“Cut the crap, Earl,” I reply, grabbing a rag and wiping the mess off my hands. It’s one of those little things I picked up in the service. I have no problem getting dirty, but once that’s over, I’m a freak about clean hands. “You know I already met them, blew up, and ran her off too. Princess Pink Hair messed with my bike and then flipped me off like it was my fault.”
Earl’s smile changes, like he’s just gotten a tasty morsel. Considering the size of his gut, he’s had his fair share. “Ahh, now see? That I didn’t know. I heard about the commotion but not what started it. So now I know . . . she touched your bike and you went nuclear. Seems like an overreaction, but what do I know? I never had no bike before.”
I can feel the immediate tightness in my chest when he says I overreacted. I didn’t. My anger was totally justified, and even though she apologized, she expected it to just magically be okay like she didn’t just mess with the one thing keeping me sane right now.
I silently fume, and Earl stares at me, appraising me like he often has before, and I know he can see the darkness that surrounds me like smoke.
Smoke—that’s what I need. Goddammit, I hate this habit, but I can’t help it. When the caffeine doesn’t work, nicotine often will.
I walk past him to the open bay door, grabbing a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter off the work table as I go. I lean against the door frame, covering the tip as I light the cigarette that is both killing me slowly and making some moments more manageable.
Earl walks over, and I offer him one out of the pack, holding the lighter up as he inhales. He looks at me with a cocked eyebrow for a moment before speaking. “You know, Son, I’m not one to judge. My generation, we grew up thinking these things were actually good for you. You ain’t hooked, I can tell that. What gives?”
After a few puffs, I give in. “I need them. They help me focus, the routine of breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Like it’s fucking meditative or some shit. When a cig isn’t enough, I ride. It’s the only way I can outrun what’s inside sometimes. And I figure it’s a lot better than hard drinking or getting into fights.”
Earl nods sagely. “For Bennie, he goes down to the community college area three times a week to some gym where he rolls around in pajamas and chokes people or something. A man needs a way to be free from the demons. Sometimes, it’s best to run. But eventually, you gotta turn around and fight them, beat them into submission. That’s what Bennie says, and I’ll gladly take credit for teaching him that one.”
Earl’s probably got a point. He may have never had a motorcycle, but he’s got his demons and he’s battled and fought them for a lot of days. There are reasons all of his children except Bennie don’t want to go into the family business and why he’s been divorced three times. So I grunt an acknowledgement, and he takes that as progress for the day.
I swear Earl thinks I’m his pet project or something, but he hasn’t recognized that I’m broken far worse than he knows and I’m not fixable. Each man who comes back broken is broken differently, and I’m not Bennie. This Humpty-Dumpty is shattered from the inside out, and nobody's gonna put me back together again. Best thing I can hope for is to keep going day by day, and when I do explode or go over the edge, I do it in a way that doesn’t hurt anyone else.
Earl is willing to let it go for now. “So, back to the original topic at hand. The new salon folks? Seems after their ribbon cutting ceremony, Jaxson took them down to the diner and showed them off like prize-winning hogs, introducing them around.”
The fact that he doesn’t use ‘mister’ for Jaxson isn’t lost on me, as Earl has repeatedly said that Jaxson sets his Spidey senses on alert. I’ve met the man too, the last time when he brought his car in for some work on the air conditioner, and he just seems like a political huckster type, a little too polished to be legitimate. His smile, his laugh, and his handshake all seem just a little too practiced, like he works at it in the mirror at home until it’s just right.
“Yeah, so?” I grunt. Personal qualms about Jaxson aside, his taking them around and introducing them is just his sort of schtick.
Earl looks like he’s about to give me a Christmas morning puppy. He’s so excited for some reason. “Word is, he asked Miss McKayla for just the two of them . . . almost like he was trying for a date, and she accepted, but for her and Mr. Brad. Whoo-boy, I like her already.”
