Only Trick

by Jewel E. Ann

  “I hope all that gibberish is your way of saying you’ll do my hair on Saturday.”

  “Ask nicely.”

  I sigh. “Please.”

  “Please will get you on my schedule in two months.”

  “Pretty please.”

  “One month, twenty-nine days …”

  Another sigh. “You’re amazing.”

  “One month … keep going.”

  “I need some help here, Gemmie—”

  “Gemmie, you’re a goddess … an artist, and true creator of miracles. I need you like my next breath and—”

  “You name the price and I’ll pay it.” She’s going to break me.

  “I’ll see you at one o’clock. Who’s doing your makeup?”

  “Me.”

  She gasps. “Oh hell no!”

  “Why not?” I lean closer to the mirror and look at my skin. It’s porcelain … ish. There may be a few minor flaws but nothing like the rutted surface I feared when I was going through the most torturous puberty ever. A little rouge, lip gloss, and mascara to accent my blue eyes should be all that’s needed. I’m not into the gaudy, caked-on look.

  “If you have to ask, then that’s your answer. I’ve got a guy. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “Gem—”

  “Goodnight, honey.”

  *

  My emerald dress was delivered yesterday. Thankfully it fits. I’m not the runway giraffe Rachel is used to sheathing in the world’s finest textiles. With good posture I’m five-six, and my hip region, while somewhat slim and toned, suggests I come from a line of women built for child bearing. Some things you just can’t change.

  “Is Dr. Drab accompanying you tonight?”

  I peek out from under the foil because apparently I need just a dash of highlight around my face. “He’s not drab.”

  “He is. That’s why he drives that hideous banana on wheels. He’s overcompensating.”

  “Gemmie, you’ve seen him once, and it was just a quick introduction. How can you conclude from ‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ that he’s drab?”

  She raises her penciled brows at me. “I don’t trust him.”

  I laugh. “My stylist with half her head buzzed and the other half dyed blue doesn’t trust my date because he drives a yellow sports car. Please tell me you see the irony in this.”

  She leads me to the sink and leans me back to wash out my hair. “You refer to him as Steven or your date, but never your boyfriend. Yet you don’t date anyone else, and he hasn’t put a ring on your finger. Please tell me you see the irony in that?”

  “Steven’s nice and an excellent doctor.” He’s self-absorbed and a mediocre doctor, if I’m completely honest.

  Gemmie massages my scalp with her nails; I release a shameless moan. I love having my hair done. What girl doesn’t? It ranks up there with facials and pedicures. If Steven could work a nice scalp massage into foreplay, I think I could overlook his unusual habit of talking in the third person during sex.

  “He’s convenient, and you’re too lazy to find a better guy.”

  “I’m busy, not lazy. I don’t need a guy, and I sure as hell don’t need a ring on my finger. You may not trust Steven, but I don’t trust any guys.”

  She wraps a towel around my head. “I hear ya, sister. I’m the youngest of four girls. All my sisters have drained my parents’ wedding fund and showered them with grandchildren. I can’t make it past a third date let alone find a guy worthy of meeting my family.”

  “Maybe your standards are too high.”

  Pursing her lips, she rolls her head like letting a fine wine breath before tasting it. “Nah, men just aren’t made the same as they used to be—too much inbreeding.”

  A snort hijacks my ladylike laugh, sending us both into a fit of giggles.

  I sigh after the silliness settles into a simmering smile. “So where am I going for this unnecessary makeup application?”

  Gemmie spins me around so I’m facing the mirror and jerks her head toward the front window. “Across the street. You can thank me later. The only place that’s possibly more difficult to get into on short notice than the chair you’re sitting in right now. They’re not as easily persuaded by the name-your-price offer.”

  I glance out the window. “Rogue Seduction?”

  “Yep. They’re not exactly listed in the phone book. In fact, you need a prominent referral to get an appointment.”

  I look at Gemmie’s reflection. “You’re my referral?”

  She laughs with a wide-eyed duh look. “Yes, and I only get to make a few a year, so you should feel special.”

