by Susan Stoker
Author Note
Cut Above The Rest: A #UofJ Prequel by Alley Ciz
Author Note:
Cut Above The Rest is a #UofJ Prequel. It is a short story about how E and Bette met and fell in love. For those of you who have read me before, fear not, this short story is pure happiness. I’ve shelved my evilness for this one! If I’m new to you…welcome to my crazy.
XOXO Alley
1
Eric
Sonofabitch!
Sunlight does its best to dig into my brain, and I’m cursing both myself for not shutting the blinds and that last shot—or four—of tequila I accepted.
“I’m never drinking again,” I vow, rolling over with a groan only to end up on the floor.
What the hell?
The pounding in my temples intensifies like I was tackled by an entire defensive line. I wiggle my nose like I’m that chick in those old episodes of Bewitched I used to watch with Moms Taylor when she was sick. Good. I don’t think it’s broken.
Flopping an arm around, I mutter another curse when I rock my hand against something hard. What the…
With the least amount of movement that is physically possible, I peel one eyelid open to find a Solo-cup-riddled coffee table. Why am I in the living room when I have a room upstairs?
My cheek makes a saroompf sound as it peels away from the sticky beer-coated hardwood. Gross. After a party, the floors of any frat or sports house on campus are a literal ground zero of disgusting-ness. I’m going to need a tetanus shot or penicillin after getting up close and personal with things no human being should.
Planting my hands under me, I push up into a plank position, flipping around onto my ass with zero grace. If my sister Kay were here, she’d be bent over laughing at me. The brat lives for torturing me and any chance to see me knocked down a peg. It’s a damn good thing I love her.
Little pinprick-like brushes trickle down my face and into my nose, causing me to sneeze. I swat away the sensation, jerking around with another stab of pain to the brain, trying to find what is falling on me.
With a groan that sounds more like a tortoise trying to get jiggy with it than an elite Division 1 athlete, I fold over, cupping my face in my now-grime-coated palms and massage my temples.
The fuck!
With a jolt, I slap around the left side of my head, convinced it’s my hangover manifesting itself into physical delusions. The roaring inside my skull rivals that of the crowd in Beaver Stadium yesterday. The Penn State Nittany Lions crushed the Ohio State Buckeyes in last night’s conference matchup—hence the hangover from hell.
That’s not the point.
Gentling my movements, I obsessively smooth my palms over my head, the left side most definitely shorter than the right.
Acid and those tequila shots swirl in my gut dangerously, and I cover my mouth in a futile attempt to hold back Mr. Jose Cuervo from making a reappearance. I’m on my feet and two steps toward the downstairs bathroom when it registers that my palm is coated in…fur.
NO!
Not fur.
HAIR.
My palm is covered with inch-long blond hairs.
MY HAIR!
Somebody is going to die.
Rage and the aftereffects of overindulging make my vision blurry as I stumble my way down the hallway, my bulky frame knocking into the walls like I’m in a game of pinball.
I’m momentarily blinded as I flip on the light, the sharp edge of the vanity’s counter offering zilch in terms of comfort as I stagger into the small powder room.
Spots dance in my vision before I finally get it to focus. “AHH!” I scream, followed by a crash. I let out another shout, and this one sounds like it should have come from Kay’s pint-sized body and not my massive six-six, collegiate-football-playing self.
Cold and wet, my ass is officially stuck in the toilet—literally.
2
Eric
“Oh em gee, E!” The tinkling sounds of my little sister’s laughter instantly soothe my anger at Hector to a mild simmer. “I gotta say”—she circles a finger in the air before bringing it to her right eyebrow—“this is at least better than the last time you were shaved in your sleep.”
I slap a hand over my own, and the video of our FaceTime call goes wonky as Kay falls over. When it straightens out, it’s JT, her lifelong best friend, who is the one holding the phone.
“Did you ever look up if we could return her?” he asks, also touching his eyebrow.