The thought of her side-stepping a date with that slick welcome wagon suit gives me a little jolt of happiness, although I’m not quite sure if it’s because I’m happy he didn’t get his way or because she didn’t go out with some douchebag. Sure, she was a spoiled bitchy Princess, but a damn hot one too. Something about the way her clothes, her body, and most of all, that hair . . . they all seemed to work together. She’s too much woman for a schmuck like Jaxson to handle, although the thought of the smackdown she’d give him if he tried makes me laugh inside a bit.
I look toward the salon. My mind’s all sorts of fucked up, but my eyes are perfect. The big plate glass windows let me see inside where she is standing behind a brunette, eyes laser focused on the section of hair she’s cutting. She’s talking as she works, her bright red lips forming shapes, and I wish I could hear what she’s saying.
My gaze moves around, and I realize Brad is standing at the front desk, phone cradled to his ear with his shoulder, and his eyes are locked on me. He raises one eyebrow and gently shakes his head at me.
I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding and look back to Earl. “Thanks for the gossip, Earl. But I gotta get back to work.”
He drops his cig, grinding it under his heel. “Sure thing, Son. You let me know if you need a ride to the meeting on Wednesday at the lodge.”
I give him a death-stare, but inside, I kinda grin. Man, that guy is like a dog with a bone . . . won’t give it up for anything.
Earl leaves, sort of waddling down the sidewalk at a deceptive speed. You don’t think the man’s moving, but next thing you know, he’s half a block away. After watching him go, I look back across the street. Brad’s still playing guard dog at the front desk as I get myself another eyeful of McKayla, but when I see him again, he grins and gives me a wink.
Sorry, buddy, that’s not my game, but you’re also not going to throw me off mine. Besides, I’ve got a leaky Caddy to chase down.
If only I were as easy to fix as this old thing.
McKayla
“We’re rocking, we’re rolling,” I chant as I do a little dance around the shop. I just looked at the receipts on the computer, and there’s a reason to dance. Roughly four thousand reasons.
Brad looks on with a huge grin, but he doesn’t join my victory celebration. He’s too busy making himself look beautiful. “I just can’t believe it. One week, and I’m already thinking we need to hire another pair of hands.”
I laugh, coming over and tugging on his arm. I’m too damn happy to just let him primp in front of the mirror. “I feel like ever since that newspaper article and going over to the diner with Jaxson, we’ve already seen half the town, so must be the other half coming in over the next two weeks because our schedule is full.”
Brad gives in to my persistent tugging and gets up to grab my hand, spinning me in a little circle and pulling me in for a crazy little swaying dance, even though there’s no music. He dips me down, one high-heeled shoe sticking up toward the ceiling, before he pulls me back to my feet. I keep forgetting that the man can seriously dance.
“Yep,” he says, agreeing with me as he does a little half-dance of his own that shows off a few more of his moves. “Half already love us and the other half will in a minute.” He twirls, dropping down faster than a man really should in pants that tight before bouncing up and popping a hip into one of the empty chairs, spinning it around. “Between all the hair services you’re doing and all the facials and eyebrows I’m doing, we’re on the cusp of being the premiere beauty salon in the state. I feel it.”
As he says the last part, he spreads his hands wide like he’s
seeing our salon name in lights across a big marquee.
I laugh, glad at his projection but a little realistic too. “Well, maybe not the state. We should probably conquer this little town first, but we’re sure as fuck doing better than I’d ever hoped. ”
With big smiles, we do our special high-five combo with a mix of fist-bumps, waving fingers, and the piece de resistance hip wiggle with an ass smack. Brad might not have much of an ass, but I’ve got enough to make up for the both of us.
Brad rubs his bony hip, grinning as he heads for the register. “Done and done. I’m finished closing out the cash drawer and receipts for the day, so I’m gonna head out and do the bank run on the way home. There’s a couch and a cabernet calling my name. Need anything else?”
I’m pleased to hear Brad talking so positively about his new rental house. It was one of the things that had worried me the most about moving to smaller city, the slower pace of life. Brad had been a total denizen of the Hollywood night scene, stylin’ and profilin’ his happy little ass anywhere there was a dance club and a rainbow. Now he rents a two-bedroom house on the corner of town, and from what I can tell, the wildest it gets around here would bore most of the Hollywood party crowd.