  My shoulders bob up and down once, unable to muster anymore enthusiasm. “It’s just makeup.”

  “It’s ‘just makeup’ and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is ‘just a painting.’”

  I don’t argue. As much as it disappoints my father and Rachel, fashion and glamour, money and influence, are not my things. My father is “politician rich” meaning he does okay, but he lives like the rich and famous because of Rachel.

  “So does this makeup guy know I’m attending a political fundraiser? I don’t want to look like a street-walking cake face.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she yells over the dryer.

  “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

  “It’s not about what you want; it’s all about what you need.”

  I squint at her, hoping the pointedness of my gaze boring into her eyes will accentuate my words. “Well, I need to not look like a cheap tramp.”

  She’s immune to my non-existent superpower. “That’s not your decision. Trick will decide what you need. Don’t worry, I promise you’ll get the high-class tramp look.” Gemmie winks.

  “Trick?”

  “Yep. Trust me, you won’t care what he does to you once you see him.”

  My face holds an untrusting scowl.

  Gemmie smiles. “No worries. He’s a guilt-free pleasure.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s gay.”

  Chapter Two

  Perfectly-sculpted ginger locks withstand the brutal assault of the muggy July air as I pad across the street in my flip flops. After sitting in Gemmie’s chair for over an hour, the humidity has my dark jean shorts clinging to my ass like a sticker while my white button-down blouse has an equally appealing adhesive feel to my back.

  Chipped grey bricks, peeling red-painted trim, and Rogue Seduction drawn on the window in white with the perfection of a five-year-old makes this joint look like a real hole-in-the-wall. Gemmie’s a miracle worker with my hair, but I’m not feeling as confident about how my face will look when I leave this dive.

  Opening the door, Peggy Lee’s “Fever” fills the air with a surprise appeal for all of two seconds. Then I take in my surroundings with a few slow steps toward the heart of the room. The seductive classic plays from an actual turntable in the corner, which fits in with the rest of the swing and big band era theme. If my Grandma Carmichael’s ghost comes for a visit, I’m certain this is where she hangs out. This place reminds me of her attic: a pinup of Betty Grable, an old trumpet, a photo of Harry James, a Casablanca movie poster. It’s a clash of generations. There’s a photo of Marilyn Monroe next to one of Kelly Ripa and … I look closer …

  “You must be Gemmie’s friend.”

  No. Fucking. Way!

  How does this happen to me? I don’t even have to turn around. That deep resonating voice has lingered in my ears all week. Squinting, I lean closer to the picture of Kelly Ripa. She’s perched with her signature grin on the same stool that’s next to me with the same trumpet hanging on the wall, and standing behind her is a guy that looks like a slightly gothic version of Patrick Roth. I turn.

  Un—believable!

  “Patrick?” I’m not sure why I sound unsure—it’s him.

  “Darby … Carmichael.” My name sounds like sex dripping off his tongue. I feel dirty, embarrassed, pissed off, turned on, and scared shitless all at the same time. This city’s too
damn big for me to see the same squirrel twice in one week.

  “Patrick?” I need to find a new word; I sound like a parrot.

  “Trick. Have a seat.” He tilts his head to the side, gesturing to the stool next to me.

  Patrick was a wounded squirrel of very few words. He was a little dark and mysterious mixed with a whole lot of sexy. Trick is dangerous and intimidating—the lion circling the sheep. His sex appeal isn’t just distracting, it’s unnerving; a fitted white T-shirt exposes his toned arms and yes … tattoos. God, I love those tattoos!

  I swallow; actually I gulp.

  My torso sways forward a smidgen to inspect his face or what appears to be dark shadows under his eyes, doubling their intensity, in fact—oh hell, I think he’s wearing black eyeliner or guyliner. I went through a brief goth phase in my early college years, but the guys I was with back then looked like amateurs with Crayolas for makeup. Trick looks like he stepped off the cover of Rolling Stone.

