Page 61 of Now Their Starlet

Ezra seems to understand what the hell is going on before I do, because his expression twists into one of disgusted disbelief.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he says, his jaw working.

“Why would I joke about something so serious!” She cuts a scathing glare towards me and I know my poor attempt at stalling won’t work much longer.

“Okay, okay, look,” I say, wiping my clammy hands against the dress and wincing at the rough texture of the embroidered sequins. “Mom, please sit down before you hurt yourself. Just... relax for a bit, okay? Ezra needs to get me out of this dress, I can’t get out of it alone, and I’m not sure if you’re in a state to help, yeah? You remember how hard it was to get on.”

To my absolute surprise, she seems to buy into my platitudes.

“Yeah,” she sniffs, nearly tripping on the hem of her robe as she makes her way to my bed. “It’s your fault it was hard to get on, you know. Despite my best efforts, your body is still insufferably stubborn!”

Ah, yes, the cost of her doing what I want is her insulting my body. Of course.

A body she wants to replicate part of, under the knife of a Beverly Hills surgeon, apparently.

She lies against the rock-hard throw pillows at the head of the bed. Satisfaction flares through me when I see her shifting, unable to find a comfortable position.

“Get to it!” Gina huffs, before taking a large swig from her wine glass.

I flash Ezra a look and jerk my head towards the clothing rack with a hanging garment bag. With Gina on the bed, I can face towards the garment bag so she can’t see the burner phone taped to my stomach. Ezra’s broad frame offers another layer of possible protection to keep her from seeing.

My hands tremble as he starts to tug the laces of the corset loose.

He clears his throat when the fabric becomes loose enough for me to step out and I nod my head, stepping out of it quickly.

“What kind of wine are you drinking? Seems like you’re enjoying it a lot?” I say casually, a little louder than I would speak normally, as I rip the burner phone from my skin in one motion. Luckily, it doesn’t make a sound, but I’m glad I’m facing away from Gina right now because I can’t hide the grimace in my expression. Man, that hurt.

“Oh, this is 2019 Chardonnay,” she says confidently, as if it’s impressive. I’m not a big wine drinker, but if Gina’s track record for chasing after fancy things and falling short is any indication, it’s not all that fancy.

The burner phone feels like it’s burning a hole through my hand, especially when my fingers slide against the sweaty screen as I swipe to the camera app and start recording a video. I’m pretty sure the camera is partially covered by the tape, so I don’t know how useful this video would be, but the urge to document Gina’s insanity now that I have something like the burner phone is too overwhelming to ignore. Especially because she’s acting so ridiculously tonight.

It feels like the one defense I have, and standing here basically naked with my own mother demanding pictures of my tits, I need all the defense I can get.

I use the body tape still attached to the device and press it along the inside of the garment bag. Considering how difficult it was to tear the tape from my body, I pray to any and all deities willing to listen that it remains strong enough to hold the phone and keep it from falling.

I’m so consumed with my anxiety that I don’t even register that I’m only really wearing a thong while Ezra hovers behind me, trying to block what I’m doing with his body.

“What’s taking you so long?” Gina whines.

The sound of her voice and slurred words is seriously getting on my nerves.

“I’m just hanging up the dress properly, Mom,” I say, fighting to keep the tremble in my voice down as I tuck the dress properly back into its garment bag.

There. All done. It should be hidden well enough.

I’m so stressed, I instinctively wrap my arms over my bare chest and pad my way over to the vanity, where Beck’s old hoodie lies, neatly folded from where I placed it before being forced to get ready for tonight’s event.

“The fuck are you doing? Are you stupid? I need my pictures!”

I bristle as I ignore her aggressive demands, sliding my arms into the hoodie and zipping it up.

“Why do you even want pictures of my boobs?” I ask, my hands clenching into fists around the comforting fabric. “That’s like, really weird, Mom.”

“Shut up!” she snaps, swinging her legs over the bed and standing quickly. The golden chardonnay threatens to spill over the edge of the glass. “You don’t understand! Jonathan might as well have fucking said your tits were perfect!”

Oh. That’s what this is about.

Jonathan did say he’d “normally” recommend a breast augmentation procedure. Which is a ridiculous statement to make. Does the douche recommend that kind of thing regularly?