The doorbell rang. Red and I both flinched like we’d been caught doing something illicit. I X-ed out of the page while he buzzed Carolyn in.
“A PsyCop?” I hissed. “How is it even remotely possible that woman is a PsyCop?”
“What do you mean?”
Her quiet footfalls were approaching fast. “I dunno. She’s not all woo-woo incense and double-talk.”
“Don’t you read the paper? Every PsyCop team has a non-psychic partner to balance out the psych.”
“I do my best to avoid polluting my mind with government propaganda,” I muttered, but mostly I felt embarrassed that even for a moment, I’d entertained the thought that Carolyn was one of those phony crystal gazers. In fact, I was kind of relieved they’d hired someone like her to rein in Psychs like that other guy. Those were the ones to watch out for, folks so persuasive they could sell salt to a slug.
There was a tap on the door. Red ushered her in.
Carolyn had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, but she was still wearing a black beret. “Thank you,” she told Red, then noticed me lingering by the kitchen counter. “Do you live together?”
“Him and me?” I scoffed.
Red said, “I asked Crash to come over in case I need a hand.”
“That’s not why, not really,” Carolyn took off the beret and twisted it in her hands. “But never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m relieved you can deal with this.” She gestured at her brassy, unfinished hair. “I can’t show up looking like this again tomorrow. I won’t.”
She was as blunt and unvarnished as she’d ever been at the shop, but knowing she’d been wading through dead bodies all afternoon put a whole different spin on her attitude. The only bodies I ever saw were the live ones in my bed. Even my dad’s funeral had just been a restrained memorial service after his cremation. But judging by the way she moved now—gingerly, like she’d just fallen down a flight of stairs but didn’t want anyone to know she was all banged up—I was certain she’d seen something she could never unsee.
Red guided her to a dinette table where all his gear was set up, sat her down and swaddled her in the cape. “We’ll take good care of you. I promise.”
Her face twisted. Reddened. “How long is this going to take?” she croaked out in a tiny voice. “They want me back at the station at six.”
Damn it. I hate crying. “How about some wine?” I said briskly, and proceeded to slam through the cabinets before anyone even took me up on it. No wine glasses. I grabbed a pair of tumblers instead, sloshed some Pinot Grigio into each of them and shoved one into Carolyn’s hand.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Red asked.
“No.” Carolyn sipped the wine once, twice, then chugged down a few big gulps. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Red handed me a comb. “Detangle her while I mix the lightener.”
“Today was….” She hesitated, searching for words.
Red nodded. “We saw the news.”
Carolyn’s shoulders slumped and she stared into her tumbler.
I combed through gently. Carolyn’s hair was still strong, but she herself felt brittle, like the wrong move would cause her to snap. Between strokes, I let her linger over her wine in peace. Filling the space with chitchat would’ve been ridiculous. No one should have a murder shoved in their face, then be expected to mouth banal pleasantries about their kids.
Red handed me an applicator brush, and I mirrored what he was doing, section and apply, section and apply. It went fast with both of us working, and with my focus on matching him move for move, I didn’t notice the quiet until Red broke it. “Anything you need to say won’t leave this room.”
Corny as it might be, I was touched he included me in that assurance. But I was beginning to suspect Carolyn wouldn’t take us up on the offer anyway when finally she said, “You’d think the worst part would be the crime scene. But it was the….” She shuddered. “I can’t even call it a man. More like a thing. The thing responsible for those deaths. Talking to him. You know why he did it? Not because he was disempowered, not because he was in pain, not because he had trouble relating to people and the situation had spun out of control. He killed those women simply because he could.”
We weren’t in a salon and there was no mirror where I could watch her expression to gauge how she was doing, but I didn’t need to see. Not with the agony so plain in her voice. I dropped a hand to her shoulder and squeezed. She leaned in, briefly. I suspected that was more reassurance than she’d normally let herself receive from a stranger. Maybe Red was right. Maybe I was a comfort.
She went on. “That poor girl. The one who got away. What kind of life can she have now? How can she ever trust anyone again?”
