re thinking: there are so many companies out there with lip stains. How would mine differ? Mine is different because I’ve geared all my colors to accentuate every woman’s complexion. Yes, every woman. Not just a generalized blonde, blue-eyed girl. I’ve spent countless hours researching what hues best accentuate all complexions, hair, and eye-color combinations. Each kit will be specified to every woman. It’s a lot, but it’s going to be a change in the market, a positive one. If I can make this happen, I can help my mom. She deserves it.It will be my way of saying thank you.
“Thanks, Mom, and thank you for coming up for the day to help me move. Are you sure you can’t stay the night?”
She shakes her head. “I wish I could, my bella, but I have to work early tomorrow morning. I’m sorry.”
My heart falls at the hope ofnotspending the night in my new place with my mom. “That’s okay. I understand. We have to plan a girls’ weekend soon though. Maybe you can make me some of your homemade tamales?” I clasp my hands together in hope and bat my eyelashes at her.
Gripping my cheek, she pats it and smiles. “Anything for you. Now, let’s get you unpacked as much as possible before I have to take off. And maybe put your new cell phone to use and order us some Chinese food. I’m starving.”
“Sure thing.”
New cell phone. Not really, I’ve had it for a bit but my mom still believes in flip phones. I have no clue where she gets them, but it’s her go-to option when it comes to communication.
We spend the rest of the time unpacking my kitchen because that’s the biggest task. When we eat our Chinese food, we reminisce about how we used to have slumber parties in the living room. My mom is my best friend, no doubt. She’s the one strong pillar in my life I know I can count on. Theonly personI can count on.
“Text me when you get home,” I say to my mom as I hug her goodbye.
“You’re starting to sound like me.” The corners of her eyes crinkle when she smiles at me.
“You’re getting old, I don’t want you driving off into a ditch,” I tease.
Pointing her finger at me, she says, “Watch it, young lady. I can still try to ground you.”
“Try being the key word.” I wink.