Two years ago, while our families were vacationing together in Mexico, JT and I had the brilliant idea to collect a few of the miniature lizards we saw around the resort and stick them under the covers of our sisters’ beds. We thought it was hilarious. Kay and Tessa…not so much. It took five months—count them: FIVE—for our eyebrows to grow back after the girls shaved them off.
I’m almost two whole feet bigger than my sister, but that chick scares me.
I shake my head. “You know Dad would never let me get away with that.”
JT sighs. “Neither would Pops.”
We may not be blood, but that doesn’t make us any less of a family. Our dads were best friends growing up, and that tradition is carrying on into the next generation.
“Suck it, losers.” Kay pushes herself off of JT, sticking her tongue out at the screen and batting JT’s arm away when he goes to pull her into a headlock.
I probably video-chat with my family more than your average college freshman, but it’s times like these, seeing the teasing and virtually participating, that I feel homesick.
“Please tell me you’re going to use your one day off to get that”—Kay circles her finger at me again—“fixed today? It’s embarrassing enough being your sister when you’re Becky with the good hair.”
Any bit of irritability lingering around from this morning melts away. “You’re such a smartass.” I’d question why she would even know the Lemonade reference, but she’s always been up to date on her pop culture references given that her teammates on her cheer team The Admirals range from thirteen at the youngest (Kay and JT) up to high school seniors. “And…umm…how am I an embarrassment?”
“Thank you.” She winks and dusts her shoulder off. See what I mean? Even the outdated ones she knows. “And you fumbled yesterday.” Her expression turns serious before cracking into a smile. “Em-ba-rrass-ing,” she adds with a singsong lilt.
My phone dings, the notification banner dropping down to remind me of the haircut appointment I was able to snag at the local salon. “Listen, Squirt.” I smooth a hand over my lopsided hair. “I gotta go.”
“Oh, wait!” JT grunts as she drops the phone and jumps over the back of the couch, running out of the room. By the time JT has the phone in hand, Kay is back. “I got you this.” She opens a blue t-shirt and spreads it out in front of JT’s face, the words Cheer Bro written in white with the O printed as a football.
“I love it.” Genuinely I do. Funny shirts are her thing. No one is better at picking one to match a person’s personality than Kay. If Dad is guilty of spoiling her in any way, it’s indulging the punny wardrobe—though, in his defense, he probably ends up buying more articles of clothing for other people than for Kay herself. Exhibit A: my new shirt. I can only imagine what she’s going to end up getting Hector for his haircutting prank skills.
3
Bette
Hair and makeup have been my life since I was given a Styling Head Barbie by my aunt when I was six. Even before I had the emotional maturity to understand, it was the joy of helping others feel like their best self that attracted me to it, and my course in life was set—I wanted to be like Aunt AnnMarie when I grew up.
Like anyone with a dream, I did everything I could to make sure it would come true one day. I shadowed my aunt in her salon and worked every job I could from receptionist to shampoo girl until I earned my cosmetology license when I turned eighteen.
I have the foundation; now all I need is the business degree. It’s why I moved across the state and enrolled
as a freshman at Penn State University.
Though I miss the familiarity of my aunt’s salon, it’s been easy for me to transition into Mane Event, where I work now. Located close to the PSU campus and with a majority of the staff fellow college students or recent graduates, it’s been a mostly ideal situation.
There is one thing that can suck—Sundays. The day can be hit or miss thanks to the bulk of our clientele sleeping off their hangovers if there was a big party the night before.
From the gossip this morning, I learned the Nittany Lions won their football game, but outside of understanding that they play on a field and score touchdowns, I don’t know a thing about football. Having been born and raised in Pittsburgh, my dad will tell you that’s a crying shame.
Despite the general lack of clients, the morning flew by into the early afternoon. Guy, the other stylist with appointments in his book besides myself, has kept both me and Laura, the salon’s receptionist, entertained with some of his more outlandish stories from his night out. I honestly don’t know how he does it. I’m tired just hearing about how he partied it up at one of the fraternities on campus.
