Who says love makes the world go ’round? Money, power and favors was more like it. Those gumdrops, for instance. Could I put a price on them? Not individually. No doubt they were normally part of a froofy twenty-course meal. Even if he paid for the stupid little jellies, he’d probably burned one massive favor to obtain them, as well. To what end, though? Sure, Ralph likes to make an impression. But why waste it buttering up the staff?
The lighting shifted from out front as a receptionist flicked on the overheads and began readying the waiting room for the morning’s clientele. Ralph stood up and glanced through the glass at his domain, and the rest of us pushed away from the table. I lobbed the origami box into the trash, and was already at the door when Ralph added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and in the spirit of technical excellence, I’ll be bringing in a dedicated colorist to the staff. He starts tomorrow.”
What?
I whirled around to ask him if he’d swallowed too much absinthe jelly that morning, but he didn’t meet my eye. Somehow, I reined in my fury. Pilar had gone still again, I noticed. One of the oblivious Juniors declared Ralph’s announcement “fa-bulous,” and the others all chimed in.
Figuring I’d only be shooting myself in the foot if I mouthed off now, especially in front of the other stylists, I decided to give myself some time to think on what I’d say to Ralph about this whole “colorist” business. Maybe words wouldn’t even be necessary while I was wringing his goddamn neck.
Chapter 2
Since I had an eleven o’clock touch-up and a twelve-fifteen cut, I’d calmed down considerably by the time I finally cornered Ralph. Unfortunately, it also meant my anger had shifted into something that felt distinctly vulnerable. Ralph made money no matter which of his employees did what, but me, I earned my biggest tips doing color. Between credit cards and rent and car payment, I’d be sunk without those tips. For the duration of Square Days, it was a mere inconvenience. Permanently, though? No can do.
Ralph was scowling over his laptop when I closed his door behind me, not with a slam, but a gentle click. He half-glanced at me and said, “Square Days are non-negotiable, Mr. Ash.”
I crossed my arms and made a scoff-noise. “You think that’s what pissed me off?”
After a few moments of me not budging, Ralph steepled his fingers and graced me with his full attention. “No?” he asked with exaggerated patience. “Then indulge me. What’s on your mind?”
“You can’t skim off my best clients and toss them to someone else.” Blunt? Sure. But I’ve always thought bluntness was one of my better qualities.
Too bad telling your boss he “can’t” do something has so much potential to backfire. I could see the shift in Ralph’s eyes as he realized I’d come to butt heads, and especially that I wasn’t gonna back down. He liked it when I was spicy, not unpalatable, and the line between the two was constantly shifting.
I didn’t backpedal, exactly. But when his body language told me I was treading on dangerous ground, I did soften my approach. “You know that’s where all the tips are.”
Ralph indicated a chair with his eyes. I briefly considered towering over him for the sake of making my point, but in the end, I chose to sit. He said, “Our new hire is a certified specialist from the American Color Institute. Having him on staff bumps up the entire salon. Imagine this: a forty-five minute cut who tips like a two-hour color. Now multiply it by the heads you do in a week.”
“That’s future-talk. I’m looking at next month.”
“Really? Are you sure? I sign your paychecks and I can guess your tips. Unless you’ve got a coke habit I don’t know about, a lean month shouldn’t kill you.” What I had was an overpriced pad that cost a cool two grand and a car payment that made me wince. Not to mention a newfound love of the Limoncello Collins, a cocktail that went for at least twelve bucks, plus tip—and I took great pride in being a generous tipper. “Just hang in there,” he said. “Pretty soon, for far less work, you’ll be bringing in more dollars.”
Or, I could go find another salon that was hiring and take all my clients with me. I knew better than to threaten, though. Ralph might come off all charming smiles and absinthe gumdrops. But I could tell just by looking at him, if I ever backed him into a corner, he’d show his true stripes. And they wouldn’t be pretty.
He was starting to get irritated with me too, but that didn’t mean I was willing to let the matter drop. I kept everything as neutral as I could possibly make it—my voice, my posture, and especially my face, as I tried to gauge whether I should appeal to his vanity or his sympathy. “There must be something we can work out.”
