by Hank Edwards
Michael’s eyes went wide. “Amanda Rae?”
“She wants to be called Rae now.”
“Oh. Okay. What kind of cut did she want?”
“A fauxhawk.”
Michael frowned. “I’m not sure what that is.”
“Like a mohawk, but blended nicely.” When Michael looked confused, Jazz explained, “You know, shaved on the sides and long on the top. Pink, Rihanna, and Adam Lambert all have worn them before.”
“Oh,” Michael said, brown eyes wide with understanding now. “Oh, my. She’s always had such long hair.”
“Yeah, we cut off over eighteen inches. I almost did a Sioux warrior cry because I basically scalped her.”
Michael furrowed his brows in worry. “You didn’t do that in front of Musgrave, did you?”
Jazz laughed, regretting throwing away the opportunity to shock the uptight sheriff now. “Oh no, I didn’t.”
Michael sighed in relief. “That’s probably good. I know he’s doted on his daughter since Jenny left them, so I can’t say I’m surprised he’d be upset.”
“She’s nineteen years old!” Jazz exclaimed, then lowered his voice and crossed his arms. “She can join the armed services and defend our country, for God’s sake, but she can’t wear her hair in a cool style? You should’ve heard what he said to her too. Said her hair looked like a dyke haircut, and since apparently she is gay, he added the helpful ‘I’m tired of this lesbian phase.’”
“Oh no, he didn’t?”
“He did. The whole salon heard. Thankfully Misty calmed everyone down.”
Michael rubbed Jazz’s arms and gave him a gentle kiss. “I’m sorry. I know how difficult Musgrave is. And especially with you.”
“I’m his favorite.”
“You’re my favorite,” Michael insisted with a smile that washed away the last remnants of Jazz’s stress. After seeing and talking with Michael about it, things didn’t feel quite so bad. It was all just the sheriff being who he was and Rae being who she was and Jazz being a dynamite artist, if he did say so himself. And wasn’t art, even in hair, subjective?
“I guess I’m used to Musgrave hating me, but the worst part about it for me was he stomped out without paying.” Jazz sipped his drink again.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll come back when he realizes.”
“Like I want to see him again anyway. I’m glad he goes to your barbershop in Bridlestop.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Michael asked, hand caressing Jazz’s bare forearm. “Especially after running into Norbert last night. That had to bring up bad memories.”
Setting his coffee down, Jazz gave him a smile and then stepped closer to steal another kiss. “Most definitely. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll always worry about you.” Smiling, Michael hugged him tight and kissed him back. “But I should get going and let you get back to work.”
Jazz kissed those lips once more. “Thanks for the drink.”
“My pleasure.” Michael didn’t let go, rather took the kiss to such a slow and deep place it made Jazz’s toes curl.
Purring, Jazz drew back. “Give Mr. Pickles some pets for me.”
“I will.” Another kiss and a firm grope of Jazz’s ass. “I wish it was Saturday night.”
“After we hit the festival for some wine, we’ll have time for a quickie.” Jazz wouldn’t mind a repeat of last night at all.
Michael grinned. “I’ll never say no to that. But I do like waking up to you. I sleep better when you’re with me.” He blushed, and his gaze flitted away shyly.
“Oh, that’s so sweet. I like waking up to you too.” Jazz thrust into him, loving those hands on his ass and wishing Michael could be deep inside it right now. The man fucked like a dream, and his cock… Jazz actually shuddered thinking about it. But that would have to wait. With working until nine or possibly ten sometimes on Thursday night, then taking clients at the butt-crack of dawn on Friday and Saturday, the last three days of the week didn’t allow for much socializing or lovemaking with his hot new boyfriend. “But I have to be here early tomorrow, and it’s so hard for me to get out of bed when you’re right there next to me, all warm and sexy and delicious. If my morning ladies cancel, maybe I can sleep over tonight.”
Wishful thinking with his Saturday regulars.
“I’d hate for you to lose out on all that money, but I’d do my best to take your mind off the losses,” Michael whispered, fingers lingering on the crack of Jazz’s ass and pressing in.