  I ease onto the stool, propping my feet up on the lower bar. He moves in front of me—staring. I look at his eyes; I look away. I wet my lips then bite them together. I fold my hands then drop them to my sides. Then I repeat this cycle of nervous gestures over again.

  “Look at me.”

  O-kay …

  I’ve had my makeup done before, but this is a visual interrogation. Gemmie’s parting words ring in my head. He’s gay. It’s weird that doesn’t calm my nerves, cease the slow leak between my legs, or soften my nipples. Time’s up! I can’t look at him anymore.

  “I’m thinking something soft and sophisticated.” I look down at his black boots and black jeans, his hand still bandaged, and black leather wristbands cuffing the end of his sleeve tattoo. Steven wears a medical I.D. bracelet for his nut allergies, but it’s not as sexy as Trick’s leather bands.

  “It doesn’t matter what you’re thinking.”

  I cock my head to the side, and if I were a dog my ears would be pricked forward. “Excuse me?”

  He steps closer and brushes my hair back over my shoulders. “I didn’t tell you how to do your job.”

  Gemmie failed to mention I’d be dealing with Mr. All-Star Personality. He turns and messes with things on his counter. I exhale louder than I intend to, not realizing I’ve been holding my breath.

  “What color is your dress?”

  “Emerald.”

  He glances over his shoulder.

  “That’s green.” I relinquish a tightlipped smile.

  His eyes go wide; he turns back around. It’s possible he already knew that emerald is a shade of green. I can only imagine what my next brilliant statement will be … my eye color is sky … that’s blue. He moves close with the stealth of a slithering snake—tempting, teasing. I can smell him … taste him. He’s gay. He’s gay. He’s gay. I cringe at the way my body stiffens as he touches my skin.

  “Relax.” That damn seductive voice wrecks me!

  His face, mere inches from mine, suffocates me with an awkward … intimacy. My heart drums against my chest over and over, and I can’t control it. Surly he hears it or feels it. Hell, I think it’s vibrating the whole room. I lick my lips and swallow. My body will collapse on itself if I look at his eyes, but I can’t not look at them. They’re right here staring at me. Why does he have to be so close? Is he nearsighted? Jade was right; he’s intense.

  I squeak and it’s an actual I’m-so-pathetically-losing-it sound when his hand rests on my leg.

  “Re-lax.”

  I hadn’t noticed my pent-up energy being channeled into my leg, bouncing out of control. What is wrong with me? HE’S GAY!

  The problem is … I’m not. His sexual preference doesn’t take away from his scorching sex appeal. I bet my ass is singed from his nearness burning my panties right off.

  “Close your eyes.”

  If he doesn’t remove his hand from my leg I’m going to lean in and attack his neck like a rabid animal. Just one little taste.

  “H-how’s your hand?” I grasp at anything that might be a distraction.

  He doesn’t respond, but thank God he removes his hand from my leg.

  “So you like the big band era, huh?”

  Nothing.

  “Are you the owner?”

  Still nothing.

  What’s his deal? I give up. I’m pitting out, nipping out, and striking out. He doesn’t want to talk. Fine—neither do I! My focus turns to the music, the long list of assholes I plan on avoiding tonight, and the test results I need to check on at the hospital in the morning. Then, against my will, he manages to draw me under his hypnotic spell with those black-framed eyes.

  Time drags on and on. I need a shower, but given my hair and makeup I’ll have to settle for a sponge bath. He outlines my lips with a pencil then makes a slow, torturous production of applying lipstick. I have to keep my lips slightly parted, which means he can hear and even feel my quickening breath … I’m panting.

  Pathetic.

  Trick steps back, leaving me naked to his scrutinizing gaze.

  “Beautiful.”

  I choke on my tongue in disbelief that he just said that, then I look past him at the mirror. Words are inadequate. I’m … holy hell, it’s like I’m staring at the cover of a glamour magazine. I didn’t get it before, but now I do. Hello, Sistine Chapel.

  “Is there a problem?”

  I blink a few times and shake my head like I’m lost, and I am … for words.

