Can you text me her phone number?
Have to do it later. It’s on speed dial. I’m late for a meeting. Bye!
The connection ends. I want to throw my phone at a wall, but I need it to find out where the hell Pink Lady is. I hit the Google icon and in the search bar type: Pink Lady nail salon Manhattan.
To my utter chagrin, a dozen entries pop up. There are Pink Ladies all over the city. It must be some kind of chain. Throwing on a robe, I begin to call each one, asking if I can book an appointment with Sofi Lockhart.
I get the same response. Again and again. “Sorry, we no have a Sofi.”
Frustration is crawling through me like an army of ants. I have one more salon to call. If she doesn’t work there, it’s back to square one.
The phone on the other end rings and rings. My muscles tense with each successive one. I’m about to give up when someone answers. The Asian-accented voice sounds like all the others.
“Hello. Pink Lady.”
“Can I book an appointment with Sofi this morning?”
The voice: “She very busy today.”
I punch the air with my fist. Yes! I’ve found her!
“You want mani-pedi?”
No, I want her. “Yeah,” I murmur.
“You come and we try to fit you in.”
The call ends.
I find the salon easily. Located on busy Amsterdam Avenue just north of 86th, the storefront is sandwiched between a greasy deli and a shoe repair place. Swinging the door open, I dash inside.
I take in my surroundings; the joint looks like it’s been painted with gallons of Pepto Bismol and Milk of Magnesia. Several women are lounging on hot-pink pleather chairs in the cramped reception area, working their cell phones or reading one of the many fashion magazines strewn on the cheap white Formica coffee table. I eye one of the headlines on the cover of a recent Vogue: Who is Roman Hurst? No one knows . . . and definitely not any of these women. While a few eye me, probably because I’m the only man among them, and it’s hard to ignore my imposing presence. I’m wearing my basic black uniform, but I’ve added dark Ray-Bans to avert attention to my eye patch. After all these years, I’m still self-conscious about it.
Ignoring my onlookers, I stomp up to the reception desk. The receptionist, a petite Asian woman with an onyx bob, is on the phone. I interrupt her.
“Excuse me . . . ”
She glances up at me. “I be right with you.”
Wanting to shake the phone out of her hand, I feel myself bristle. Patience is not one of my virtues. While she babbles on, in her annoying singsong voice, my good eye scours the small but bustling salon in search of Sofi. She’s nowhere to be found. Anxiety coils inside me. Maybe she’s on a coffee break? Or in the restroom? Or . . . Maybe she doesn’t work here. So fed up with calling salon after salon, I didn’t mention her last name. I only asked to book an appointment with Sofi. Any one of these manicurists could be a Sofi. Or Sophie. It’s a popular name. I should have spelled it out. Or mentioned her last name. It’s not too late.
The receptionist gets off the phone.
“I want to get my nails done with Sofi. S-O-F-I Lockhart.”
“She all booked up today.”
Bingo! She’s here!
“Unbook her!” I growl. “Now!”
The receptionist looks terrified. “But she with client!”
Not for long. In one of the mirrored walls, I spot her in a far corner. Her pink-streaked hair tied up in a messy bun, she’s wearing a long black apron, like the other manicurists, over butterfly-patterned leggings. Her back to me, I get a glimpse of her tight little ass peeking out from the apron before she takes a seat next to her client, who’s soaking her feet in a basin and talking on her phone so loudly I can hear her from where I’m standing. Wasting no time, I lope over to her, taking giant steps. The tiny receptionist trails behind me, pleading for me to stop. Screw her.
“Get up!” I fling the words at her client like poisonous darts.
Sitting in an elevated massage chair, the buxom middle-aged woman pauses from her phone conversation and shoots me a scathing look.
“Excuse me?”
Sofi swivels around. Her eyes and mouth wide open. “Oh my God! What are you doing here?”
“I want a mani-pedi.” My good eye bores into her client, who seems determined not to budge. “Get the fuck out of my chair.” If she doesn’t, I’m going to physically throw the bitch out the door on her ass.
“I so sorry,” squeaks the frazzled receptionist, catching up to me. She tries to assuage the now fuming woman.