Thankfully, Red didn’t proclaim that it was easy-peasy and all the victim had to do was choose to be happy. He finished the last section, tucked everything into place and covered her head with a cap and a towel wrap.
It wouldn’t be long with her hair half-lifted to begin with, but without the distractions of the salon—no music, no chatter, no fluffy magazines—our wait might really drag on. Red pulled the other chair around so it faced Carolyn, planted himself in it and took both her hands in his while I boosted myself onto the kitchen counter just a few feet away. He gave her hands a squeeze and said, “Tell me a story. Back when you chose your path and you felt like you made a difference. Tell me about that.”
She finished her wine. I reached for the bottle to refill her glass but she waved it away. “I can’t show up with alcohol on my breath in the morning. Everything I do will be under the microscope as it is.” She turned back to Red and looked deep into his eyes. “I thought I’d make a good attorney. No one expects you to be likable, just smart. If I could stop people from being falsely accused, railroaded….” Her face twisted again and she pinched the bridge of her nose, hard. “You can’t pick and choose your clients. Not when you’re a public defender. It was wearing me down, no doubt, but the last straw was a monster who beat his own grandmother because she wouldn’t give him her ATM card. Broke her arm in two places. That piece of human garbage sat on the stand and lied through his teeth. Eventually, he walked. That smug little creep walked.”
We sat and took that in, Red and me. I was grateful that the worst thing I’d be called upon to do in the course of my day was give someone an unflattering cut I couldn’t talk them out of.
“Now how about someone you helped?” Red asked. “Tell me that story.”
Carolyn didn’t have just one story—she had more than she could count. People falling victim to predators. Mostly women, but not all. People whose stories were swept under the rug because they weren’t as powerful, as charismatic, as believable as their assailant. People who finally had someone step up and hear them.
We rinsed her over the bathroom tub. She’d lifted evenly to a sunny level 9. While I toweled her dry, Red mixed up three different toners, the dusty cool pastel shades that would counteract all the yellow. Everything was meticulously measured, and every last measurement was jotted in his little notebook. He layered the tones, pearly grayish greenish violets. Usually I’m sad to see those muted pastels swirl down the drain leaving nothing but blonde behind. But even wet, I could tell Carolyn’s subtle ash tones would be absolutely perfect.
We’d hit the wee hours of the morning by the time Red conditioned, but he took an extra few minutes to blow out the new ’do. Even puffy from exhaustion, with all her makeup cried off, our PsyCop still looked stunning.
Red offered to call her a cab but she said she was fine to drive. She’d only had that half glass of wine. So had I. And the rest of the bottle would likely go stale in Red’s fridge, unless he ended up pouring it down the drain. He rebagged the two untouched bottles and held them out to me. “Don’t forget these. Unless you want to stay.”
The Vibe was subtler than a henna rinse on a redhead, but it was there. What started as a grab for the bag ended up with me catching his wrist, tugging him up against me and fitting my mouth to
his. He gasped. The inhalation played over my lips and sent a shiver down my spine. But then he stepped back and left me swaying there, nearly-kissed and alone.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “It’s late. I was offering you my couch.”
As he spoke, he chafed at the tattoo where my thumb had brushed over his pulse point, and I could see I wasn’t the only one all a-tingle. I closed the distance between us and said, “It’s okay. Whatever happens here, stays here, remember?”
“Nothing happening here.”
So his mouth claimed. But his eyes spoke volumes.
I could drown in those eyes. A parade of delights trooped through my imagination, all the ways I wanted to make this man call out my name while his body convulsed with pleasure. Again, I bent my mouth to his. This time he was trapped by a chair so he couldn’t back away. He turned his head instead, and my lips grazed his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“You can stop playing around. Your hard-to-get act has done its job.” I nudged him in the hip with the fly of my jeans. Not quite a hump, but still, a promise of things to come. And come. And come. “I’m officially interested.”
He pressed his forehead to my shoulder briefly, then nudged me away. “And I’m flattered, but ain’t nothing going down here tonight.”