“I’m sure you would.”
Reluctantly, and after another hot kiss, they broke apart. Jazz checked his watch. “I have a client coming in any minute.”
“Then I should be going.”
Jazz led the way out of the back room.
When they stepped into the main salon area, all heads turned toward them.
“At no point was any article of clothing removed, so you all can just calm your filthy minds right now,” Jazz announced, not letting go of Michael’s hand despite knowing how embarrassed his boyfriend might be.
Everyone laughed.
Offering Michael a smile, Jazz walked him to the door. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Michael licked his lips, looked over Jazz’s shoulder to the watching women, then blushed adorably. “See you tonight?”
“Counting the minutes, sweetie.”
Michael’s gaze dipped to Jazz’s lips, but he didn’t lean in for a kiss. He gave Jazz an awkward wave and left, the jingling bell on the door dancing cheerily behind him.
Jazz watched Michael until he was out of sight, then turned back to his chair. He took the broom and began sweeping up Rae’s hair, though the bulk of it was in the ponytail he’d cut off for her to send to one of those places that made wigs for kids with cancer, which Jazz noticed she’d left behind. With a sigh, he tossed the bound ponytail into his drawer. He’d have Lisa Ann call Rae and see if she still wanted it. Then he laid his favorite shears, several texturizers, a razor, and a comb on a fresh towel for his next client. The methodical tasks helped him push away the negative thoughts that had been growing louder lately.
Thankfully those sensuous kisses from Michael and the considerate coffee run had all but erased Jazz’s dark mood.
It was a little surprising how different his relationship with Michael was after all the men Jazz had lived with, dicks he’d sucked, and boyfriends he’d had. Things had never felt this easy with another man before, not even with Russell, the man he’d married! Every day with Michael was a new adventure or a new flavor of coffee, leaving Jazz so completely happy, comfortable, excited, and surprised, all at once.
Hindsight being what it was, Jazz knew he’d only been infatuated with Russell and the men who’d come before. While he understood that he and Michael were still in their honeymoon phase, so to speak, no other honeymoon phase had ever lasted this long—not even his real honeymoon.
Misty came up to him. “Don’t worry. I’ll call the sheriff and get it all taken care of.”
“What?” Jazz shook his head in confusion.
“The haircut he didn’t pay for?” she prompted. “I don’t mind. I’ll call him.”
It took Jazz a moment to process what she was talking about, and then he blinked a few times and nodded.
God, I’m getting old and losing my mind.
“Yeah, sure. That would be great, Misty. Let him know Rae left her hair here too.”
“Will do.” Then she cocked her head to the side, studying him. “You seem out of sorts.”
He forced a smile. “Just woolgathering.”
Misty made a funny face at that. “You should have a session with me. Get some movement. Realign your chakras.”
“Maybe I should,” he agreed. Misty taught private yoga classes in a small room at the back of the salon, and chair yoga at the Bluffs.
She patted his arm, then swept back to her client. Jazz leaned on the broom handle for a moment and surveyed the salon, taking in all the smiling faces, the familiar so
unds and smells. Then his gaze alighted on the picture taped on his mirror. On their first date, he and Michael had posed for a make-believe book cover, donning cowboy hats and riding atop green-screen sawhorses. They’d drunk white wine and played truth or dare. It had been such a perfect date.
Until that big goon Rocko had shot at them outside Michael’s funeral home.
Last Jazz heard, that trio of cat-napping, drug-dealing misfits had gotten off on some technicality. Apparently the girl’s father had survived the Canadian drug dealers and used his big bucks and good lawyers to get them all off.
I wonder if in the end Russell will get away with what he did to Dylan.
Before his mood soured again, he pulled out his phone and swiped open his text messages.
Just seeing Michael’s name made him smile.
He tapped out a quick message with his thumb: Thinking of you… still. Thanks again for the coffee. Caramel was exactly what I needed today.