Ralph’s annoyance shifted all right, but not in the way I expected. One minute he was all business and condescension, and the next, his Vibe was through the roof.
Pilar claims she’s blind to Vibe—but come on, that’s not possible. The “let’s be more than friends” look is as plain as the nose on someone’s face…or plainer, depending on how much work they’ve had done. She’s dumbfounded that there’s a facial expression that’s completely invisible to her. And I don’t buy that she’s never on the receiving end of it. Plenty of folks dig a little cushion for the pushin’. “Is it like a smile?” she often wondered—and yeah, sometimes it was. But some guys had Vibes so serious you’d swear their pet hamster just got stepped on. Maybe it was more in the length of eye contact. Or maybe it was how they moved, since I’d scoured Google plenty of times to give her a perfect example, only to find a bunch of posed and lifeless jpgs. Spotting the Vibe was like artistic nudity versus porn: I might not be able to tag it with a definition, but I knew it when I saw it. And Ralph was sporting some classic Vibe.
I sprawled back in my seat, gazed at Ralph evenly over the expanse of his desk. Square Days was one day of discomfort and lost wages, but this new colorist was a dealbreaker. There had to be some way to get him to reconsider.
The Vibe intensified—flashing eyes and a tuck of the chin in this particular instance. Maybe that’s an Italian thing, or maybe it’s just Ralph. “When’s your next client?” he asked—and even his voice was Vibing.
“Ten minutes—if that clock’s right.”
Ralph’s mouth quirked into a naughty smile and his dark eyes twinkled. Apparently he saw the time limit as a challenge rather than a constraint. He rounded the desk and sank down between my knees. When I didn’t reach for my belt buckle fast enough, he did it for me. “You’ve only got ten minutes,” he told me. “So you’d better start convincing me.”
I’d hoped to convince him by arguing logical points, not stroking his dick. But I couldn’t really afford to land myself on his shit list.
I sat very still, just watching him, until he hesitated. I allowed the threat of my stillness to imply the possibility that maybe he’d crossed a line. Imagine, him mashing on an employee in an unwelcome advance. He’d be in deep shit. But before he could experience more than the preliminary spike of panic at the thought that he’d misjudged the situation, I grabbed him by the hair and jammed his face between my legs.
I enjoy being fantasy fodder. Who doesn’t? Once in a while, though, I worried I might take things too far. Sour the mood. Say or do something a little too nasty. But even without the Vibe to go by, what with Ralph’s mouth grinding against my half-open fly, I could tell I was rocking his world by the way he grabbed at his crotch to reposition his sudden, startling boner.
Most people establish dominance by showboating and making lots of noise. I find my point hits home better when I make people strain to hear me, the epitome of calm. “Did I say you could touch yourself?” I murmured. Ralph’s breath huffed in and I knew I’d hit the nerve on the first try. “Don’t be stingy. Both hands on me. And your slutty mouth, too.”
I’m a giver. It took some mental maneuvering to sit there and do nothing but raise my hips while he yanked down my jeans. It took even more restraint to censor myself from telling him his mouth felt pretty darn sweet. I’m chatty, both in and out of bed. Normally I’d be moaning a
nd groaning and singing his praises. Maybe Ralph was just sick enough of brown-nosing that he didn’t need any kudos in the sack. Or maybe he just knew he was good.
He lavished his whole focus on me, sucking, stroking, moaning with delight around the girth of my stiffening dick. And then he sucked even harder.
Yes. There it was, only moments later, the glimmer of release, beckoning me. In the background, the noise of the salon—phones, hairdryers, the rise and fall of conversation—only spurred me on. The Spanish Fly magic came from knowing we were one unlocked door away from company. Anyone could barge in: a customer, a health inspector, even Ralph’s mom, looking to see if he could fit her in for a quick touch-up.
“Like that dick?” I asked. “Huh?”