“Tell her there was a screw-up. That I was booked with Sofi first.”
Paling, the flustered receptionist does as she’s told, and slowly, the dowdy woman makes her way out of the chair, shooting me the dirtiest of dirty looks. It bounces off me as if I’m wearing armor. With a smug smile, I watch her bend down to retrieve her shoes and handbag. When she stands up, I hand her a hundred-dollar bill.
“I’m sorry for any inconvenience I’ve caused you.” See, I’m not a total asshole. “Your mani-pedi’s on me. Leave a big tip.”
She snatches the bill without as much as a smile or thank-you. With a snarl on her lips, she follows the receptionist, who’s gathered her nail polish, to another station. See ya!
“Where were we?” I ask Sofi, who’s still reeling. She leaps to her feet and grimaces.
“Careful with your knee.”
Ignoring my comment, she splays her slender hands on her narrow hips. Her eyes shimmer with fury. “How the hell could you do that? She’s one of my best clients!”
I inwardly chuckle. She’s so cute when she’s mad.
“Well, now you’re going to get an even better one.” I hop into the massage chair, unpleasantly warm from its previous occupant. “I want the works.”
CHAPTER 9
Sofi
It’s a good thing I was sitting when he stormed up to me. Had I been on my feet, I would have seriously keeled over. Fainted. Even now as I face him, I feel my body sagging, my legs turning to jelly. Dressed in more or less the same black uniform as yesterday, with the addition of dark sunglasses and this ridiculously sexy black leather bomber jacket. His intoxicating lavender scent drifts up my nose, making me feel more lightheaded than I already am. Every cell in my body is aflutter, every nerve abuzz with a fire I never knew I had. Sweat beads cluster on my chest. The effect he has on me is devastating. I have the urgent need to fan myself like some of my menopausal clients. I’m having a hot flash! At the age of twenty-three!
Compose yourself, Sofi! I take a deep breath and manage to calm down. “Please take off your shoes,” I say in my most professional voice, draining the water basin beneath the deluxe massage chair. While I refill it, he does as he’s asked and throws his jacket over the back of the chair. Designed to accommodate most women, his imposing frame seems to occupy every inch of it. I roll up the legs of his dress pants to just below his knees. The fabric feels rich beneath my fingertips, but what awes me most are his thick, beautifully formed muscular calves that are laced with a layer of dark hair, and his equally exquisite bare feet. They’re huge with a tuft of hair on the instep. Harper once told me you can tell the size of a man’s dick by his feet. Judging by Roman’s, it’s mammoth!
I examine his toes. Long and sculpted like the rest of him. It looks as though he just had a pedicure, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a personal groomer come to his atelier on a regular basis.
“I’m going to have my colleague Tami do your toes while I give you a manicure.”
“No!” he growls. “I want you to do both.”
“But it’ll take twice as long.”
“I don’t care.” He flings the words at me like spitballs.
“Do you want me to give you a back massage?” My voice falters. “It’s extra and costs a dollar a minute.”
Arching his neck, he rolls his head as if he’s trying to release tension. A soft groan spills from his lips. “Throw it i
n. Make it thirty minutes. I’ll let you know if I want more.”
Wondering why he’s so tense, I tell him to put his feet into the water. Again, he obliges while I organize the tools I need to do his nails. “Is the water too hot?”
The water gurgles, and he looks at me with a hint of annoyance. “No, it’s perfect.”
“Good.” The basin filled, I turn on the jets.
“Would you like a magazine to read?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to turn on the chair massager? There are four different set—”
He cuts me off, his voice growing louder. More agitated. “No. I don’t want any distractions. Stop wasting time.”
The impatient, bossy side of him slips through. He’s the client, so I let it go and slide my swivel chair closer to him.
Next to me on a portable tray table, I have all I need to give him a mani-pedi. There’s also a small plastic bucket by my feet filled with other necessities. Nail clippers and files, a cuticle cutter, pumice stone, various lotions, plus a buffer. Most men just want their nails trimmed and buffed; though, he’s not most men.