Since I can usually get in someone’s pants with little more than a come-hither look, I found myself rusty in the art of seduction. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t enjoying the skirmish. He was so disciplined I’d nearly missed the fleeting Vibe, but now that I’d caught a whiff of it, I couldn’t back down. I followed him around the kitchen island and caught him by the belt loop. He stopped walking and I squared off in front of him. “You know it’s gonna be good…so why deprive yourself?”
Red reached for my face and cupped it between his hands. Not to kiss me, but to gaze deep, deep into my eyes. For a gesture that didn’t involve jacking, licking or fucking something, it was stunningly intimate. Hints of a subtle fragrance tantalized me. Sandalwood and amber. Unblinking, calm, and phenomenally serious, he said, “Because I’m seeing someone, and I won’t step out on him. So that’s how it is.”
He let it sink in for just a moment, then released my head.
So. That’s how it was.
I turned away, gathered my bag of wine, and showed myself out.
Chapter 12
Luckily I’m not much of a wine person, or I would’ve been tempted to drink myself to sleep with the two remaining bottles and wake up with a real head-splitter to show for my trouble. Since it was so late and I was so beat, it was enough of a nightcap to beat off in the shower while imagining that Red’s invitation to sleep over had come from an entirely different intention.
It really wasn’t the same without him.
I’m not one to wallow over a left-swipe, but Red’s rebuff hit me hard. We had chemistry. We had an intense shared experience. Compound all that with the tantalizing slow build, and no wonder I was a goner. My mind replayed the sensation of his breath caressing my lips. What would have happened if I’d eased forward that tiny bit and pressed my mouth to his? And when would I get another shot—if ever?
If Red was uncomfortable with our near-miss, he didn’t show it, so I played right along. I wouldn’t be such a copycat as to adopt his “tell me a story” line, but over the next couple of weeks, I did spend extra time shooting the breeze during my client consults. I ended up giving some pretty interesting cuts. Anyone who seemed even remotely interested in color got an enthusiastic referral to our hotshot colorist.
It kept both Red and me nice and busy. Even so, there’s a dead zone in the afternoon around three-ish where the salon is a ghost town, a gap where we stylists can duck out, put our feet up and check Tanngo…well, not Pilar. Probably not Red, either, since the thought of him hooking up with anyone who dashed off a “wanna suck U dry” message was beyond ludicrous. Not that I didn’t entertain myself by casting him and me in that particular lurid fantasy, in full, graphic detail. I even gave him a little finger-wave when he caught my eye mid-daydream.
As usual, he allowed my flirtiest look to roll right off his back, even though we both knew he saw it. Initially, it had been frustrating, but lately it was starting to feel like more of a challenge. A harmless one at that. Innocuous enough that when he beckoned me toward the conference room with a nod, my heart only skipped a few beats.
“So,” I said as I followed him in. “You’ve finally come to your senses and dumped Mr. Wrong? Feel free to cry on my shoulder. Either one. I’m told they’re both pretty fetching, though I’m partial to the one with the sugar skull tattoo.”
He acknowledged the flirt, marginally, with the ghost of a suppressed smile. “No shoulder required, but I could use a hand.” He passed me a trimmer, then turned toward the wall sconce and brushed his fingertips along the back of his head, the shaved part at the base of the skull between mohawk and ear. “I’ve got a few strays driving me crazy.”
I knew all kinds of creative ways to drive a guy crazy—but random tufts of hair were nobody’s idea of fun. No one I’d ever met, at any rate. Lighting wasn’t ideal in the conference room, but I grabbed him by the head and angled it so I could see exactly how much missed hair we were talking about. A tiny stripe of stubble curved its way around his occipital bone, wended up the lower part of his skull, then tapered gracefully away. A mere hint of an imperfection. Surprisingly hot.
I ran my thumb along the hairs, when what I really wanted was to follow it with my breath, my tongue. I wanted it so profoundly I actually felt as if I’d physically done it.