Miss Dottie, the feisty eighty-year-old in a hot pink velour tracksuit with hair to match, is one of Guy’s regulars and is currently dishing out advice on how best to “catch the eye of a young stud”. She comes in after church every Sunday, claiming she prayed there so now it’s time to sin vicariously through “us youngins”.
“What about you, Bette?” Miss Dottie asks, waving a hand at the empty coloring chair next to her for me to join her.
“What about me?” I return cautiously. Don’t let her age or her churchgoing ways fool you—Miss Dottie lives for raising a little hell.
“Have you taken a ride on the Bony Express lately?”
My sinuses burn as I snort coffee out through my nose. “Miss Dottie,” I sputter, as if scandalized. I’m not. I’m more than used to her lack of filter. I’m also beyond thankful for the all-black dress code that will hide the mess I’ve made of myself.
“What?” Her shoulders shrug underneath the Penn State-blue salon cape. “Honey, if I looked the way you do”—she makes a point of checking me out—“I’d be banging my way through those fine-as-fuck athletes at your school.”
Thankfully I refrained from taking another sip of my coffee. If I hadn’t, my nasal cavity would have suffered another assault. I don’t know what is more amusing: the fact that I’m being encouraged to “sow all the wild oats” or that an octogenarian used the phrase fine as fuck.
The bell on the front door jingles as someone enters the salon. I jump out of the chair like I’m a damn jack-in-the-box, grateful for the fortuitous timing of my next appointment.
“Oh, honey…our prayers have been answered.” Miss Dottie clasps her hands in front of her faux piously.
“Ask and you shall receive.” Guy tacks on the proverb like they’re two peas in a perpetually horny pod.
“Bette, sweetheart, you better go climb that boy like a tree.” I’m sure Miss Dottie thinks she’s whispering, but it’s a stage-whisper at best. Thank God we turned up the volume on Spotify earlier when we switched over to Michael Jackson.
I can’t tell if it’s the potential of somebody overhearing Miss Dottie or the current trigger of inappropriate behavior that’s making my cheeks heat. Holy crap! Miss Dottie had the tree reference correct, but this purveyor of hotness is anything but a boy. Nope, he’s all man.
At five-nine, I’ve always found myself drawn to taller guys, but this one? Damn if he wouldn’t tower over me.
Busy speaking with Laura, he’s completely unaware of the inappropriate lusting he’s inspiring. Oh my damn. Every one of my girly parts—and few others not wanting to be left out of the action—swoon like my favorite black and white GIF when he smiles. He should have to carry a license for that thing.
I haven’t moved, and if I thought a drive-by smile was enough to have me wanting to toss my panties like I’m a groupie at a Birds of Prey concert, when he lifts his crazy light eyes my way, I know I’m officially screwed. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Miss Dottie cackles in my subconscious at the idea that I might mean that literally.
4
Eric
Before my impromptu haircut, I had been long overdue for one. Between trying to prove myself on the team to earn a starting spot as a freshman and all the other requirements that come with football, not to mention managing my academic responsibilities, little things like hair maintenance fell to the wayside.
Mane Event is nothing like the simple barbershop I frequented back in Jersey. It was only thanks to a Google search that I was able to find this place. It’s not overly girly or anything. The black, white, and chrome decor feels more unisex-modern with its occasional pop of Penn State blue in its accents.
Still…a part of me feels a bit out of place standing here with my hands shoved into the front pouch of my PSU Football hoodie.
I get myself checked in by the receptionist, dutifully following her as she waves me in, only to come to an abrupt stop at the sight of the woman she explains will be my hairstylist.
Holy fumbles, Batman!
While the receptionist is pretty, this woman…is…exquisite. She’s tall and toned, with long limbs I yearn to have wrapped around my body. Her legs…fuck, her legs are shown off to perfection in painted-on black skinny jeans, the denim ripped strategically above her black leather knee-high boots. A simple black V-neck tee hugs the curves of her torso, giving just enough of a peek at her cleavage to tempt, and the way it’s tucked into the high waist of her pants only emphasizes how much it nips in.