I decide to let him soak his feet in the foot spa (it’s relaxing for clients), and give him a manicure first. I take his hands in mine and examine them. So big they dwarf mine. His long fingers are unmarred, the beds of his nails pink and healthy, the nails perfectly trimmed as if he had a manicure only yesterday. Chances are he did.
“I’m just going to give you a buff,” I say, before asking him to soak his fingertips in a bowl of sudsy warm water I’ve set on the arm of his chair. A few minutes later, I ask him to remove them. I dry them off with a small hand towel, then push up his sleeves to his elbows. His forearms are magnificently contoured, and like his calves, laced with silky onyx hair. A shiny gold bracelet on his left wrist captures my attention. About a half-inch wide, the solid band is engraved and I’m able to read the inscription: You are the light inside me.
The words intrigue me. They sound poetic. So romantic!
“Do you want me to take this off?”
His body stiffens and his face darkens. “No! I never take it off.”
“No problem,” I say, a little shaken by his extreme reaction. Squirting some moisturizer onto the back of his hand, I begin to massage it, trying to avoid the bracelet as I travel up his forearm. He keeps his vision downcast, watching me like a hawk. The bracelet’s obviously important to him. I wonder who gave it to him. A client? His mother? A lover?
“This feels good,” he says, breaking into my thoughts, his tone lighter. “Do my other hand.”
I move on to his right hand, which I notice is more calloused than his left. Perhaps this is his working hand, the one he uses to sketch and cut patterns. He silently watches as I complete the manicure, absorbing every detail with his obscured good eye.
Just when I think I’m done, he asks me to put a butterfly decal on his right thumb.
“Seriously?” No male client has ever asked me for one. But then again, he’s not like any other man I’ve met.
“Yes. Don’t ask questions. Just do it.”
“Fine.” Grr! He’s bossy! Holding back my emotions, I locate the sheet of decals on the bottom shelf of my tray table and ask him to pick one out. The one he chooses is blue with flecks of black. A Blue Morpho . . . like him. Applying it to his thumbnail adds another ten minutes to his manicure. And another ten dollars.
He holds up his digit like a thumbs-up. “I like it.”
I quirk a smile. “Good. Let’s move on to your feet.”
With his feet in such good condition, the pedicure shouldn’t take long. Scooting onto the stool in front of him, I ask him to remove his feet from the water and dry them off with another towel before setting them on my lap. His heels dig into my thighs and a cluster of flutters erupts between them. Trying not to squirm, I do a quick cuticle cleanup and nail trim, then squeeze a generous amount of the moisturizer onto his feet and calves before massaging them.
I begin with his right foot. Taking it in my hands, I knead his sole, surprised by how soft it is. Most men—and women—have rough callouses, but he doesn’t. Pressing my thumbs into his arch, I hear him groan. I glance up and I see his head lolled back, an expression of extreme pleasure etched on his gorgeous face. One that borders on orgasmic.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he moans. “Where’d you learn to do all this shit, Butterfly?”
“I had to complete a program and get a license. Enjoy it,” I say, working my fingers up and down his massive foot. I move on to his thick calf and work harder, my fingers digging into the hard, sinewy muscles. A realization hits me. I want to pleasure him. Make him feel good.
Another loud groan and I glance up again, my eyes passing over his crotch area of which I have a bird’s-eye view. I feel like one of those shocked cartoon characters whose eyeballs pop out of their sockets. Holy cow! I’ve given him a raging hard-on.
“Is it too hard for you?” I stammer, wishing I could take back my sexually charged words.
“It’s not hard enough,” he replies and I swear his erection grows before my eyes. Yikes!
“Do my other foot, Sofi,” he orders.
Heated, I repeat the treatment on his left foot. The air between us is so erotically charged, the throb between my thighs so palpable. I want to rub the heel of his foot against my clit and bring myself to climax.
