“I’m gonna get another drink,” I say once the little blonde wanders away with her friends. “Our waitress has disappeared.”
Waiting off to the side for my turn, I scan my phone for updates and messages. Which is why the voice behind me takes me by surprise.
“Hey, Rox,” my ex-girlfriend says.
Oh, this day is just all kinds of fucked up.
The last time I saw Riley was a couple of months ago and though our break-up was definitely for the best, seeing her irritates me. She’s not supposed to be here. She got the apartment. I got the gym and The Pit. It was a fair trade knowing I wouldn’t run into her in the neighborhood.
“Hey,” I attempt my best lean against the bar impersonation of Bowie, hoping the causal stance masks my shock.
“You cut your hair.” Her eyes map the curve of my head, my neck and travel back to my face. That look used to give me goose bumps and made me want to kiss her until we were breathless.
Now nothing.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, rubbing my hand over the fine layer of black fuzz. Cutting is an understatement. I’d already shaved the side of it for my Wonder Woman logo, so I figured what the hell and buzzed off the rest a few weeks ago.
“Very Mad Max,” she says with a little smile.
That’s a personal compliment that almost makes me return her smile. We both lusted after Charlize with the butch haircut in the movie. It’s weird to feel this indifference instead of the usual comfort of familiarity. We were together over two years. I was totally in love with her. I figured I’d feel hollow when I saw her again. Maybe I’m not as empty without her as I thought.
A drunken chorus of “Rox, Rox, kick his box” rings in from behind us, interrupting my response. The chant was endearing at first, but is now more irksome than cute.
“Jesus fuck,” I murmur under my breath with an eye roll. “I’m gonna kick yours if you don’t shut it!”
“What’s up with that?” she asks and motions to the bartender for two drinks.
“Soccer revenge.” Bowie answers as he throws an arm over my shoulders.
“Bowie,” Riley says with an irritated sigh and a quick glance at the display of affection. “Playing body guard now?”
Riley is the one person who isn’t overtaken by Bowie’s gargantuan personality. In fact, she was snippy and highly annoyed whenever he appeared at my gym classes or Jerome’s. It was as if there wasn’t enough space for all their charm in the room.
“Oh, the queen doesn’t need protection.”
I’m trapped between the bar and Bowie and a whole lotta awkward. “What brings you to The Pit, Ri?”
“Oh, Caroline was dropping off something for her brother.” She points toward the entrance where her new girlfriend and the brother are talking.
Seriously. This day can just eff off.
“Cool,” I say because I’m nice like that. “Good to see you.”
“Take care, Rox.” She grabs her bottles of Stella from the bartender and makes her way through the crowd.
I’m leaning on Bowie more than I realize. He’s warm and cozy like a boy-scented blanket. Just so fucking tired.
“You okay?” he asks, steering us back toward the table with his hand at my back. “With the princess here?”
“Oh, yeah.” I shrug. “It’s just weird, I guess.”
He picks up his glass, sets it down, making a ring pattern with the condensation puddle on the table. “What’s she up to?”
“I didn’t ask. You have excellent timing for rescuing people from awkward ex encounters.” I take a long swallow from my bottle. “That’s a useful superpower.”
“At your service, your grace.” His smile is slow, almost lazy, showing only his top teeth. I imagine he would smile like that the morning after great sex.
“Do you have other powers?” I ask. Fucking hell. That is a regretful question. No flirting with unavailable people!
“Oh, I have many—” His eyes are full of mischief, mischief.
The only sound in my head is my heart’s erratic rhythm. My ability to move, to look away from his dark eyes is lost somewhere with my good judgment.
Until his phone vibrates on the table, signaling the girlfriend’s call.
Our connection is broken. Which is a good thing. His superpower was only moments away from storming the sex castle.
Bowie strides into Jerome’s wearing his usual Saturday uniform—loose tank top that dips to the bottom of his ribs, ripped jeans, and gold and black high tops. He’s shocked to find that Jerome is out sick with food poisoning.