As I work my way back up to her face and past the shiny lips with the perfect teardrop in the center, I realize I’m not the only one transfixed and frozen in place—except she seems more deer-in-the-headlights versus my you-can-have-anything-you-want-all-you-have-to-do-is-ask.
“Bette, your 12:30 is here,” the receptionist says, breaking us out of our stare-down.
Bette.
Somehow the name seems fitting for the beauty blinking denim-blue eyes at me.
“Thanks, Laura.” Bette smiles at the receptionist, holding out a hand for me to shake as she officially introduces herself.
“Nice to meet you,” I return, stroking my thumb across her knuckles. “I’m Eric, but everyone I’m close to calls me E.”
“Ooo, honey, you better call him E if it means you get to be close to him.”
Bette’s cheeks flame red as I drop my gaze to the woman having the Pepto Bismol color of her hair refreshed in a salon chair nearby.
“Yup,” the man applying the hair dye agrees with a flourish.
“You two stay out of this,” Bette hisses out of the side of her mouth, that blush working its way down her neck.
“There you go again…ignoring my decades’ worth of experience.” The gentle smile and deepening of the crinkles near the old woman’s eyes soften the scold into grandmotherly affection.
“It’s why she Netflix and Jills”—the male stylist holds up his gloved hand and wiggles his pink-dye-coated fingers—“on the weekends instead of Netflix and chills.”
I cough. I’ve spent a good portion of my life inside locker rooms, but this sly innuendo about the beautiful Bette masturbating has me close to choking to death on my saliva.
“Jesus,” Bette mutters, massaging the tips of her elegant fingers into her forehead.
A surge of protectiveness flares inside me at the sight of her embarrassment, and I’m thinking a change of subject is in order. “So…” Lifting the blue ball cap I put on earlier to hide the train wreck on my head, I run a hand over the wonky locks. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to fix this clusterfuck.”
Bette’s blue eyes go cartoon-character wide, and like earlier with my sister, a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. A hum of She’s special sings in my veins.
“Oh my god!” The sweet scent of apples invades my senses as Bette steps into my personal space, my body coming alive
at her nearness. She lifts her arms, bringing a hand to either side of my head and combing her fingers through my uneven hair. The soft scrape of her nails along my scalp has sparks of awareness chasing down my spine and straight to my dick. Instantly I regret wearing joggers instead of jeans.
“Being a freshman on the team has its pitfalls.” I shrug, shifting back to avoid any accidental body brushes.
Those eyes drop to the football screen-printed over the center of my chest, eyebrows winging up when they do. “You’re saying one of your teammates did this to you?” I nod. “I’m tempted to give you a shampoo bottle filled with Nair. It’s a crime to cut hair this gorgeous all willy-nilly.” She hasn’t stopped combing her fingers through said hair, not that I’m complaining. “We can’t allow this to go unpunished.” The utter seriousness in her tone is adorable.
“We?” It’s my turn to arch a brow, and I’m not sure which I like more: the way that blush blooms again across her skin or how she automatically made us a we. It’s the latter—definitely the latter.
“Umm—that’s not—I mean…”
“Don’t backtrack now, honey. Own that shit and maybe let him own you too.”
“Miss Dottie,” Bette hisses, now full-on Jersey-tomato red. Me? I’m seconds away from raising my hand and volunteering myself as tribute, fully on board with that plan.
Slender fingers wrap around my wrist, my skin prickling at the skin-to-skin contact when they slip under where the cuff of my sweatshirt’s sleeve has risen up my forearm. If Bette notices how my pulse races like it’s game day and I just ran in a sixty-yard touchdown, I wouldn’t know; she only tugs at my arm, and I follow obediently to the bank of sinks in another section of the salon.
Bette instructs me to take a seat, suggesting I remove my hoodie first to avoid it getting wet. The bottom of the t-shirt underneath lifts with the removal, and I have to bite back a smirk at the way her gaze tracks to the strip of exposed skin. She’s all coy with Miss Dottie’s naughty suggestions, but I recognize desire when I see it.