He replied with something that sounded like hohmiwa, punctuated by the prod of my hard-on, and my hand floated toward his face to stroke his cheek. At the last second I caught myself and grabbed hold of his hair instead. I was so close now that I could say basically anything without killing my own buzz. And maybe the thought of putting arrogant Ralph in his place even made my grand finale loom that much larger. “That’s it, take it. Take it deep. Don’t even think about being selfish, don’t you dare.”
Gargling his approval, he went at me even harder. My tipping point was close—and Ralph’s was too. He didn’t want me to noodle him between the thighs, though. He wanted me to tickle the lurid corners of his brain. He wanted raunch. “Is that all you got?” I snarled—as if I wasn’t ready to pop. “Come on, you dirty little slut. Don’t hold back. Do it. Do it right.”
He warbled around my dick and dropped one hand between his own legs, chafing the outside of his slacks with the heel of his palm.
“Did I say you could touch yourself, cocksucker?”
He hesitated—too much? No, didn’t feel like it. He was definitely still in the groove. But he ignored that comment and kept on rubbing himself, so I let it slide. “Look at you, Mr. Big Shot, down on your knees. Just the way you like it. Slut.” He lost his rhythm because I’d hit the magic button that had sent him into a frenzy.
No way could I last with Ralph gobbling my dick like that, so I let loose with whatever popped into my mind while I savored all my pent up frustrations coalescing into a delicious ache deep down inside. “You call that a blowjob? Huh? You call that a fucking blowjob?” So close. So incredibly close. Just a little more. “Suck…my…cock, bitch.”
He yanked my balls and sucked so hard it hurt—and oh my God… “I’m coming,” I gasped. He pulled off just in time for me to spurt while he jacked me. His grip was ruthless on my spit-slick shaft. It dredged up a load from the very bottom of my balls and sent it flying over his shoulder.
Once I’d shot myself dry, Ralph stood and let me collapse back in the chair. I breathed shakily. His eyes held mine with a gaze so intense I couldn’t have looked away even if I’d wanted to. Not smiling, but somehow pleased. He loomed over me, looking down, while I sprawled there like a wrung-out towel. With one hand, he reached into his pants. A few quick strokes was all it took. He sighed. His gaze softened, and the hint of a smile teased the corners of his mouth. I felt myself smile in return. I may not always agree with Ralph, but once I get my rocks off, everyone’s my best friend. I chalk it up to endorphins.
“You’re always so much fun,” he said as he reached out to stroke my cheek—or so I thought. I was too post-eruption logy to turn away in time before he brushed a smear of jiz across my lower lip. What the hell? The one time I’d dared come in his mouth, he’d read me the riot act. When he turned to grab a tissue off his desk, I knuckled his spooge away. Maybe I was generous with my charms, but that didn’t mean I was a free-for-all.
Ralph shoved the tissue down his pants, swabbed it around, then pulled it out and lobbed into the wastebasket. With absolutely zero pretense that my actual haircutting skills had earned me some special consideration, he said, “Upping your salary would be the best way to keep your income steady once I bring on the colorist. But there’d be additional duties involved.”
Seriously? I’m no prude, but a steady arrangement of play-for-pay definitely wouldn’t end well for either of us.
When I responded with a raised eyebrow, he said, “Don’t flatter yourself. You’d earn your keep as Senior Stylist.”
Oh.
Senior Stylist, and me just a few years out of school? Hell, yeah! I totally hadn’t seen that coming. If the Senior Stylist job went to anyone other than the owner, it was someone with a dozen years of experience or more. Someone like…Pilar.
My heart sank.
Ralph’s phone rang. He answered, started buttering up one of his suppliers to see if there was any kind of special deal he could cut for his next big product order, while I tried to figure out how I could ever give Pilar that kind of news and still live with myself afterward.
If the Juniors all reported to me, they might learn a thing or two. I was great at keeping my clients happy—but so was Pilar. Plus, she had a decade’s more experience behind the chair.
