“They’ll still be in your heart. And I bet your family wants you to come home safe. Right,
chica?
”
Her parents had no idea who she was or what she was doing, but the pain of that estrangement had long ago faded to a dull ache, and Ike didn’t want to go there. Instead she said, “Don’t call me
chica.
You’re no more Latin than I am.”
At least she didn’t think he was. Raine’s makeup artist friend seemed to morph among characters on a nearly constant basis, sliding seamlessly from fabulous gay man to slightly seedy hipster to Latin lover without pause. She didn’t know which one was the real Stephen Flores, but did it really matter? The point was that she believed each of the chameleon roles when it was in front of her. He was, in his own way, a master of disguise, changing her perception with a shift in posture and voice.
And, damn it, he was right about the earrings.
She held out for a moment longer before she exhaled on a sigh that felt as if it came up from her now-painted toes. “Right.” She undid the earrings, pulled them free and tucked them in her jeans pocket beneath the cape, leaving her earlobe feeling naked and exposed. “What’s next?”
He didn’t gloat, merely pointed to the shampoo station. “First we rinse. Then we talk about a name for your character while we cover up those holes in your ear.”
But by the time Stephen and the stylist had rinsed the gunk out of her hair, they’d gotten caught up in a deep discussion about bangs and layers and seemed to forget about her name. That was a good thing, because as Ike watched her new hair take shape in the mirror, she felt the panic build.
The long tresses were significantly lighter than her trademark blue-black, and the honey-brown waves glowed with highlights of auburn and gold. Wisps framed her face, making it look soft and feminine beneath the light touch of blush and eye shadow Stephen had assured her would take no time at all to apply each morning.
Ike, whose normal makeup routine was limited to a swipe of waterproof black mascara, had been skeptical. Now, looking at the nearly finished product, she had to swallow a bubble of panic.
She looked familiar, damn it. Not like herself but like her childhood memories of her mother, before Donny’s long string of illnesses had taken their toll. She looked like a member of her own family, which was something she hadn’t been in many years.
As she blinked hard, Stephen crouched down so their faces were level in the big mirror. “You look great, hon. You’ll
do
great. As long as you remember to play your part, nobody’ll make the connection between Ike Rombout and this woman.” He squeezed her shoulders, partly in support, partly in warning. “Speaking of which,” he continued, “what have you decided to name her?”
This isn’t permanent,
Ike told herself when a big knot threatened to block off her throat and steal her breath.
It’s an act. A job. You can do this. You
have
to do this. For Zed. For everyone else who’s been hurt by The Nine.
“Eleanor,” she said finally, and her voice cracked on the word. “My name is Eleanor.”
“E LEANOR R OTH ?” M AX shuffled through the IDs, credit cards and other assorted paperwork on William’s cluttered desk, nearly dumping the cup of pens in the process. “Did you pick that or did she?”
William snorted. “She did, of course. If it’d been up to me, I would’ve gone with something more appropriate.”
He shoved the pens to the other side of the desk and turned the cup so the FBI logo faced away from him. Max liked him to have the cup on the desk to impress the clients, but that didn’t mean William should have to look at the damn thing every day and remember that Michael Grosskill was still in charge.
“Like what?”
It took him a moment to remember they’d been talking about Ike’s name. He shrugged. “I’m not sure, maybe Spike or Killer. An Eleanor is soft and feminine, which Ike is definitely
chica?
”
Her parents had no idea who she was or what she was doing, but the pain of that estrangement had long ago faded to a dull ache, and Ike didn’t want to go there. Instead she said, “Don’t call me
chica.
You’re no more Latin than I am.”
At least she didn’t think he was. Raine’s makeup artist friend seemed to morph among characters on a nearly constant basis, sliding seamlessly from fabulous gay man to slightly seedy hipster to Latin lover without pause. She didn’t know which one was the real Stephen Flores, but did it really matter? The point was that she believed each of the chameleon roles when it was in front of her. He was, in his own way, a master of disguise, changing her perception with a shift in posture and voice.
And, damn it, he was right about the earrings.
She held out for a moment longer before she exhaled on a sigh that felt as if it came up from her now-painted toes. “Right.” She undid the earrings, pulled them free and tucked them in her jeans pocket beneath the cape, leaving her earlobe feeling naked and exposed. “What’s next?”
He didn’t gloat, merely pointed to the shampoo station. “First we rinse. Then we talk about a name for your character while we cover up those holes in your ear.”
But by the time Stephen and the stylist had rinsed the gunk out of her hair, they’d gotten caught up in a deep discussion about bangs and layers and seemed to forget about her name. That was a good thing, because as Ike watched her new hair take shape in the mirror, she felt the panic build.
The long tresses were significantly lighter than her trademark blue-black, and the honey-brown waves glowed with highlights of auburn and gold. Wisps framed her face, making it look soft and feminine beneath the light touch of blush and eye shadow Stephen had assured her would take no time at all to apply each morning.
Ike, whose normal makeup routine was limited to a swipe of waterproof black mascara, had been skeptical. Now, looking at the nearly finished product, she had to swallow a bubble of panic.
She looked familiar, damn it. Not like herself but like her childhood memories of her mother, before Donny’s long string of illnesses had taken their toll. She looked like a member of her own family, which was something she hadn’t been in many years.
As she blinked hard, Stephen crouched down so their faces were level in the big mirror. “You look great, hon. You’ll
do
great. As long as you remember to play your part, nobody’ll make the connection between Ike Rombout and this woman.” He squeezed her shoulders, partly in support, partly in warning. “Speaking of which,” he continued, “what have you decided to name her?”
This isn’t permanent,
Ike told herself when a big knot threatened to block off her throat and steal her breath.
It’s an act. A job. You can do this. You
have
to do this. For Zed. For everyone else who’s been hurt by The Nine.
“Eleanor,” she said finally, and her voice cracked on the word. “My name is Eleanor.”
“E LEANOR R OTH ?” M AX shuffled through the IDs, credit cards and other assorted paperwork on William’s cluttered desk, nearly dumping the cup of pens in the process. “Did you pick that or did she?”
William snorted. “She did, of course. If it’d been up to me, I would’ve gone with something more appropriate.”
He shoved the pens to the other side of the desk and turned the cup so the FBI logo faced away from him. Max liked him to have the cup on the desk to impress the clients, but that didn’t mean William should have to look at the damn thing every day and remember that Michael Grosskill was still in charge.
“Like what?”
It took him a moment to remember they’d been talking about Ike’s name. He shrugged. “I’m not sure, maybe Spike or Killer. An Eleanor is soft and feminine, which Ike is definitely
Similar Books