“Nah, I’m good. Thank you though. I’m going to finish sweeping up and mop my way out the back to the stairs. I’ve got leftover Chinese food calling my name and a long bubble bath soak on the agenda. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”
Despite appearances, I’ve got a homebody streak in me that likes the new setup, living right above the salon. The building has an apartment upstairs, and we’d talked extensively about sharing it since it has two bedrooms, but realistically, if we worked together all day and lived together, I think one of us would end up dead. There’d be glitter, hair dye, and blood everywhere.
I love Brad like the brother I never had, and he feels the same about me, but with both of us having such big personalities, a little life balance is in order for us to do our best work. Besides, the way he somehow finds men who are open to his advances from outta nowhere makes me jealous.
And since work is the priority, we decided having separate homes was the right choice to keep us clicking properly. Jealousy doesn’t make for a good work environment.
Plus, that means we each get multiple closets since he has just as many, if not more, clothes as I do, and the vision of our sharing a bathroom makes me shudder a bit. Friends, yes. Knowing each other’s toilet habits, no thank you.
With an airy kiss in my direction, he grabs the bank bag and heads out the door. The little bell over the door tinkles, and I decide to get back to actually wrapping up work. There may not be a cabernet upstairs for me, but I do have a couple of bottles of a local craft brew IPA that I could easily enjoy with the Chinese food.
I’m head-down, focused on the floor and sweeping all the stray hairs I missed throughout the day, when I hear the tinkling of the bell above the door. “Sorry, we’re closed . . .” I start as I look up to see Jaxson stepping in with a smile, his hand raised in a wave. “Jaxson.”
His smile grows as he sees I’ve remembered his name. “Hey, McKayla, hope I’m not interrupting. Just wanted to stop by and see how it’s going . . .” He tapers off like there’s more he wants to say, but he just looks at me. When I don’t reply, his smile slips a little before recovering. “So, how’re you doing?”
“I don’t think we could’ve dreamed of a better first week than the one we actually had. It’s going great, better than we’d even hoped. Just cleaning up for the night.” I gesture vaguely around the salon and he looks around.
Jaxson nods, looking semi-impressed at least. “I have to tell you, this place looks amazing. I don’t know anything about fancy salons out in LA, but you guys seem to know what you’re doing.”
I smile politely, then realize something. “Hey, how’d you know we’re from LA? I don’t think I mentioned that before.” I see a flicker cross his eyes, but it’s so fast, I think maybe I imagined it.
“I thought you did, or maybe I heard folks talking about it at the grand opening last week. That’s right, isn’t it? I’ve been telling everyone about our town’s new famous Hollywood dynamic duo.” He says it with such a big smile that I can’t help but smile back.
I try and think back. Maybe I did mention it. I mean, if I didn’t, I’m sure Brad did. It is sort of our calling card, bringing legit Hollywood skills. I just haven’t said much because I didn’t want to come off as arrogant to the locals. “Yep, that’s us. Started in two different places, hooked up in Hollywood, and now ready to rock on our own. I guess that makes us movers and shakers.”
I laugh a little at my own joke and then remember I need to finish cleaning up. Looking at the floor, I wiggle my broom a bit. “Sorry, Jaxson, but I really need to finish cleaning up for the night. Thanks for—”
I’m just about to give him the polite brush-off, broom pun intended, when he interrupts me. “Oh, let me help. You’re not exactly dressed for cleaning.”
I look down at my slim leopard print pencil skirt, puffy shoulder black top, and red patent platform heels. I bite back a little, not taking kindly to having my style questioned. Sure, it’s a little over-the-top, but it’s typical me for damn sure. I’m out there and fucking fabulous, and the rest of the world can like it or go fuck themselves. “Well, this is how I always dress and how I always clean, so it seems to work just fine.”