“Damn, man,” he says pulling at the whiskers under his chin. “I’ve got plans tonight and I need to look pretty. Kordell, you got time?”
Kordell shakes his head, “I’m booked up, but Rox can take you.”
Every eye in the place flashes between him and me, waiting to see who will win this rally. I lift my straight blade and polish it with gentle strokes. My smirk reflects in its shiny face.
“Don’t be such a baby, Bow,” Marvin says and pulls on his jacket. “She hasn’t killed anybody today…yet.” The room fills with teasing laughter.
“Fine.” An expression of defeat falls across his face and he trudges to my chair as if he’s facing lethal injection.
I brandish my cape with the flourish of a matador, luring a bull for the kill. “Are you ready?”
“For what exactly?” he asks, trying to maintain his cocky demeanor.
“My mad skills,” I say, standing behind him, trailing my fingers over his beard. A whisper of touch. He hasn’t been in for a trim with Jerome in a few weeks. An ideal overgrown canvas. “I have an idea. You game?”
His shoulders rise as he takes a breath. “No Batman?”
“Definitely not.”
After another deep breath, he nods his surrender.
Routine. Routine is my savior. The automation of my movements masks my nervous energy. I wanted to get my hands on his beard long before I wanted to get my hands on him. My equipment and supplies line the workstation in the usual sequence.
Mint.
Fresh breath is absolute priority at all times. My favorite peppermint is nestled in my cheek.
Bowie watches my face from his reclined position as I tuck a towel into his collar and place another across his chest.
Hot towel.
I drape it over him and follow with a deep pressure over his face. He’s quiet under the lemon-scented wrap. The guys’ latest gossip conversation hums in the background.
Electric clippers.
I even out his chin, cheeks and jaw into short symmetry. His mustache is trimmed shorter than the rest of his face and I design a square over his chin. His fingers tap, tap, tap the rhythm of the overhead song.
Beard oil.
His skin is soft and my fingers tingle as I massage the oil throughout his beard and along its edges. I pass along his neck and his throat muscles spasm as he swallows hard.
Shave cream.
The soft foam is warm from the dispenser and I apply it with my fingers along all the borders and his chin. He’s a statue and I whisper for him to breathe.
“Don’t worry,” I place my hand on his forehead in preparation for turning his head to the side. “I’ll be gentle your first time.”
He gives me a smile laced with trepidation and rolls his eyes as Kordell chuckles behind me.
I pull his skin tight and my razor glides in small strokes, making the initial straight line from the top of his ear to the corner of his mouth. I stand at the top of his head as I shave his neckline. The curves of his chin are tricky and I remind myself to breathe. His breath quickens and brushes over my fingers.
Knowing he’d be lost without it, I leave a soul patch below his bottom lip. His lips. Seriously. The fullness. The symmetry. They’re insane. When he smiles the top one curls under.
I perfect my lines with a dry run of the razor, shaping to the highest level of crispy before I apply a cold towel. After a gentle pat down, I warm the spi
cy citrus oil in my palms. My fingers glide along his jaw, circle the muscles there and then follow my routine pattern up to his temple and forehead. I pause at the facial pressure points and then sink my hands into his glorious hair to complete the scalp massage. My pulse accelerates and the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. Thank fuck for my padded bra or the nipple situation would be beyond embarrassing.
“He’s alive!” I exclaim in my best Dr. Frankenstein voice as I fan his face with a towel. I stand above him as he opens his eyes, pupils wide and warm. Hip lips tip up just at the corners as I raise him to an upright position.
“Damn, Roxy,” he says, eyes popping at his reflection. An index finger strokes his beautiful soul patch.
“Still not pretty,” Kordell says. The shop bursts into laughter and applause.
“I’m always pretty,” he says and flashes everyone a full wattage grin in the mirror as he admires my handiwork. Or himself.
“Got a hot date?” Tommy asks him while he pays.
“No, man. Just mixing at Cubes with Jomo,” he says, looking first at me, then Tommy. “Y’all should come.”
