by Leddy Harper
Since I was so young when Wayne came into our lives, I never really knew much about his life before us. But Bree had been able to fill in the blank spots after she came around. I guess her mom was a nightmare, and treated Wayne like shit. She’d told me stories of how her parents couldn’t stand each other. It made me feel bad for my stepdad. He was such an amazing man, so loving and kind, treating us as if we were his own from the very beginning. He deserved someone to love him right, and my mom did just that. They were perfect for each other—the model example of soul mates. So when she died, he was left with nothing. Granted, he wasn’t alone. He still had us girls, but it wasn’t the same. I think I understood that better than my sisters did.
Just because we had each other didn’t mean we didn’t feel alone.
Bree had been busy planning her wedding to Axel, and because of that, she’d spent a lot of time with Clari. Clarissa had gotten married last year, so she was able to help with the planning. The entire thing pissed me off. Our mother had just died, and their lives continued. They laughed and smiled, getting excited over dresses and flowers. Meanwhile, my mother wasn’t around to help celebrate. She hadn’t even been able to congratulate them on their engagement before dying. I hated how their lives went on, how they acted as if Mom’s death never happened. Unfounded bitterness etched its way into my heart, and I’d allowed it to take residence, settle in deep, and then it bled out into other aspects of my life.
In the end, it didn’t matter how close Bree and I once were, or how we’d once upon a time had each other’s backs for everything. She didn’t need me anymore. She had Clari. And Clari had her. I, on the other hand, had no one. So in the middle of February—just a month and a half after my mom had passed away—I made the decision to stop mourning. I needed to get my big-girl panties, pull them all the way up, and say “fuck the world.” If they could move on so easily, so could I. And that’s when I’d made the decision to literally fuck the world. If having a man between my legs, inside me, made me feel something other than pain, made me do something other than cry, then so be it. My sisters had each other, Wayne didn’t want anyone, and I had my Saturday nights.
I guess it’s true what they say: Everyone grieves differently.
Monday morning came, reminding me that I needed to be an adult. I had a job to go to, money to earn, so I got up and started my day like I did every morning during the week. Monday through Friday, I had to act like a mature adult. This pretty much meant I spent five days a week walking around like a zombie, completely emotionless to the life around me. No one at the fancy salon I worked at knew much about my personal life. I’m sure they’d heard rumors, or had seen me out on the weekends, but none of them had ever asked me about it. If they’d heard people talking about me, they never voiced it. The girls in the salon didn’t treat me any different. Inside that space, I was one of them.
I loved the salon for one reason, and that was because I could pretend to be someone I wasn’t. I could pretend to be busy, masking my sadness, and no one was the wiser. I could feel dead on the inside, yet wear a smile on my face. I became the physical example of the saying, “check your baggage at the door” while at work. Once I stepped through that door, I left the grief outside, and the tears, and the need to lose myself one night a week. It’s the only thing that got me through each day.
But what had started out as any other day, quickly fell apart. Halfway through my shift, I had a walk-in. It wasn’t an unusual thing to have—I’d typically have about three a week needing a trim between my appointments. There were a couple of the new stylists that hadn’t built up a base yet, so they normally took the last-minute cuts, but if I had the time, I didn’t mind doing it. Except, this wasn’t a normal walk-in. And it made me wonder if it’d been fate that he just so happened to come in when I had a break in my schedule.
“What are you doing here?” I asked in shock after rounding the corner to come face to face with Bentley. The same Bentley who was supposed to have gone back home to his family the day before.
“I need my hair washed.”
“Okay, and you don’t have a shower where you’re from?” My voice was tense and harsh. I hadn’t expected to see him again, and finding him standing in my salon in front of me came as quite a shock.
He smiled at me, even though my lips were pressed in a hard line, finding no humor in this situation at all. “Yes, I have a shower. But I wanted to see you. Is that okay? I mean, I can go…”
Marlo, the owner of the salon, stood behind the counter, glaring at me with unspoken threats flashing in her bright eyes. She only had a few rules, and one of those was to treat every client as if they were the most important person that ever walked the earth. She didn’t have to say anything for me to know she didn’t appreciate my attitude toward Bentley. And I wasn’t about to explain.
“No, don’t go. I can wash your hair. Follow me.” I turned my back to him, leading him into the main galley of the salon where we had the sink basins. “I really don’t understand why you needed to come here.”
“I just wanted to see you.”
“How’d you know I work here?”
“You told me you were a hairstylist the other night. There’s only like three places in this town to get a haircut. Finding you wasn’t that difficult.”
I ignored the thought of him out looking for me, and instead said, “I thought you were leaving. Was that a lie? Was any of what you said the other night the truth?” I made sure to keep my harsh tone low, not wanting to draw attention from anyone around us, especially my boss.
He leaned toward me, concern showing in his furrowed brow. “Nothing I said was a lie, Sarah. I was supposed to leave yesterday. But I couldn’t seem to get you off my mind, and I realized I couldn’t go home just yet.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” he asked, staring intently into my eyes which caused my stomach to do somersaults. “Why were you on my mind? Because I think you’re selling yourself short, and that bothers me. Why couldn’t I leave yet? Because I can’t find it within me to walk away from you when you clearly need someone.”