He added the kissy-face emoji and a few hearts, then closed the screen, and slipped his phone back into his pocket. Michael was probably back at the funeral parlor by now, since it was only a few blocks away. He didn’t keep his phone on him when he was working downstairs in the preparation rooms or meeting mourning families, so he would respond to the message whenever he looked at his phone next.
Jazz whistled as he finished cleaning his station. Being with Michael had a way of really putting Jazz in his happy place. Over the last six weeks, they’d spent almost all of their spare time together, making love or sitting around talking and drinking white wine on Michael’s straight-out-of-a-designer-magazine back patio. While reality sometimes intruded—usually in the form of Russell Withingham trying to contact him from prison or a reporter looking for some kind of gossip—Jazz had been living inside an ideal bubble.
He only hoped it wasn’t going to pop any time soon.
“You guys are coming to the festival tonight?” Misty asked. “My cousins are performing at eight, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. You’ve only reminded me seven times today. We will be there.” Jazz loved being a “we” with Michael.
As Jazz continued to sweep around his station, thoughts of Michael put a spring in his step.
Misty walked her client Marlene to the door, chatting and laughing. As Marlene left, Jazz heard her gasp and say, “Oh, excuse me! I didn’t see you there.”
“I’ll thank you not to touch us, please,” a woman snapped in reply.
Jazz paused in his sweeping to see who the brusque woman might be, but the retail shelf distorted his view.
“Oh,” Marlene said, obviously caught off guard by the woman’s attitude, and she hurried off down the sidewalk.
“Come in!” Misty exclaimed and threw her arms open wide. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Jazz went back to his cleanup until Misty called out, “Jazz! I want you to meet my first cousin, Dottie, and her daughter, Beatrice.”
Grinning, he looked up at the woman Misty led to her chair. The younger woman followed, holding tight to her mother’s hand.
Only decades of being in the beauty industry and seeing some weird shit enabled Jazz to keep a straight face.
Misty’s two cousins were the “sister wives” from Gruff’s yesterday.
Recognition flashed in Dottie’s eyes. Her husband had noticed Michael and Jazz having their sinfully homosexual hamburgers and left that stupid pamphlet.
Well, Jazz would play nice for Misty’s sake.
Introductions were made as Misty got Dottie and Beatrice settled in chairs, and then she left for the back room to mix color. He wondered if whatever colors she planned for the two sister wives were von Trapp Daddy approved, or if he’d think their new dos might lead them down the road to hell.
No matter, because Jazz would have to hold his tongue on this at least. Misty was excited to have family in her life again. Her mother had been from somewhere in Appalachia and ran away to California, where she met Misty’s father. Misty was born and raised in SoCal, where she’d picked up her hippy-dippy ways—as he was sure Musgrave would call them. But after her mother passed away, her father moved back to his hometown, Lacetown. When he got sick, Misty moved here to take care of him before he passed, but then she never left. Several months ago, she’d been excited to find these musician relatives through some ancestry website.
Jazz excused himself and resumed sweeping up around his chair before his next customer arrived. He did a sweep of the room to pick up Misty’s hair from the floor too.
“Eek!” Dottie jumped, lifting her feet like a cartoon woman who’d seen a mouse.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Jazz said. “Just cleaning up.” But when he swept under her chair, she squealed again, clutching her knees to her chest, eyes wide.
“I’m scared of brooms,” she said in a breathless pant.
Jazz chuckled, and then he realized she was being dead serious. “Sorry about that,” he said, quickly collecting the rest of the hair and hurrying to the garbage can.
Good Lord. I thought I’d seen everything in this business!
Jazz went into the back room and told Misty what happened. He also told her that Dottie’s husband had given them a Bible tract the day before, after Norbert had arrived and caused a scene.
“Not sure about these relatives of yours,” Jazz went on. “And they’re staying at your house? Hide the good china and don’t lend them money.”
Misty—of course—was understanding and told Jazz, “Be nice. Dottie has had a tough time of things. On the phone last week, she told me that her first husband, Gregory, died in a freak accident in their home ten years ago, leaving her with five-year-old twins, a boy and a girl. Such a tragedy the way he died.” She leaned in and lowered her voice, though no one could possibly overhear them. “He was doing some work out in the garage and got his scarf caught in the chain of the door opener. It hung him right there in the garage, and Dorothy and the twins found him when they came home from grocery shopping.”