Tommy’s eyes practically pop out of his head with this invitation. “Yeah, cool…”
“Your, grace,” he says to me with an exaggerated bow. “Thank you.”
I’m so not going to Cubes. It’s not a good idea, despite what my lower body tells me. I must remain in a Bowie-free space while entranced in this fog of lust.
After not much begging and bribing, I agree to meet Tommy and his friends at Cubes. Begging and bribing isn’t required to convince my roommates to tag along. Melly has been crushing on Tommy for months and Jolene and Jessica AKA the JJs are always up for a night on the town.
Bowie is a tour de force up on the stage—the hair a glorious sunburst shape, the crispy beard, the black Golden State tank top clinging to his long chest, guns on full display. Images of my hands in his hair flash before me. I need a drink. Or a girl. Or a guy. Something to take the edge off.
He gives us the cool nod and smile while his body is one with the beat.
The dance floor is packed with a wide variety of beautiful people. Our group drinks and dances and misdirects the unwanted attention while it directs the wanted attention. Melly is living her up close and personal dream with Tommy. The JJs find suitable conquests for the night. I’m dancing with both guys and girls. I’ve been keyed up since Bowie left the shop earlier. His unavailability makes my hands ache with emptiness. So I fill them with another.
Jack is a fucking fine dancer. Bonus: Buys drinks. Not Mr. Grabby Hands. Very, very male. One way to get a certain man out of my head is to have another in my hands.
Jolene and Jessica vacate the place and head for another club with their new friends. I give my blessing to Tommy and Melly as long as they promise to inhabit somewhere that is not our place.
The bass bumps my blood and the lyrics breathe with innuendo as I kiss Jack. Our arms tangle around shoulders and waists as our bodies press together. His just shaved skin is smooth and smells of sandalwood after-shave. Not my preferred citrus scent.
We are still entwined when we break from the kiss and I find Bowie standing completely still, eyes unfocused in my direction. The scowl on his face confuses me. I’m not known for public displays of affection, but honestly, he shouldn’t be so surprised that I make-out with people.
I wave my fingers at him. He shakes out of his stupor and acknowledges me with a belated half-smile before returning to his duties.
“You know him?” Jack asks, his lips brushing my ear.
My eyes are locked on Bowie. “Yeah, he comes to my shop.” And my gym. And my coffee shop. And my head. “We’re just friends.” A friend I wanted to lick a few hours ago.
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” He moves to kiss me again, but his friends interrupt us. “Jack-Jack, let’s gooooooooo,” one of them says leaning on him.
The other leans on me. “Pauly is waiting for us at the diner and he’s pissed we’re not there yet.” The dude realizes I’m an actual person and shows me a drunken smarmy smile. “Hey, lady.”
Jack pushes his face away from me and says, “You want to join us?” But something in his face tells me he’s expecting the no.
“No worries.” I pat his cheek and smile. “You have fun.”
I send a text to the girls and Bowie informing them that I’m closing up for the night. All by myself. Catching Bowie’s eye, I motion to my phone and wave good-bye to him. He mouths “wait” and I send him a message that I’m tired and will see him at the game on Tuesday.
The doorbell screams and shocks me awake. Two-thirty a.m. The idea of leaving a dumbass roommate to sleep on the front steps seriously crosses my mind. My neck is kinked from sleeping on the sofa without a pillow. The reading light, still clamped to my book illuminates the underside of the coffee table. I’m still dressed in my halter dress.
A surprising form fills the peephole. “Bowie?” My heart stutters as I open the door a crack.
“Roxy,” he says. His shoulders collapse as if he’d been holding his breath waiting for an answer. “Sorry, I know it’s late. Or early. It’s just . . .Can I come in?”
“Bow, what—” But he doesn’t let me finish.
“Just for a few minutes. I need—” He’s pulling on his soul patch, eyes shifting down and up like a lost boy.
“Sure,” I say and open the door wider. Because I’m nice like that.