Jaxson seems to get the point because he steps back, giving me a bashful look. “Oh, I didn’t mean that to sound bad. Sorry, I meant it as a compliment. Most women around here wear yoga pants and t-shirts to clean, jeans if you’re really getting fancy. But you’re like a walking, talking pin-up from the 1950s, Bettie Page reincarnated. You take care of your appearance. I dig it.”
Cringing inside at my immediate jump to thinking he was insulting me, I try to backpedal a bit. I mean, he’s not my type, but he’s not being an asshole either. “It’s all right. I’m used to guys not really knowing what to think about my wardrobe, and usually, when people think ‘different’, they think ‘bad’ for some reason, so I’m a little defensive. Ever heard of Dita von Teese?”
He steps over and takes the broom from my hand, bending down to sweep up a little pile of hair. He looks up from the floor in front of me and I’m struck by the intimacy of the position even if he is a foot away. If my skirt were just a little higher, he’d be able to see quite a bit more than I normally show men I’m not interested in. “Never heard of her. Tell me.”
I hear a little bit of command in his voice and I’m surprised. Well, well, well. Maybe Mr. Politico-Nice Guy has a little fire after all. It’s probably wrong that it makes me like him just a smidgen more, but honestly, it does.
“Well, you said Bettie Page, right? Think of Dita like the woman who sort of picked up Bettie’s ball and ran with it. She’s a fashion icon, known for her vintage style, mostly 30s and 40s. She models, designs, and dances too. I’ve always been inspired by her flair for classic drama, but I have to mix a bit of rockabilly in for myself too. I’m too wild to be that traditional.”
Jaxson laughs. “Did you just say you’re a hillbilly? No offense, but we’ve got some pretty country folk around here. No hillbillies though.”
I laugh back. “No, rockabilly, kinda rock-n-roll with a little country mixed in. Think 50s Pink Ladies meets sexy-sass and given a twenty-first-century twist.”
Jaxson smiles, tilting his head as he leans on the broom and looks me up and down, obvious in his appraisal.
I freeze and can’t decide if I feel good or bad about his attentions. I should be able to tell, but I just can’t get a read on him and that makes me nervous. While I normally go for rougher types, there’s a little something in his overall vibe that leaves me questioning just how vanilla he really is.
Jaxson breaks the tension after a moment, pursing his lips and humming. “Well, whatever you call it, it works for you.” His face stays serious for a moment, waiting for my reaction, but I sta
y quiet for a change. Talking is the easiest way to drag this out, and I just want to turn in.
Brad would be fucking proud of me for keeping my big mouth shut because that’s a rare reaction for me. I’ve got a bad habit of talking my way into problems and sometimes not being able to back out without shit going down. Actually, one of the first times Brad and I worked together, that was the case.
Jaxson, not hearing the ‘thank you’ he’s expecting, changes tack and smiles again. “Hey, you had dinner yet? We could grab something to eat?”
He looks like an earnest little boy, and I’m about to snatch his new favorite toy away . . . me. But I’m not the kind to be treated as anyone’s little plaything. That’s probably part of the reason I have such a problem with the bad boys. I can get on for the ride, but eventually, I want to take the wheel sometimes too. Jaxson strikes me as the type to want a sweet little woman who does what he says, definitely not the kind to let me run full-throttle on occasion, and that more than anything makes up my mind for me. “Thanks, Jaxson. But I’m beat. I just need a little down time to recover from the crazy week and get ready to do it all again.”
His face falls in disappointment, but with a breath, he rallies. “Sure, I understand. Maybe some other time?”
I hum noncommittally and walk him toward the door, a clear indication that I’m dismissing him. He relents and follows me, stepping outside as I pull the door open. He pauses, looking down at me just as we’re nearly pressed against each other while he slides his way through the door. Suddenly, I’m aware of how much bigger than me he is. I’m not a tiny woman—well, not that tiny—but even in my five-inch platforms, he’s got at least six inches of height on me. But where I’m curvy and full-chested, he’s slender and wiry.
As I look up, I don’t want to back up. I don’t want to give him the impression that he’s got rights in my own store, but I do lean back in an attempt to get some personal space. This is my bubble, and that is your bubble, dude.
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