As if he’s again read my mind, he anchors said foot between my thighs and slides it up and down my sex. What’s wrong with me? I let him. And what’s more, I’m loving every second. I’m so enraptured, so in the moment, I don’t care if anyone is watching, though I’m sure all eyes are on us. The cotton crotch of my leggings is soaked, my inner thighs sticky like hot molasses, my back arched in a C-curve. Flinging my head back, I’m in a total delirium. The pressure between my legs builds until I can’t take it anymore. Oh God! He’s making me come! I’m going to come! With one press of my nub, my orgasm breaks loose and I let out a deafening scream.
It takes me several moments to calm down—to regulate my breathing and heartbeat. Regain some form of sanity.
A familiar shrill voice brims in my ears. The manager of the salon, Lydia. A pickle-up-her-butt woman no one likes. I snap my eyes open and find her looming over me, her bony fingers splayed on her hips and her face pinched with a scowl.
“Sofi, what is going on here? Clients are complaining. And so are my technicians.”
“Complaining they’re not getting what she got?” pipes in Roman before I can get in a word. “Or what I got?”
Gah! Did I bring him to orgasm too? Holy, holy cow!
Lydia’s gaze, sharp as the pointed tip of a metal nail file, unnerves me. Dread fills every fiber of my being.
“Are you going to fire me?” I stammer, fear rising inside me like mercury. I can’t afford to lose my job! I can’t! I need the money! To pay my rent! Pay off my loans! To put food on my table! To help my parents! Oh, shit!
“Do it,” orders Roman, the tone of his voice daring, commanding, and confident, the look on his face menacing.
Oh my God! What is he saying? I desperately need this job and he’s helping annihilate it?
Lydia’s eyes grow sharper. More determined. More cutting. Oh, no! Here it comes!
“Sofi Lockhart, you’re—”
“Working for me now,” intercepts Roman, rising from the massage chair. He shoves down the sleeves of his cashmere top. “Sofi, pack up your stuff.”
Lydia’s mouth falls open. She’s speechless. And so am I.
Roman’s focus stays on me. “Here, Butterfly, is your tip. Job well done.” He reaches into his pants pocket and slips out a folded piece of yellow paper.
He hands it to me and I unfold it. It’s a check from the House of Hurst. In the amount of twenty-five hundred dollars. My eyes wide as saucers, I audibly gasp.
“Roman, I can’t take this!”
“Consider it your first week’s wages. Let’s get the fuck out of this hellhole,” he say
s before I can utter another word. Slipping into his loafers and jacket, he grabs my hand.
“And by the way, you owe me a backrub.” He smirks. “And something else.”
CHAPTER 10
Sofi
“How did you find out where I work?”
“Worked,” he corrects. “You work for me now. But, in answer to your question, it wasn’t easy.”
“You stalked me?”
“I’d say researched.”
Clasping my hand, he’s barreling downtown at the speed of a locomotive. Breathless, I have to practically jog to keep up with him. My knee hurts.
“What if I don’t want to work for you?”
“You do. I’m paying you handsomely. Here’s the deal. It’s a temporary job. Let’s say for three months or until you find another one you like better. Whatever comes first.”
“What are you offering me?”
“Ten thousand dollars a month plus all expenses paid.”
Yikes! That’s about five times what I’ve been making, including tips.
“What does it entail?” From today’s behavior in the salon, it better not include sexual favors. At the memory of his foot bringing me to an orgasm, my breath hitches and I stumble. He balances me before I tumble.
“Are you okay? Is it your knee?”
“Yes, and it’s fine.” He resumes his stride, slowing down a tad. “So, tell me what are the job requirements.”
“Very few. I just want you to inspire me.”
“Inspire you?”
“Yes. You already have, Butterfly.”
Me, an inspiration? That’s got to be a joke. Who would be inspired by my humdrum life? Perplexed, I let him continue.
“I’ve been struggling with my next collection, but after you left yesterday, it came to me. I want it to be inspired by butterflies. I want you to help me.” He pauses. “Be my muse.”
I mull over his offer. I know just where to start.
CHAPTER 11
Roman
“This is my happy place,” beams Sofi as we stroll down an asphalt path, surrounded by a riotous display of vivid flowers, exotic plants, and colorful butterflies in all shapes and sizes. “My parents gave me a membership to the museum for Christmas, so I come here all the time. What do you think?”
BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense Page 5