He blows in like a hot wind that is non-existent on this muggy summer night. Kinetic energy pops off him—his magnificent hair shoots every which way as though he’s grabbed a live wire. His fingers twitch as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes search the room as if looking for monsters in the dark.
I flip on the table lamp and he asks, “The girls home?”
“Ah, no. Found some love at the club,” I say with a wink.
He nods—not even a crack of a smile to my joke—and catches my gaze for a nanosecond before he shifts away and flashes to the TV, his feet, out the window.
“Have a seat. Want somethin’ to drink?” I walk toward the kitchen. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. “Water? Gatorade? Apple juice?”
“Apple juice? Who’s the preschooler in the house?” he asks and for the moment he sounds like the Bowie I know.
“That would be Melly.”
He laughs at that. Almost normal Bowie.
I hand him a bottle of red Gatorade and seat myself on the opposite end of the couch, reclining back into the corner and propping my feet up on the coffee table.
His perfectly symmetrical lips press to the rim of the bottle and he drains half the liquid in a few gulps. Must stop ogling the lips.
“You okay?” I crack open the lid of my water bottle with a twist.
He turns toward me and holds my eyes for a moment. I take a sip, breaking his gaze, but I feel it on my lips, my throat and lower like a waterfall. He’s focused on my mouth as I tip the bottle down.
He jumps up with a jolt and paces back and forth on the far side of the coffee table. Four steps. Turn. Four steps back. Repeat. He finally says, “You have fun tonight?”
“Sure?” I say. It’s more of a question than an answer. There is no way he came here in the middle of the night to find out the evening’s fun level.
“Well, y’all left early, so I thought, you know. . .maybe you didn’t.”
If he wasn’t lit up like a Christmas tree, I’d kick his ass to the curb. Instead, I smile with raised eyebrows. “Fishing for compliments?”
“Not fishing.” A familiar little smile tinged with his typical swagger breaks the panic look. “But I’m happy to accept all commendations.”
I tap my finger to my lips, considering. “Well, you didn’t suck.”
My reward is a flash of a smile—a burst of electricity shot straight at me. “Seriously, it’s almost three a.m. What gives?”
His smile disappears, but
the residual current hangs smoke-heavy between us. Bowie rubs his fingers—long and lean like the rest of him—over his cheeks, once again pulling the spot of hair under his lip before he says, “I need you to shave this off.”
Water shoots through my nose. I wipe my face and coffee table with the throw blanket. “What the fuck, Bowie. . .It’s the middle of the fucking night. I’m not shaving you.”
“But. . .” he says. He dodges out of my way to the kitchen for a paper towel. “I need you to. I’ll wimp out if you don’t do it now.”
I’m debating whether to open the door and toss him out or just go to bed, leaving him and his ludicrous beard to fend for themselves. “No.”
“Roxy.” My name pleads from his lips.
“I don’t have my stuff.” Not true. “Just my clippers and a worn down Venus disposable I shave my pits with.”
“Bullshit,” he says, cocky, yet not his playful cocky. “You’ve got to have one of your shiny demon barber friends here.”
True. I shaved my head with it a few weeks ago. But still. “I could have a thousand blades here, but I’m not gonna do it.”
“Why?” He’s fired up, pacing again with his hands knotted behind his neck.
“Because I’m tired and that beard is a fucking masterpiece and you’re being a jackass.” Did the masterpiece part slip out?
He scrubs his face with both hands and stops still.
“You kissed a dude,” he says. My heart skips a beat or two as though he’s tripped the breaker.
“So?” I wave my fingers for him to continue as my pulse kicks up.
“You had a girlfriend!” He gestures wildly as if attempting to conjure a woman before me.
“You have a girlfriend!” I counter with my own arm flailing.
“Not anymore.”
“What?” The air is sucked out of the room. “Since when?”
“Since the night we were at The Pit a few weeks ago.” He shrugs and pulls at his hair. “Jerome didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head. I can’t believe those fucking busybody bastards didn’t mention any of this. What are they even good for?