I shivered. So did Red.
It was a situation ripe for innuendo, but no words sprang to mind. I guided him to a chair and tilted his head toward the light, taking much more time and care in my analysis than the tiny swath of strays actually required. It wasn’t a matter of perfectionism…I’m sorely lacking in that quality myself. It was more that this seemingly negligible request was actually rife with trust. Helping people is easy. Accepting help? Well, that’s something else entirely. There’s vulnerability that comes with admitting a weakness, a mistake, and I suspected Red’s mistakes were rare indeed.
“I should grab a cape,” he said…and was it wishful thinking, or did his voice sound a little thick?
“No need,” I murmured. “You’re in good hands.”
People underestimate the head as an erogenous zone. Their loss. The scalp is flush with nerves, deliciously sensitive. Ostensibly, I was positioning him. But my fingertips were busy forging that elusive intimacy we only share with stylists or lovers. Sometimes my clients actually moan when I caress their scalps. Red didn’t. Not aloud. But I convinced myself he wanted to.
When I thumbed on the cordless trimmer and it buzzed in my hand, the tingle went straight to my balls. The urge was strong to catch my breath, but since there were no mirrors to give me away, I settled for a slow, calming blink that he couldn’t see. There’s some vulnerability in admitting you need help, but even more in wanting something as badly as I wanted him.
I touched the humming blades to his scalp, whisper gentle, and caught the stray hairs in my palm as they fell. As promised, I was phenomenally precise. Not a single hair escaped down his collar. But I couldn’t resist finishing my work by doing something I’d never do to an actual customer. I leaned down so that my lips were nearly grazing his scalp, and I blew.
This time, I did make him gasp.
“Curtis,” he chided.
“Just being thorough.”
He stood and ran his fingers over the spot, but he couldn’t rub away the touch of my breath any more than I could erase the scent of sandalwood that was lighting up my senses. It was more than just some cheap head-shop cologne. There was warmth and depth from the way it mixed with his body chemistry…and now I was the one being driven crazy.
“Can I ask you something? Personal?”
The answer hovered at the tip of my tongue…whatever you’re into, baby, I’m one hundred percent up for it.
“Sure.”
“Did you have a chance to check out that book?”
Uh…anything but that. “Can’t say it made a big impression.”
“How many of the exercises did you try? Because different methods work for different folks, and that book has a little bit of everything.” Which was a lot more meditation than I cared to try. “I’m not trying to pressure you, I’m gauging your interest. There’s a get-together tonight…if you want to check it out.”
“A meditating party?”
“More of a group session.”
“And you’re inviting me to go. With you.”
He touched the spot behind his ear. The one I’d blown on. “As my friend.”
“As your friend.”
“I told you, Curtis, I’m seeing someone.”
“And he’s hotter than me? No, seriously, I’ve been working out pretty hardcore lately, really focusing on my abs and pecs. Lock the door and I’ll show you.”
He semi-smiled. “I believe you.” Now that I knew him, I could tell he was Vibing, loud and clear.
“So if I go to this thingy with you, I get to pick the place for our next date?”
“Since I’m not single, it’s not a date,” he insisted, almost patiently. “I’m offering to introduce you to a practice you might enjoy.”
“And how long would this thing take?”
“Two hours.”
Me, and him, sitting there in each others’ vicinity for two solid hours with nothing for me to think about but all the dirty things I wanted to do together? I might be able to hold a three-minute plank without breaking a sweat, but no way could I endure two hours of close proximity leading up to nothing more than a wave goodbye and a cold shower.
I turned to the wastebasket and brushed the bits of hair on my palm into the trash. “When you get an invite to a Tantric sex workshop, I’ll gladly be your plus-one. But tonight I’ll take a pass.”
He smiled indulgently, only slightly disappointed. As he headed back into the shop, I considered the fact that I should probably tone the flirtatiousness down so he didn’t mistake my sincere interest for mere shtick. Play the solid friend, the confidante, the port he’d most likely visit in a breakup storm.
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 9