myself for my expert ability to make hard decisions with ease, yet easy ones debilitate me.
The choice makes itself. I’m in my red beamer heading south before my brain catches up to what my body has already decided. I’m off to see my new friend—my only friend.
“Shoot! Did I forget to put you into my schedule?” Gemmie asks with concern crinkling the corners of her eyes as she mists hairspray over a young blonde’s wavy hair.
“No, I just need some…” Crap! I have to sell this lie better if I expect always-skeptical Gemmie to buy it. “…conditioner.”
Gemmie’s not buying it as evidenced by her bullshit squint. I look at the products assembled with perfect precision on the glass shelf by the window.
“Third shelf down on the far right.”
I grab the bottle of conditioner.
“Still coming on Saturday?”
I turn, biting my lips together as I nod.
“I’ll add it to your bill, sweetie.”
“Um … thanks.” I submit to the nervous smile revealing my lie as I head out the door.
Her knowing glare pierces my back; I can feel the icy burn of distrust. No sense in hiding my next move, so I throw my shoulders back and saunter across the street. With each step my heart palpates, heating my skin, while long fingers of anxiety strangle my nerves.
The security chime of the front door to Rogue Seduction announces my arrival to both Trick and the raven-haired skeleton in Prada perched on the stool. He’s still working and maybe I should have thought of that. Not everyone works the same unpredictable ER hours that I do. The woman stares at me with what I read as an unwelcoming gaze. Trick, however, doesn’t so much as flinch in acknowledgement of my arrival. I wait for him to say something, but then again, I’m the one who walked through his door. This is a poorly thought-out plan.
Holding up the bottle of conditioner, I shrug with a slight grin. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought …” Either the floor is sinking or I’m having flashbacks of my youth being the unwelcome new kid at school. Either way, I feel an inch tall. “Sorry, I should have called or—”
“Sit,” Trick says with a clipped voice, keeping his full attention on Ms. High Cheekbones and pouty lips.
The repressed part of my personality, the defiant part, puffs out its chest. Maybe I don’t want to sit. Maybe I want to stand and wait. Or maybe I don’t want to wait at all.
“Or stand.” Trick glances back over his shoulder. There it is—the twitch of his lips. Cocky shit! Never did I imagine thinking a guy could look anything but rebellious in makeup, but for the love of all things skin-tingling, breathtaking, and nipple-hardening sexy … Trick in black guyliner makes me crave friction in my girly parts like nothing and no one before.
I swallow. “I think I’ll sit, thank you very much.” Take that!
Trick lines pouty lips with an orangish-red tint that looks surprisingly good on her. Dark eyes hooded in mile-long lashes look me over. I fight the urge to squirm with insecurity, like when the popular kids rolled their eyes over me with scrutiny.
“Beautiful.” I hear a French accent as I look up expecting to see her admiring her reflection. Instead, she’s still staring at me.
“She is,” Trick replies, just inches from her face.
Embarrassment and shock careen through my body, obliterating my ability to respond, or think, or … breathe. These two beautiful people are talking about me … they’re calling me beautiful. It’s … crazy!
Interlacing my fingers, I stare down at my hands while I twiddle my thumbs just like Nana does. I bet my mom did it too.
“You’re a god,” French accent gushes as she stands, leaning into the mirror.
I sneak a peek but look back down as she walks toward the register.
“I’ll see you onsite next week, darling,”
Through the corner of my eye I see Trick nod as he takes the wad of bills from the perfectly manicured hand. She flutters her fingers in a dainty
The choice makes itself. I’m in my red beamer heading south before my brain catches up to what my body has already decided. I’m off to see my new friend—my only friend.
“Shoot! Did I forget to put you into my schedule?” Gemmie asks with concern crinkling the corners of her eyes as she mists hairspray over a young blonde’s wavy hair.
“No, I just need some…” Crap! I have to sell this lie better if I expect always-skeptical Gemmie to buy it. “…conditioner.”
Gemmie’s not buying it as evidenced by her bullshit squint. I look at the products assembled with perfect precision on the glass shelf by the window.
“Third shelf down on the far right.”
I grab the bottle of conditioner.
“Still coming on Saturday?”
I turn, biting my lips together as I nod.
“I’ll add it to your bill, sweetie.”
“Um … thanks.” I submit to the nervous smile revealing my lie as I head out the door.
Her knowing glare pierces my back; I can feel the icy burn of distrust. No sense in hiding my next move, so I throw my shoulders back and saunter across the street. With each step my heart palpates, heating my skin, while long fingers of anxiety strangle my nerves.
The security chime of the front door to Rogue Seduction announces my arrival to both Trick and the raven-haired skeleton in Prada perched on the stool. He’s still working and maybe I should have thought of that. Not everyone works the same unpredictable ER hours that I do. The woman stares at me with what I read as an unwelcoming gaze. Trick, however, doesn’t so much as flinch in acknowledgement of my arrival. I wait for him to say something, but then again, I’m the one who walked through his door. This is a poorly thought-out plan.
Holding up the bottle of conditioner, I shrug with a slight grin. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought …” Either the floor is sinking or I’m having flashbacks of my youth being the unwelcome new kid at school. Either way, I feel an inch tall. “Sorry, I should have called or—”
“Sit,” Trick says with a clipped voice, keeping his full attention on Ms. High Cheekbones and pouty lips.
The repressed part of my personality, the defiant part, puffs out its chest. Maybe I don’t want to sit. Maybe I want to stand and wait. Or maybe I don’t want to wait at all.
“Or stand.” Trick glances back over his shoulder. There it is—the twitch of his lips. Cocky shit! Never did I imagine thinking a guy could look anything but rebellious in makeup, but for the love of all things skin-tingling, breathtaking, and nipple-hardening sexy … Trick in black guyliner makes me crave friction in my girly parts like nothing and no one before.
I swallow. “I think I’ll sit, thank you very much.” Take that!
Trick lines pouty lips with an orangish-red tint that looks surprisingly good on her. Dark eyes hooded in mile-long lashes look me over. I fight the urge to squirm with insecurity, like when the popular kids rolled their eyes over me with scrutiny.
“Beautiful.” I hear a French accent as I look up expecting to see her admiring her reflection. Instead, she’s still staring at me.
“She is,” Trick replies, just inches from her face.
Embarrassment and shock careen through my body, obliterating my ability to respond, or think, or … breathe. These two beautiful people are talking about me … they’re calling me beautiful. It’s … crazy!
Interlacing my fingers, I stare down at my hands while I twiddle my thumbs just like Nana does. I bet my mom did it too.
“You’re a god,” French accent gushes as she stands, leaning into the mirror.
I sneak a peek but look back down as she walks toward the register.
“I’ll see you onsite next week, darling,”
Through the corner of my eye I see Trick nod as he takes the wad of bills from the perfectly manicured hand. She flutters her fingers in a dainty
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