“Oh my God.”
“I know, right? So awful. Not long after that, she married Herschel, the preacher. I get the feeling Herschel might be a marriage of convenience. He was Gregory’s best friend, you know, that kind of thing. She never had a job outside the home when Gregory died. And Herschel seems… well? He gave me his credit card this morning and told me to let the girls have anything done they wanted. Taylor is going to give them mani-pedis too.”
“Tell her to hide the brooms.”
Misty widened her eyes seriously. “I will.”
Jazz quirked his pursed lips to the side in a half smile. “Well, they’re different, I’ll say. Never seen a person afraid of a broom before. Maybe somebody beat her with one.”
Misty gave him an airy gesture. “All the more reason to be nice. I know they’re different.” When Jazz’s brows shot up, she nodded. “Okay, very different, but that’s not such a bad thing. They’re excellent musicians. Dottie’s son, Oslo—”
“Oslo?” Jazz interrupted, but Misty never stopped talking.
“—is incredibly talented. They’re playing tonight. Will you still come see them? Even though Herschel left that pamphlet?”
“I promised you we would. And I promise to drive my scooter, not my broom.”
“You are such a witch,” Misty said, obviously trying not to laugh.
“You know it!”
Leaving her to mix the rest of her color, Jazz went up to the front desk to wait for his next customer. There was a man in the waiting room, whose eyes widened when he spied Jazz.
“Are you Jazz Dilworth?”
“One and the same,” he quipped, hoping in the back of his mind his schedule wasn’t messed up and he’d been double-booked. His next client was Trish Johnson, the mayor, not a men’s cut. “How can I help you?”
The man handed him a manila envelope, and Jazz reached for it. When Jazz had it in his hand, the man stepped back and nodded. “You’ve been served.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“FLEISHMAN?”
Michael looked up from his desk and over his glasses, startled to see Sheriff Hilton Musgrave standing in his office doorway. “Hilton,” Michael said, setting down his pen. “What brings you in today?”
Please don’t let it be a murder.
Musgrave lingered in the doorway, spinning his sheriff’s hat in his hand. If Michael didn’t know better, he would say the sheriff looked nervous. Scared, even.
“What can I help you with?” he asked again.
Musgrave took a big gulp of air and stepped into Michael’s office a little too quickly for normal. He was a very large man, the kind who actually shopped at a big-and-tall store because he more than fit those requirements.
Mr. Pickles had been napping atop the kitty condo in the corner, and he raised his head with a curious meow.
When Musgrave shut the door, Michael sat back in his chair, somewhat startled. The sheriff’s movements were jerky and awkward as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He withdrew a couple of bills and tossed them on Michael’s desk. The money scattered a bit, and Mr. Pickles let out a warning hiss of displeasure.
Michael shook his head in confusion. “What’s this?”
“Jazz cut my daughter’s hair this morning, and I forgot to pay him.”
Michael collected the bills and stacked them together. “Oh. Well, you could’ve taken it directly to Jazz.”
“Figured you would see him before I did,” Musgrave said. “Ain’t you two living together?”
Michael’s face warmed. “No, we keep separate households.” Dammit, why do I always sound so stuffy? “But I’ll see that he gets this.”
It was common knowledge that the new hairdresser who had moved to Lacetown last summer was dating the mortician. Michael generally didn’t like to be the subject of gossip, but when it came to being connected to Jazz, somehow it seemed more bearable.
Musgrave stood in the middle of Michael’s small office, his large bulk taking up a lot of space. Mr. Pickles’s wary green eyes watched his every move, tail swishing when it seemed Musgrave wasn’t leaving.
Michael had been schooled well in grief counseling and could always tell when a person was desperate for conversation or to spill some truth they were holding in. Many spoke of the deathbed confession, but the bereaved confession was almost more notorious.