“I don’t need you.”
“So you’ve said. But guess what, Sarah? I don’t care what you say. You wouldn’t tell me the truth, anyway. I have a feeling you’re so used to hiding the truth and telling lies to everyone, that you don’t even know the difference anymore.”
“Have a seat.” I needed distance from him, so I backed away, pointed to the chair, and lowered my eyes to the sink to avoid his gaze. His words struck me like daggers to my heart. The way he pinpointed my exact feelings terrified me. I wanted to tell him to leave and never come back, but just the thought of sending him away stole the air from my lungs.
I grabbed a towel from the closet and rolled it up behind his head, guiding his neck to the dip in the basin. At least he wouldn’t be able to see me from where I stood behind him, so he wouldn’t be able to witness the immense turmoil I’m sure riddled my face.
My mind twisted with confusion and my stomach fluttered with unexpected excitement. I didn’t understand any of it. A complete stranger had managed to pull things from me that I didn’t even know were there. That night we’d spent together, just talking, had been intoxicating, and it had left me wanting more. But once the moment passed and I was able to think clearly again, I realized it’d been nothing more than a fog that had settled around me. As soon as that fog lifted, I no longer wanted him. The desire to have him with me, or to talk to him about everything, had faded. So why did I feel relieved to see him? Why did my insides seemingly illuminate like it’d been taken over by a swarm of lightning bugs when I realized he hadn’t gone back home?
I turned the water on, checking the temperature before soaking his hair. “So what was your plan? Come see me and then go back home?” I ran my fingers through the dark strands of hair on the top of his head. They were long, as if styled after a faux-hawk, but I hadn’t seen him wear it that way. Both times I’d seen his hair—Saturday night and th
en again today—he’d worn it down and to one side, lying over the short hairs on the side of his head, leaving the other side and back visible. I thought it seemed rather punk rock, which was a little out of place in this neck of the woods. We were more country out here—southern. But I couldn’t stop focusing on the way his hair felt between my fingers in order to form enough words to ask about where he was actually from.
“I don’t really have a plan.” His admission brought me back to the present, realizing I’d been stroking his hair long enough. If I didn’t pull it together, this would end up being the longest shampoo in history. “I haven’t thought much past seeing you.”
“Don’t you have horses to train? A family that’s expecting you? I’m sure they wouldn’t be too happy to hear that you’re delaying your return for some slutty girl you met at a bar.” I pumped a few squirts of shampoo into my palm and began to run it through his hair, massaging his scalp with my fingertips as I worked up the lather. I focused on my job instead of the client, hoping my brain could disconnect my feelings for him and make him just another person in my chair.
“They know where I’m at, and they understand.” The longer I shampooed him, the quieter and slower his words grew. “And I think…you should…give yourself more credit…than being a slutty girl…at a bar,” he finished saying, his voice becoming deep and desperate.
I pulled my attention from his head to his lap, noticing how he kept fidgeting in his seat, appearing to be uncomfortable. No one had ever complained about the chairs before, always saying how they’re the most comfortable seats in any salon they’d ever been to. They were, after all, the most expensive on the market. But I quickly realized that his shifting hadn’t been due to the comfort of the chairs at all. No. He awkwardly adjusted his leg, shifting it over the other knee, attempting to hide the bulge in his faded jeans. It made me smile. It also made me massage his scalp deeper, really giving it to him.
I leaned closer to his ear, never letting up on the pressure of my fingertips, and seductively said, “Since you seem to know me so well, why don’t you tell me how I should see myself.”
He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat once more, finally throwing his clasped hands in his lap—even though that did nothing to hide the impressive imprint that protruded against his thigh. That one visual told me so much about what he had beneath his clothes, and it made my mouth water.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” I teased with a giggle, letting him know I was aware of how much I affected him.
“You’re really good at this,” he said breathlessly.
He was so hard to read at times, and so easy at others. Like right now, I knew how turned on he was just from my touch—and not even a sexual touch—yet I couldn’t tell if he felt ashamed at me knowing, or if it didn’t bother him. I’d practically thrown myself at him Saturday night, letting him know I didn’t want the night to end, but he turned me down. Now, here he was in my salon, my hands running through his hair, and somehow, I felt as if he’d still turn me down if I came on to him, even though his desire for me was evident.
“I’m good at a lot of things, Bentley.” I forced myself to stop the massage and turn on the water to wash the shampoo out. “Would you prefer it if I used cold water to rinse your hair? You seem like you might need it.”
My eyes widened in shock and my breath caught in my throat when I caught him gripping himself through his jeans, adjusting his position once more in his seat. His brazen action threw me for a loop—I completely did not expect that.
“Use whatever temperature you want, Sarah. I can handle it.”
Oh my God. It became my turn to shift uncomfortably where I stood, feeling my lady parts burn with need by the tone of his rugged voice. The insinuations that came from his response lit a fire in my panties unlike anything I’d ever felt before. And the smirk that rose on his lips let me know he was aware of it. Damn him.