“Hold on,” Ralph told his distributor. He put his hand over the receiver, looked at me with obvious annoyance, and said, “Well?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Apparently, he’d expected a peon like me to lap it up without question, and I hadn’t scored any points with him by hesitating. He curled his lip, turned away, and resumed his conversation as if I’d already left the room. Or as if I was too insignificant to matter one way or the other. As I did a quick check for telltale cumstains while I tucked in my shirt, the thought occurred to me: Who’s the bitch now?
Chapter 3
However convincingly I try to claim the Juniors are basically the same, of course, they’re not. Matthew Espinosa was the dark-eyed beauty who’d claimed the absinthe gumdrop was yummy. He was also the one to shoot me a quick Vibe when a lull in his schedule coincided perfectly with a cancellation in mine. We forged out on an “errand” with no intention of going any farther than the parking lot behind the funeral home, where he tried to talk me into a quick hand-job. Since I’d just left all my gumption in Ralph’s office for the cleaning lady to mop up, I said, “Nah, ’sokay.”
He looked at me as if I’d just turned down a hand-job. Which…I had. “What-ev-er.” He pulled out his phone. I did the same, and we both called up Tanngo, the latest and greatest gay hookup app. He left-swiped as fast as the photos scrolled by. “Too serious. Too fake. Ew—too much like my weird cousin Dominick.”
“You’re awfully picky for someone who just angled for a car handie.”
“Yeah, but I know you. With strangers, you gotta be more careful. Never know what kind of creeps are out there.”
I was pretty sure I did; I’d just allowed one to suck my dick.
I scrolled through the same list of guys—I was more liberal in my right-swiping than Matthew was—and went on to check my inbox for the possibility of an after-work date. I was only half-reading the messages, though. Mostly I was still processing what had just happened in Ralph’s office. Not the sex part—I understood that just fine. But I didn’t know what to think about the part where he dangled a promotion in front of me.
“Could you see me as a Senior Stylist?” I asked.
“Bitch, please.”
I deleted a few dick pics and switched to eBay to see if any interesting vintage T-shirts had surfaced. “I dunno, I think I’d be good at it. My customers are always happy.”
“Yeah, but that’s customers. I’ve seen you try to explain something to another stylist—you don’t have the patience. The minute someone can’t keep up, you’re all like, What’s the matter with you, son? Been dropped on your head?”
If it meant a big raise, I could cultivate patience. Take a weekend workshop or an online course. Management skills, communication. I’m a quick learner. I’d adapt.
Problem was, the salon already had someone who was good at all of that, and more: Pilar.
Would our relationship weather the strain if I accepted the title
that was rightfully hers? Theoretically it would, but with hurt and pride and money involved, quite possibly it wouldn’t. Maybe if I didn’t accept the offer, neither one of us would get the job. And wouldn’t it make sense for at least one of us to not be broke?
We’d retreated back into the salon when reception buzzed to see if any of us were up for a walk-in. Pilar was in the midst of a consultation, one Junior was unrolling a perm and the other was leading his client from the shampoo bowls. Matthew was detailing his station while I restocked my product. He eyed me like he was willing to race me to the front, then started sweeping hair double-time. If I had to fight him for the walk-in, I would. Just because we’d spent our break together didn’t mean he should expect any favors from me.
He caught me by the sleeve as I strode by. I half-turned, thinking I’d be perfectly willing to fight dirty if it came down to that. But judging by his smirk, the threat level was low. “Dibs on the hottie in gray,” he whispered, and released my arm.
Not one walk-in greeted me in reception, but two. The hottie in gray was definitely a looker. Businessman. Suit. Nice head of chestnut hair in moderate need of a trim and some shaping. Thirty-something and a killer set of cheekbones. But the moment we locked eyes, my gaydar told me to pass. Not only was he straight as an arrow, but he wasn’t particularly keen on having a gay guy pawing at his head.
My walk-in was indecisive and bored, and the consultation was tedious. She nixed everything I suggested, and eventually I had to admit defeat and pull out my old standby move. I offered to “frame her face.” Basically, a trim. But when someone’s impossible to please, it’s best to do as little harm as possible. Meanwhile, one chair over, Pilar had transformed her client from a schleppy middle-aged dad to a dapper guy I’d totally swipe right.
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 2