  “You look disappointed. That’s not a look I’m accustom to seeing.”

  Lucky you.

  I continue to shake my head. Closing my eyes, I give myself a much needed mental bitch slap for being disappointed that the gay makeup artist is admiring his work and not me. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  I pay for the most expensive and most erotic hour of my life. Glancing at my watch, I realize I need to make haste if I’m going to beat Steven to my place.

  Trick’s enigmatic personality makes even a simple goodbye feel like an awkward conversing between two people who don’t speak the same language. “So … thanks.”

  He nods. Once again, I’m left guessing what his simple body language says. Maybe it’s “you’re welcome,” or maybe he’s just dismissing me.

  I shuffle in my flip flops to the door and give him one last smile, one last chance to say something! He doesn’t reciprocate. I’m not sure he actually has teeth. He’s never given me more than a barely detectable smirk. A full-fledged smile with the straight white teeth I imagine are behind those yummy lips would make me climax. Maybe it’s best if I never know.

  *

  The massive waste of money for political fundraisers, or politics in general, makes me physically ill. It’s greed and gluttony. If I really think about it, it’s all of the seven deadly sins. Ironically, I think committing them is a prerequisite to running for any higher office in this country “One nation under God.” God has to be shaking his head.

  I’m showered with compliments on my dress, hair, and makeup. If the school-girl popularity contest were my thing, tonight would make up for the debacle that was my prom. Sadly, none of it matters … anymore.

  “Hospital called. I have to go, babe.” Steven hands me his empty glass and slips on his black Armani jacket.

  “Can you drop me off?” I scoot back in my chair, reaching for my wrap.

  “Your place isn’t on the way to the hospital. You know that. Besides, don’t you want to stay?”

  I look around, a little nauseous, a lot unimpressed. Dinner was over an hour ago, and my father and Rachel seem to have vanished. Wishful thinking. If only aliens were real. “No. I don’t want to stay. I’ll get a cab.”

  “No you won’t.” Steven holds up his finger, walking a few tables over to where his parents are seated. He whispers something in his dad’s ear then smirks coming toward me. “Jack will drive you home.”

  “I’m not taking your parents’ car and driver away from them, Steven.”

  He helps me with my wrap, pressing his lips
to my shoulder. “They’ll be here for several more hours yet. Jack’s just waiting outside anyway.”

  I agree with a reluctant lingering of guilt as Steven escorts me out of the hotel.

  He bundles me in the back of the town car and kisses me with eagerness. “Did I tell you how sexy you look tonight?” He brushes his lips along my exposed shoulder.

  “More than once.”

  “Take her back to my place, Jack.” He calls up front. “I’ll hurry. Don’t take off your dress before I get there.”

  “Steven, I have to be to work at seven. It’s already eleven.”

  “My place,” he growls while sucking my neck like a hormone-crazed teenager.

  “You give me a hickey and I’ll cut your dick off.”

  He stands, straightening his tie. “No hickeys, then. Steven has something he’d rather you do to his dick later. Bye, babe.” He closes my door and I shiver, but not like goose bumps of anticipation, more like the skin-crawling heebie jeebies begging for a stay of execution from the promise or threat of his words. That annoying third person crap didn’t help, either. Seriously, just massage my scalp!

  Both Gemmie and Trick have messed with my head today. Steven’s not an unleashed tiger in the bedroom, but he has adequate skills. Though, he could use more tongue and less fingers. Sometimes I’m not sure if he’s trying to turn me on or prep me for a pap smear. Regardless, since my afternoon tease, I could really use a good release. But now Trick is in my head. I can’t stop wondering where the rest of his tattoos lead and what they all mean. Do they cover something or expose something? He’s gay so none of this should matter, but I just—Can’t. Stop. Thinking. About. Him!

  The car begins to shake with the subtleness of a small earth quake as Jack pulls to the far right just before the stop sign. A barely detectable grumble escapes his chest as he gets out and walks around back.

  “What’s happening?” I ask, rolling down my window.