In my rebelliousness, I turned the water all the way to hot, knowing just how scalding it could get, and quickly began to rinse out the suds from his hair. I’d only intended to douse him with it at first, but quickly became sidetracked, forgetting all about the temperature of the water. He flinched a few times and squeezed his eyes shut, but my focus wouldn’t remain on his face like I knew it should. I’d been taught to read a client’s expression while rinsing their hair. It was the easiest way to tell how they felt about the temperature of the water. And even though I’d noticed his wincing, I couldn’t form enough thought to adjust it. My attention became glued to his jeans, to his large, manly hands clasped tight over his groin, to the impressive outline along his thigh. I wanted to see it, feel it…I fantasized about tasting it.
“Sarah…”
I didn’t know how many times he’d said my name before it registered in my brain, but when it finally did, I shifted my gaze to his face, noticing he’d tilted his head back and could see my eyes. He knew what I’d been looking at. He’d caught me. And the flames of my embarrassment burned my neck, licking its way up my cheeks.
I quickly shut off the water and blinked rapidly, shaking my head. My throat worked hard to swallow past the giant lump that felt stuck in my esophagus. My reaction seemed completely foreign to me, considering I wasn’t the type of girl to become flustered over things like this. I knew how to handle myself, and how to play the game better than most men. It’s how I had them eating out of the palm of my hand when I chose to go out and play. But Bentley had a way of twisting everything up for me. He threw me for a loop and didn’t fall in line like the rest of them. He’d managed to get me to open up to him when all I ever did was shut down. He—briefly—made me yearn to have someone to talk to, to hold me, to be there for me. And now, he had me embarrassed and rattled over something I typically excelled in—sex. I’d had the upper hand in the situation, but he’d effortlessly stolen it from me and caught me off guard.
“Yeah?” I finally asked, clearing my throat in the hopes it would calm me down some. I didn’t want him to see me that way—he’d already seen me vulnerable and crying; he didn’t need to witness my embarrassment as well.
“I know I said I could handle whatever temperature you wanted, but I didn’t mean it’d be okay to give me third-degree burns.” The corners of his lips were curled up, letting me know his words were meant to tease me, but I knew better. His previous flinching proved that I had, in fact, burned him, so I could only assume his playful manner was meant to spare my feelings. And that only served to make him even more confusing to me. He’d make a bold statement by grabbing himself, only to ease my distress by making a joke of how I’d burned him.
“I’m so sorry, Bentley. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“You’re fine. Maybe we both need the cold water.”
I smirked and rolled my eyes as I turned my back to him. I needed the conditioner, which sat on the counter behind the sinks, but I also needed a moment to breathe. I needed the space to clear my head, calm my erratic pulse, and lose the burning sensation that had taken over my face. Before pumping the conditioner in my palm, I grabbed a towel from the cabinet above, and tossed it at him over my shoulder. The deep rumble of his chuckle filtered through the air, masking the music playing through the speakers, and fell upon me like a calming touch.
Once I fully turned back around, ready to give him another rubdown, I noticed he understood my reason for giving him the towel. He had it in a rumpled ball in his lap, covering the distractive part of his body that kept me from doing my job right.
“Sorry about that.” He shifted again, seeming to be more comfortable in his seat. “I can’t say that’s ever happened before.”
“How often do you get your hair washed?”
“Well, I wash it all the time in the shower.” He laughed, knowing that wasn’t what I’d meant by my question, and it caused his chest to shake. “But I’ve never gone somewhere to have it washed. In fact, I’ve never stepped foot inside an actual salon before. I usually go to the cheap places in strip malls when I n
eed a cut, and they usually just wet it with a spray bottle. I must admit, though, this is kinda nice, except for the hot water part.”
“A decent scalp massage is good for hair growth, too.” I was glad he could no longer see my face, because it twisted with humiliation once the words were out. I had no idea why I’d said that, other than it was proof of just how inside out he had turned me. It was as if he caused me comfort and discomfort at the same time. Which made absolutely no sense at all. I desperately wanted to get to the root of it so I could make it go away. Either that, or he needed to go away.
“Good to know. Although it seems to be rather damaging in other ways.”
“A lot of people become…affected like that when their scalp is massaged. It just means you have erogenous zones there. But I can’t say I’ve ever seen proof of that before. It actually strokes my ego a bit.” My throat grew tight when I said “strokes,” causing me to think of something else other than my ego.
“Why would it boost your ego? I’m fairly certain you’re aware of your effect on men.” He’d said so much without putting it into words. It was an implication about how we’d met, what I’d been doing when he found me in the bar. I’d admitted to him that I was a sexual person, and had no shame in it, yet it seemed as though he felt compelled to speak of it in a sensitive manner.
“My goal in life is to be the Adele of hair, in every aspect. You’ve proven to me that I’m one hell of a shampooer.” I wore a grin on my face that he couldn’t see, but I’m sure he heard it in my voice. “So that at least lets me know I’m one step closer to reaching my goal.”
“What exactly is an Adele of hair?” His brow furrowed and his eyes closed as soon as I turned the water back on to rinse out the conditioner—this time, testing the temperature first.